^M^^I^^^MfSl^J^M!^ 


LIB  R  A  RY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIKT     OF 

Received     |V>AR29l892  ^  i8g     . 

^     Accessions  No. ^y-^J^    Shelf  No. 

68. ^ -30 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


•/ 


ORVILLE    DEWEY,    D.D. 


mit\)  a  15iogi*apl)ical  ^feetcb^ 


N£IV  AND    COMPLETE  EDITION. 


V 


^^-^^ 


OF  THE 


UHIVBRSIT7 


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BOSTON: 

AMERICAN   UNITARIAN  ASSOCIATION. 

1890. 


Copyright,  188S, 
By  The  American  Unitarian  Association. 


SInibn-gita  ^resa: 
John  Wilson  and  SiyN,  Cambridge. 


PREFACE. 


Very  early  after  the  death  of  Dr.  Dewey  many  requests  came, 
both  from  this  country  and  from  England,  that  the  American  Uni- 
tarian Association  should  publish  a  dollar  edition  of  his  works, 
uniform  with  a  like  edition  of  Dr.  Channing's  works.  We  ought 
especially  to  mention  an  official  letter  received  from  the  British 
and  Foreign  Unitarian  Association.  It  seemed  desirable,  both  on 
account  of  the  great  and  permanent  value  and  interest  of  the  works 
themselves,  and  also  from  the  position  and  influence  which  Dr. 
Dewey  had  acquired  and  maintained  in  our  body  during  a  long 
and  useful    life,  that  these  requests  should  be  complied  with. 

The  family  of  Dr.  Dewey  with  great  readiness  granted  permission 
to  prepare  such  an  edition ;  while  by  purchase  the  Association  has 
secured  from  the  estate  of  the  late  James  Miller  the  plates  and  what- 
ev^er  copyright  he  held.  After  much  consideration,  it  was  decided 
to  print  his  works  just  as  they  came  from  his  hands,  and  in  the  order 
of  time  in  which  they  issued  from  the  press.  One  change  only 
is  to  be  noted  ;  namely,  the  omission  of  the  prefaces  which  were 
originally  prefixed  to  the  separate  volumes.  In  all  other  respects, 
this  edition  is  a  reproduction  of  the  editions  which  the  author  super- 
vised and  corrected. 

Miss  Mary  E.  Dewey  has  kindly  furnished  a  brief  but  compre- 
hensive sketch  of  her  father's  life,  which  will  be  found  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  volume.  At  the  close  will  be  found  a  full  and  carefully 
prepared  index. 


IV  PREFACE. 

It  seems  needless  to  add  any  word  concerning  the  value  of  the 
book.  With  the  possible  exception  of  Dr.  Channing,  no  person 
occupied  a  more  prominent  position  in  the  early  annals  of  American 
Unitarianism  than  Dr.  Dewey.  As  a  preacher  of  practical  truth 
to  tried  and  tempted  men  and  women,  he  had  an  almost  unique 
power.  His  lectures  on  the  Problem  of  Human  Destiny,  when  de- 
livered, awakened  great  and  wide  interest;  and  they  will  be  found  not 
to  have  lost  their  pertinency  and  attractiveness  to-day.  That  dis- 
courses delivered  before  the  present  generation  came  on  the  stage, 
should  still  be  in  steady  demand,  even  in  an  expensive  form,  is 
sufficient  evidence  of  their  worth  and  permanent  fitness  for  human 
need.  Coming  as  they  will  now  to  the  reader  at  a  moderate  cost, 
we  feel  confident  that  they  will  command  a  wide  circulation  and  an 
earnest  perusal. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

SKETCH   OF   THE   LIFE   OF   REV.   ORVILLE   DEWEY,   D.D ix 

DISCOURSES   ON    HUMAN    NATURE,    HUMAN    LIFE,   AND 
THE    NATURE    OF   RELIGION. 

[First  Published  in  1846.] 

ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 

I.     On  Human  Nature i 

H.    The  Same  Subject 9 

HI.     On  the  Wrong  which  Sin  does  to  Human  Nature 15 

IV.    On   the   Adaffation   which   Religion,  to   be   True  and   Useful, 

SHOULD  have  to  Human  Nature 22 

V.     The  Appeal  of  Religion  to  Human  Nature 28 

VI.    The  Call  of  Humanity,  and  the  Answer  to  it 35 

VII.     Human  Nature  considered  as  a  Ground  for  Thanksgiving  ...  47 

ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 

VIII.     The  Moral  Significance  of  Life 51 

IX.     That  Everything  in  Life  is  Moral  ■ 57 

X.     Life  considered  as  an  Argument  for  Faith  and  Virtue  ....  64 

XI.     Life  is  what  we  make  it 71 

XII.     On  Inequality  in  the  Lot  of  Life 78 

XIII.  On  the  Miseries  of  Life 84 

XIV.  On  the  School  of  Life 90 

XV.    On  the  Value  of  Life 97 

XVI.    Life's  Consolation  in  View  of  Death 103 

XVII.    The  Problem  of  Life,  solved  in  the  Life  of  Christ 109 

XVIII.     On  Religion,  as  the  Great  Sentiment  of  Life 115 

XIX.    On  the  Religion  of  Life 122 

XX.  The  Voices  of  the  Dead 131 

ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 

XXI.  The    Identity   of    Religion   with    Goodness,  and   with  a   Good 

Life 138 

XXII.    The  Same  Subject 147 

XXIIT.    The  Same  Subject 157 

XXIV.    Spiritual  Interests,  Real  and  Supreme , 163 


vi  .     CONTENTS. 

DISCOURSES  ON  THE  NATURE  OF  RELIGION,  AND  ON 
COMMERCE  AND  BUSINESS,  WITH  SOME  OCCASIONAL 
DISCOURSES. 

[First  Published  in   1846.] 

ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 

Pace 

I.     Spiritual  Interests,  Real  and  Supreme 172  ■ 

II.    On  Religious  Sensibility 177 

III.  The  Same  Subject 185 

IV.  The  Law  of  Retribution  . 191 

V.    The  Same  Subject 199 

VI.    Compassion  for  the  Sinful, 208 

VII.    God's    Love   the   Chief   Restraint    from    Sin,  and   Resource  in 

Sorrow 214 

VIII.    The  Difference  between  Sentiments  and  Principles 219 

IX.    The  Crown  of  Virtue 227 

ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 

X.     On  the  Moral  Law  of  Contracts 234 

XI.    On  the  Moral  End  of  Business 251 

XII.    On  the  Uses  of  Labor,  and  the  Passion  for  a  Fortune   ....  262 

XIII.  On  the  Moral  Limits  of  Accumulation 272 

MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 

XIV.  Oration  before  the  Society  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  at  Cambridge   .  279 
XV.    The  Arts  of  Industry,  with  their  Moral  and  Intellectual  In- 
fluence UPON  Society.     An  Address  before  the  American  Institute    .  295 

XVI.     The  Identity  of  all  Art.     A   Lecture  before  the  Apollo  Association 

of  New  York 307 

XVII.    The  Moral  Character  of  Government    .    .     .     .    ■ 318 

XVIII.    The  Slavery  Question 326 

XIX.    Public  Calamities 334 


DISCOURSES  AND    REVIEWS   UPON    QUESTIONS   IN   CONTRO- 
VERSIAL THEOLOGY   AND    PRACTICAL   RELIGION. 

[First  Published  in  1846.] 

The  Unitarian   Belief 342 

On  the  Nature  of  Religious  Belief;  with  Inferences  concerning  Doubt, 

Decision,  Confidence,  and  the  Trial  of  Faith 353 

Cursory  Observations  on  the  Questions  at  Issue  between  Orthodox  and 
Liberal  Christians. 

I.     On  the  Trinity 366 

II.     On  the  Atonement ^7^ 

III.     On  tlie  Five  Points  of  Calvinism 381 

IV.     On  Future  Punishment 387 

V.     Conclusion.     The  Modes  of  Attack  upon  Liberal  Christianity,  the  same 

that  were  used  against  the  doctrine  of  the  Apostles  and  Reformers    .     .     393 


CONTENTS.  vii 

The  Analogy  of  Religion  with  other  Subjects  considered.  Paj;,, 

I.     The  Analogy  of  Religion 401 

II.     On  Conversion 40b 

III.  On  the  Method  of  obtaining  and  exhibiting  Religious  and  Virtuous  Affec- 

tions       415 

IV.  Causes  of-  Indifference  and  Aversion  to  Religion 421 

On  the  Original  Use  of  the  Epistles  of  the  New  Testament  compared 

with  their  Use  and  Application  at  the  Present  Day 429 

On  Miracles 442 

The  Scriptures  considered  as  the  Record  of  a  Revelation 4155 

On  the  Nature  and  Extent  of  Inspiration 462 

On  Faith,  and  Justification  by  Faith 4j>i 

That  Errors  in  Theology  have   sprung   from   False  Principles  of   Rea- 
soning     4S8 

On  the  Calvin istic  Views  of  Moral  Philosophy 501 


LOWELL  LECTURES. 

THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY;    OR,   THE    END   OF 
PROVIDENCE    IN   THE    WORLD   AND    MAN. 

[First  Published  in  1S64.] 

I.     On  the  Character,  Fitness,  History,  and  Claims  of  the  Inquiry    514 
II.    The  Problem  of  Evil.    The  Case  presented,  the  Theory  offered, 

and  the  bearing  of  it  considered 526 

III.  The   Material   World  as  the   Field  of  the  Great  Design:   its 

Adaptations  to  the  End  —  Human  Culture 541 

IV.  The  Body  and  the  Soul,  or  Man's   Physical  Constitution  :  the 

Ministry  of  the  Senses  and  Appetites 553 

V.    Of  Man's  Spiritual  Constitution  —  Ministry  of  the  Mental  and 

Moral  Faculties ^6^ 

VI.    The  Complex  Nature  of   Man,  Periods  of  Life,  Society,  Home, 

Balance  of  the  Physical  and  Mental  Powers 575 

VII.  On  the  Special  Influence  upon  Human  Culture  of  the  Disci- 
pline OF  Nature,  of  the  Occupations  of  Life,  and  of  the  Art^ 
of  Expression  ;   or,  the  Mental  and  Moral  Activity  elicited 

by  Man's  connection  with  Nature  and  Life 586 

VIII.     Against  Despondency.  —  Helps- and  Hindrances,  or  a  Considera- 
tion  OF  THE  Moral   Trials  or  Emergencies  that  attend  the 

WORKING   out   of   OUR    HuMAN    PROBLEM 598 

IX.     Problems  in  Man's  Individual  Life:   Physical  Pain;   Hereditary 

Evil  ;   Death 609 

X.     Historic  Problems:    Polytheism,  Despotism,  War,  Slavery, —  the 
Prevalence    and   Ministry  of   Error   in   the    System    of    the 

World 620 

XI.    Historic  View  of  Humanity:    Human   Progress,  —  the  Agencies 
employed  in  it;  the  History  of  Thought,  of  Institutions,  and 

OF  Actions  or  Events 632 

XII.     Historic  View  of  Humanity:   Human  Progress,  —  the  Steps  of  it     645 


viii  CONTENTS, 


THE  TWO   GREAT  COMMANDMENTS. 

SERMONS. 

[First  Published  in  1S76.] 

Page 

I.    On  the  Cultivation  of  the  Religious  Affections 658 

II.     Righteousness  the  Self-revealed  and  Central  Law 665 

III.  On  the  Reasonableness  and  Greatness  of  Devotion 671 

IV.  The  Alternative 678 

V.    Truth  in  all  Religions 684 

VI.    The  Symbol  and  the  Reality 691 

VII.    The  Love  of  God  and  of  Man      698 

VIII.     On  Truthfulness 703 

IX.     On  Impatience    .^ 710 

X.     On  Self-Renunciation 716 

XI.     On  Perfection 722 

XII.     Humanity,  and  the  Gospel  Demand  upon  it 728 

XIII.  Humanity  compared  with  Human  Distinctions 734 

XIV.  This  Life  the  Prophecy  of  a  Future 740 

XV.    Christ  Intelligible  and  Imitable ,  746 

XVI.    The  Same  Subject 753 

XVII.     The  Old  and  the  New 759 

Basis  and  Superstructure 768 

Theism  and  Atheism 779 

On  the  Validity  of  our  Knowledge  of  God 784 


SKETCH 


OF    THE 


LIFE    OF    REV.    ORVILLE    DEWEY,    D.D. 


In  offering  a  popular  edition  of  the  works  of  Dr.  Dewey  to  the  public,  a 
short  sketch  of  his  life  may  be  interesting  to  the  general  reader. 

Orville  Dewey  was  born  in  1 794,  in  Sheffield,  in  the  southern  part  of  Berk- 
shire County,  Massachusetts.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  both  his  parents 
were  children  of  the  first  settlers  of  the  place.  It  was,  in  his  childhood,  a 
quiet,  homely  village  of  the  primitive  New  England  type,  with  one  wide  grassy 
street,  and  scattered  houses  on  either  hand,  with  vegetable  gardens  beside 
them,  and  lilags  almost  as  tall  as  the  houses  shading  the  doors,  and  a  rustic 
wealth  of  roses  and  peonies  and  hollyhocks  under  the  windows.  Here  he 
passed  his  boyhood,  the  eldest  of  a  family  of  seven,  working  on  the  farm  in 
summer  and  going  to  the  district  school  in  winter.  He  was  naturally  thought- 
ful, and  was  encouraged  in  his  love  of  reading  by  his  father,  a  man  of  strong 
though  untrained  mind,  a  lover  of  poetry  and  of  eloquence.  His  mother's 
simple,  genuine  piety  was  another  powerful  influence  in  the  formation  of  his 
character ;  and  to  these  may  be  added  the  strict  Calvinism  which  was  the  only 
form  of  religious  life  around  him,  and  the  interest  taken  in  him  by  Paul  Dewey, 
an  elder  cousin  of  his  father,  a  great  mathematician,  a  keen  thinker,  and  a 
sceptic  in  regard  to  the  prevailing  theology. 

His  parents,  not  without  effort  and  self-denial,  sent  him  to  Williams  College, 
Williamstown,  Massachusetts,  where  he  graduated  in  1814,  with  the  first  honors 
of  his  class,  although  suffering  from  weakness  of  the  eyes,  caused  by  reading 
too  soon  after  the  measles.  It  was  while  at  college  that  religious  ideas,  which 
had  always  been  interesting  to  him,  but  heretofore  tinged  with  the  deepest 
gloom,  became  irradiated  in  his  mind  by  the  Divine  Love  and  Goodness,  till 
they  made  his  chief  delight,  and  the  desire  arose  in  his  heart  to  be  a  preacher, 
and  convey  to  other  souls  the  comfort  and  joy  which  filled  his  own.  But  the 
state  of  his  eyes  rendered  study  impossible,  and  for  two  years  he  tried  school- 
keeping  in  Sheffield,  and  business  in  New  York,  till  the  swelling  desire  for  his 


X  SKETCH   OF   THE   LIFE   OF   REV.   ORVILLE   DEWEY. 

chosen  work  determined  him  to  try  to  prepare  himself  without  eyes  and  to 
preach  without  notes  ;  and,  being  still  Calvinistic  in  doctrine,  he  went  to  Ando- 
ver,  and  entered  the  Theological  Seminary.  There  he  spent  upon  Hebrew  all 
the  time  that  he  could  read,  and  was  helped  in  Greek  by  the  brotherly  kindness 
of  his  room-mate  ;  and,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  The  being  obliged  to  think  for 
myself  upon  the  theological  questions  that  daily  came  before  the  class,  instead 
of  reading  what  others  had  said  about  them,  seemed  to  me  not  without  its 
advantages." 

Three  years  at  Andover  had  two  noteworthy  results.  His  eyes  were  re- 
stored, by  a  simple  and  judicious  treatment  with  cold  water,  and  his  faith  in 
the  dogmas  of  the  popular  theology  was  completely  shaken.  Leaving  the 
seminary  in  this  unsettled  state  of  mind,  he  preached  for  nearly  a  year  in 
behalf  of  the  American  Education  Society,  and  then  received  a  call  to  Glouces- 
ter, Massachusetts.  In  answer  to  this,  he  frankly  declared  his  position,  and 
the  invitation  was  changed  into  one  for  a  year,  at  the  end  of  which  time  church 
and  minister  might  know  their  own  minds  clearly.  The  proposition  was  most 
acceptable,  giving  him  opportunity  for  patient  and  prayerful  examination  of  his 
difficulties.  That  year  in  Gloucester  was  the  turning-point  in  his  career.  With 
earnest  wrestlings  of  spirit,  with  bitter  struggles  of  separation,  with  solemn 
devotion  to  the  truth  as  he  was  able  to  perceive  it,  he  won  his  way  to  convic- 
tions, that  never  afterwards  faltered,  of  the  unity  of  God,  the  dignity  of  human 
nature,  and  of  thq,  eternal  progress  of  mankind  towards  virtue  and  happiness. 
At  the  end  of  the  year  the  young  minister  was  an  avowed  Unitarian,  and  the 
society  was  about  equally  divided  in  opinion.  Meanwhile  his  remarkable 
powers  must  have  become  known,  for  he  was  immediately  asked  to  come  to 
Boston,  and  assist  in  Dr.  Channing's  pulpit ;  and  this  he  did  for  two  years, 
preaching  on  alternate  Sundays  when  Dr.  Channing  was  at  home,  and  taking 
the  whole  charge  while  he  was  in  Europe.  The  intimate  companionship  into 
which  he  was  thus  brought  with  that  great  and  good  man  was  one  of  the  most 
highly  prized  blessings  of  his  life,  and  the  friendship  then  formed  was  inter- 
rupted only  by  the  death  of  the  elder. 

In  1820,  just  before  going  to  Gloucester,  Mr.  Dewey  was  married  to  Miss 
Louisa  Farnham,  daughter  of  William  Farnham,  of  Boston.  In  1823  he 
accepted  a  call  to  New  Bedford,  Massachusetts,  and  went  with  his  family  to 
make  his  home  in  that  beautiful  Quaker  town,  among  a  people  of  uncommon 
refinement  and  kindness,  where  he  was  happy,  useful,  and  appreciated.  But  it 
was  then  a  lonely  post,  and  he  was  a  zealous  worker.  Few  exchanges  were 
])ossible,  and  two  new  sermons  must  be  written  for  every  Sunday,  and  he  was 
at  the  same  time  a  constant  contributor  to  the  "Christian  Examiner."  Under 
the  unbroken  strain  the  working  power  of  his  brain  gave  way,  and  after  ten 
years  he  was  forced  to  take  absolute  rest.  He  went  to  Europe  for  a  year,  but 
on  his  return  attempted  in  vain  to  resume  his  work,  and,  resigning  his  parish, 
withdrew  to  Sheffield,  feeling  as  if,  at  forty,  his  active  service  was  over. 


SKETCH    01<-   THE    LIFE   OF    REV.  ORVH.LE    DEWEY.  XI 

But  the  Second  Unitarian  Church  in  New  York,*  whose  call  he  had  akeady 
refused  while  in  New  Bedford,  now  urged  him  anew  to  come  to  them,  and 
after  a  period  of  rest,  and  fortified  with  a  stock  of  sermons  ready  prepared,  he 
consented,  and  in  November,  1835,  was  installed  as  their  pastor.  With  them 
he  remained  for  six  years  more  of  happy  labor,  during  which  he  received  the 
degree  of  D.  D.  from  Harvard  College,  and  then  again  the  physical  organ  of 
thought  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged  to  pause  and  rest  it  like  a  sprained  limb. 
This  time  he  went  to  Europe  with  his  family,  and  was  gone  two  years.  It 
gave  him  great,  but  temporary,  relief,  and  in  1848  he  resigned  his  pulpit,  and 
retired  again  to  his  country  home,  where  his  mother  still  lived. 

In  a  sermon  preached  at  the  fifty-fourth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the 
Church  of  the  Messiah,  Dr.  Bellows  said:  "  Dr.  Dewey's  nature  was  character- 
ized from  eariy  youth  by  a  union  of  massive  intellectual  power  with  an  almost 
feminine  sensibility  ;  a  poetic  imagination  with  a  rare  dramatic  faculty  of  rep- 
resentation. Diligent  as  a  scholar,  a  careful  thinker,  accustomed  to  test  his 
own  impressions  by  patient  meditation,  a  reasoner  of  the  most  cautious  kmd, 
capable  of  holding  doubtful  conclusions,  however  inviting,  in  suspense,  devout 
and  reverent  by  nature,  he  had  every  qualification  for  a  great  preacher  m  a 
time  when  the  old  foundations  were  broken  up  and  men's  minds  were  demand- 
ing guidance  and  support  in  the  critical  transition  from  the  days  of  pure  author- 
ity to  the  days  of  personal  conviction  by  rational  evidence  ;  and  no  exaltation 
that  the  Church  of  the  Messiah  will  ever  attain  can  in  any  probability  equal 
that  which  will  always  be  given  to  it  as  the  seat  of  Dr.  Dewey's  thirteen  years' 
ministry  in  the  city  of  New  York." 

In  his  retirement  he  was  asked  to  give  a  course  of  twelve  lectures  before  the 
Lowell  Institute,  and  spent  two  or  three  years  in  preparing  them,  choosing  for 
his  subject  the  design  and  end  of  Providence  in  this  world.  These  lectures, 
after  being  heard  with  great  interest  in  Boston,  were  delivered  in  all  the  prin- 
cipal cities  of  the  country,  and  finally  published  with  the  tide,  "  Problem  of 
Human  Destiny." 

In  1858  he  took  temporary  charge  of  the  New  South  Society  in  Boston,  wor- 
shipping at  Church  Green,  now  swept  away  with  many  another  old  landmark. 
In  1862  he  returned  to  Sheffield,  and  there  passed  the  rest  of  his  life,  watch- 
ing with  the  deepest  interest  the  world  from  which  he  was  withdrawn,  sending 
out  now  and  then  words  of  warning  or  of  encouragement  from  his  retirement, 
occupied  with  his  little  farm,  widi  books,  and  with  meditation  upon  those  lof- 
tiest themes  of  human  thought  which  had  always  made  the  joy  and  the  business 
of  his  mind. 

For  the  last  five  years  of  his  life  he  was  an  invalid  ;  not  suff"ering  much  pain, 
but  growing  more  and  more  infirm,  and  losing  the  enjoyment  of  the  senses  and 
bodily  powers  that  had  been  so  strong  and  keen.     It  seemed   a  kind  and 

»  Called,  since  1^539,  the  "  Church  of  the  Messiah." 


xii  SKETCH    OF  THE   LIFE   OF   REV.  ORVILLE   DEWEY. 

gentle  weaning  from  a  world  which  had  been  so  full  of  happiness  to  him,  that, 
when  seventy,  he  said  he  should  be  willing  to  lead  his  life  directly  over  again! 
His  mind  was  clear  till  within  three  days  of  his  departure,  and  he  frequently 
expressed  an  earnest  desire  for  death.  This  final  and  gracious  gift  came  at 
last,  and  he  sunk  quietly  away,  March  21,  1882,  within  one  week  of  his  eighty- 
eighth  birthday. 

His  wife,  one  son,  and  two  daughters  survive  him. 

June,  1883. 


DISCOURSES  K.C 


ON 


HUMAN    NATURE,    HUMAN    LIFE, 


AND    THE 


NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


I. 


Psalm  viii.  4,5:  "  What  is  man,  that  thou  art 
mindful  of  him?  and  the  son  of  man,  that  thou  visit- 
est  him?  For  thou  hast  made  him  a  little  lower  than 
the  angels,  and  hast  crowned  him  with  glory  and 
honor.'' 

You  will  observe,  my  brethren,  that 
in  these  words  two  distinct  and  in  a  de- 
gree opposite  views  are  given  of  human 
nature.  It  is  represented  on  the  one 
hand  as  weal-:  and  low,  and  yet,  on  the 
other,  as  lofty  and  strong.  At  one  mo- 
ment it  presents  itself  to  the  inspired 
writer  as  poor,  humble,  depressed,  and 
almost  unworthy  of  the  notice  of  its 
Maker.  But  in  the  transition  of  a  single 
sentence  we  find  him  contemplating  this 
same  being,  man,  as  exalted,  glorious, 
and  almost  angelic.  "  When  I  consider 
thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers, 
the  moon  and  the  stars,  which  thou  hast 
ordained,"  he  says,  "  what  is  man  that 
thou  art  mindful  of  him  ?  "  And  yet,  he 
adds,  "  thou  hast  made  him  a  little  lower 
than  the  angels,  and  hast  crowned  him 
with  glory  and  honor." 

But  do  not  these  contrasted  state- 
ments make  up,  in  fact,  the  only  true 
view  of  human  nature  ?  Are  they  not 
conformable  to  the  universal  sense  of 
mankind,  and  to  the  whole  tenor  and 
spirit  of  our  religion  ?  Whenever  the 
human  character  is  portrayed  in  colors 


altogether  dark  or  altogether  bright, 
whenever  the  misanthrope  pours  out  his 
scorn  upon  the  wickedness  and  baseness 
of  mankind,  or  the  enthusiast  lavishes 
his  admiration  upon  their  virtues,  do  we 
not  always  feel  that  there  needs  to  be 
some  qualification  ;  that  there  is  some- 
thing to  be  said  on  the  other  side  ? 

Nay  more  ;  do  not  all  the  varying  rep- 
resentations of  human  nature  imply  their 
opposites  .?  Does  not  virtue  itself  imply 
that  sins  and  sinful  passions  are  strug- 
gled with  and  overcome  ?  And,  on  the 
contrary,  does  not  sin  in  its  very  nature 
imply  that  there  are  high  and  sacred 
powers,  capacities,  and  affections,  which 
it  violates  .-' 

In  this  view  it  appears  to  me  that 
all  unqualified  disparagement  as  well 
as  praise  of  human  nature  carries  with 
it  its  own  refutation  ;  and  it  is  to  this 
point  that  I  wish  to  invite  your  par- 
ticular attention  in  the  following  dis- 
course. Admitting  all  that  can  be 
asked  on  this  subject  by  the  strongest 
assertors  of  human  depravity;  admit- 
ting everything,  certainly,  that  can  be 
stated  as  a  matter  of  fact ;  admitting 
that  men  are  as  bad  as  they  are  said  to 
be,  and  substantially  believing  it  too,  I 
shall  argue  that  the  conclusion  to  be 
drawn  is  entirely  the  reverse  of  that 
which    usually   is   drawn.      I    shall   ar- 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


gue  that  the  most  strenuous,  the  most 
earnest  and  indignant  objections  against 
human  nature  imply  the  strongest  con- 
cessions to  its  constitutional  worth.  I 
say,  then,  and  repeat,  that  objection  here 
carries  with  it  its  own  refutation  ;  that 
the  objector  concedes  much,  very  much, 
to  human  nature  by  the  very  terms  with 
which  he  inveighs  against  it. 

It  is  not  my  sole  purpose,  however, 
to  present  any  abstract  or  polemic  argu- 
ment. Rather  let  me  attempt  to  offer 
some  general  and  just  views  of  human 
nature ;  and  for  this  purpose,  rather 
than  for  the  sake  of  controversy,  let  me 
pass  in  brief  review  before  you  some  of 
the  specific  and  disparaging  opinions 
that  have  prevailed  in  the  world  con- 
cerning it  ;  those,  for  instance,  of  the 
philosopher  and  the  theologian. 

In  doing  this,  my  purpose  is  to  admit 
that  much  of  what  they  say  is  true  ;  but 
to  draw  from  it  an  inference  quite  dif- 
ferent from  theirs.  I  would  admit,  on 
one  hand,  that  there  is  much  evil  in  the 
human  heart  ;  but  at  the  same  time  I 
would  balance  this  view,  and  blend  it 
with  others  that  claim  to  be  brought  into 
the  account.  On  the  one  hand,  I  would 
admit  the  objection  that  there  is  much 
and  mournful  evil  in  the  world;  but,  on 
the  other,  I  would  prevent  it  from  press- 
ing on  the  heart  as  a  discouraging  and 
dead  weight  of  reprobation  and  obloquy. 

It  may  appear  to  you  that  the  opin- 
ions which  I  have  selected  for  our  pres- 
ent consideration  are,  each  of  them, 
brought  into  strange  company  ;  and  yet 
they  have  an  affinity  which  may  not  at 
once  be  suspected.  It  is  singular,  in- 
deed, that  we  find  in  the  same  ranks,  and 
waging  the  same  war  against  all  human 
self-respect,  the  most  opposite  descrip- 
tions of  persons  ;  tlie  most  rehgious  with 
the  most  irreligious,  the  most  credulous 
with  the  most  sceptical.  If  any  man  sup- 
poses that  it  is  his  superior  goodness  or 
purer  faith  which  leads  him  to  think  so 
badly  of  his  fellow-men  and  of  their 
very  nature,  he  needs  to  be  reminded 
that  vicious  and  dissolute  habits  almost 
invariably  and   unerringly  lead   to   the 


same  result.  The  man  who  is  taking 
the  downward  way  with  almost  every 
step,  you  will  find  thinks  worse  of  his 
nature  and  his  species,  till  he  con- 
cludes, if  he  can,  that  he  was  made 
only  for  sensual  indulgence,  and  that  all 
idea  of  a  future,  intellectual,  and  im- 
mortal existence  is  a  dream.  And  so  if 
any  man  thinks  that  it  is  owing  to  his 
spirituality  and  heavenly-mindedness 
that  he  pronounces  the  world  so  utterly 
corrupt,  a  mere  mass  of  selfishness  and 
deceit,  he  may  be  admonished  that  no- 
body so  thoroughly  agrees  with  him  as 
the  man  of  the  world,  the  shrewd,  over- 
reaching, and  knavish  practiser  on  the 
weakness  or  rlie  wickedness  of  his  fel- 
lows. And  in  the  same  way  the  strict 
and  high-toned  theologian,  as  he  calls 
himself,  may  unexpectedly  find  himself 
in  company  with  the  sceptical  and  scorn- 
ful philosopher.  No  men  have  ever 
more  bitterly  decried  and  vilified  human 
nature  than  tlie  infidel  philosophers  of 
the  last  century.  They  contended  that 
man  was  too  mean  and  contemptible  a 
creature  to  be  the  subject  of  such  an 
interposition  as  that  recorded  in  the 
Gospel. 

I.  But  I  am  to  take  up  in  the  first 
place,  and  more  in  detail,  the  objection 
of  the  sceptical  philosopher. 

The  philosopher  says  that  man  is  a 
mean  creature  ;  not  so  much  a  degraded 
being,  as  he  is  originally  a  poor,  in- 
significant creature;  an  animal,  some 
grades  above  others,  perhaps,  but  still 
an  animal ;  for  whom,  to  suppose  the 
provision  of  infinite  mercy  and  of  im- 
mortality to  be  made,  is  absurd. 

It  is  worth  noticing,  as  we  pass,  and 
I  therefore  remark,  the  striking  connec- 
tion which  is  almost  always  found  be- 
tween different  parts  of  every  man's 
belief  or  scepticism.  I  never  knew  one 
to  think  wrongly  about  God,  but  he  very 
soon  began  to  think  wrongly  about  man  : 
or  else  the  reverse  is  the  process,  and 
it  is  not  material  which.  The  things 
always  go  together.  He  who  conceives 
of  the  Almighty  as  a  severe,  unjust,  and 
vindictive  being,  will  regard  man  as  a 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


slave,  will  make  him  the  slave  of  super- 
stition, will  take  a  sort  of  superstitious 
pleasure  or  merit  in  magnifying  his 
wickedness  or  unworthiness.  And  he 
who  thinks  meanly  of  human  nature, 
will  think  coldly  and  distrustfully  of  the 
Supreme  Being,  will  think  of  him  as 
withdrawing  himself  to  a  sublime  dis- 
tance from  such  a  nature.  In  other 
words,  he  who  does  not  take  the  Chris- 
tian view,  and  has  no  apprehension  of 
the  infinite  love  of  God,  will  not  believe 
that  he  has  made  man  with  such  noble 
faculties,  or  for  such  noble  ends,  as  we 
assert.  The  discussion  proposed  is  ob- 
viouslv,  even  in  this  view,  one  of  no 
trifling  importance. 

Let  us,  then,  proceed  to  the  objection 
of  our  philosopher.  He  says,  I  repeat, 
that  man  is  a  mean  creature,  fit  only  for 
the  earth  on  which  he  is  placed,  fit  for 
no  higher  destination  than  to  be  buried 
in  its  bosom,  and  there  to  find  liis  end. 
The  philosopher  rejects  what  he  calls 
the  theologian's  dream  about  the  fall. 
He  says  that  man  needed  no  fall  in 
order  to  be  a  degraded  creature ;  that 
he  is,  and  was,  always  and  originally,  a 
degraded  creature  ;  a  being,  not  fallen 
from  virtue,  but  incapable  of  virtue  ;  a 
being,  not  corrupted  from  his  innocence, 
but  one  who  never  possessed  innocence  ; 
a  being  never  of  heaven,  but  a  being 
only  of  earth  and  sense  and  appetite, 
and  never  fit  for  anything  better. 

Now  let  us  go  at  once  to  the  main 
point  in  argument,  which  is  proposed  to 
be  illustrated  in  this  discourse.  What 
need,  I  ask,  of  speaking  of  human  de- 
basement in  such  indignant  or  sneering 
tones,  if  it  is  the  real  and  only  nature  of 
man  ?  There  is  nothing  to  blame  or 
scorn  in  man,  if  he  is  naturally  such  a 
poor  and  insignificant  creature.  If  he 
was  made  only  for  the  senses  and  appe- 
tites, what  occasion,  I  pray,  for  any 
wonder  or  abuse  that  he  is  sensual  and 
debased?  Why  waste  invectives  on 
such  a  being?  The  truth  is,  that  this 
zealous  depreciation  of  human  nature 
betrays  a  consciousness  that  it  is  not 
so  utterly  worthless,  after  all.      It  is  no 


sufficient  reply  to  say  that  this  phi'o- 
sophic  scorn  has  been  aroused  by  the 
extravagance  of  human  pretensions. 
For  if  these  pretensions  were  utterly 
groundless,  if  the  being  who  aspired  to 
virtue  were  fit  only  for  sensation,  or  if 
the  being  whose  thoughts  swelled  to  the 
great  hope  of  immortality  were  only  ,i 
higher  species  of  the  animal  creation, 
and  must  share  its  fate,  —  if  this  were 
true,  his  pretensions  could  justly  create 
only  a  feeling  of  wonder  or  of  sadness. 

We  might  say  much  to  rebut  the 
charge  of  the  philosopher,  so  injurious 
to  the  soul,  so  fatal  to  all  just  self-re- 
spect, so  fatal  to  all  elevated  virtue  and 
devotion.  We  might  say  that  the  most 
ordinary  tastes  and  the  most  trifling 
pursuits  of  man  carry,  to  the  observant 
eye,  marks  of  the  nobler  mind.  We 
might  say  that  vain  trifling,  and  that 
fleeting,  dying  pleasure,  does  not  satisfy 
the  immortal  want;  and  that  toil  does 
not  crush  the  soul,  that  the  body  cannot 
weigh  down  the  spirit  to  its  own  drudg- 
ery. We  might  ask  our  proud  reasoner, 
moreover,  whence  the  moral  and  meta- 
physical philosopher  obtains  the  facts 
with  which  he  speculates,  and  argues, 
and  builds  up  his  admirable  theory? 
And  our  sceptic  must  answer  that  the 
metaphysical  and  moral  philosopher  goes 
to  human  nature  ;  that  he  goes  to  it  in 
its  very  attitudes  of  toil  and  its  free  act- 
ings of  passion,  and  thence  takes  his 
materials  and  his  form,  and  his  living 
charm  of  representation,  which  delight 
the  world.  We  might  say  still  more. 
We  might  say  that  all  there  is  of  vast- 
ness  and  grandeur  and  beauty  in  the 
world,  lies  in  the  conception  of  man  ; 
that  the  immensity  of  the  universe,  as 
we  term  it,  is  but  the  reach  of  his  imagi- 
nation ;  that  immensity,  in  other  words, 
is  but  the  image  of  his  own  idea ;  that 
there  is  no  eternity  to  him,  but  that 
which  exists  in  his  own  unbounded 
thought;  that  there  is  no  God  to  man, 
but  what  has  been  conceived  of  in  his 
own  capacious  and  unmeasured  under- 
standing. 

These  things  we  might  say;  but  I  will 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


rather  meet  the  objector  on  his  own 
ground,  confident  that  1  may  triumph 
even  there.  1  take  up  the  indignant 
argument,  then.  1  allow  that  there  is 
much  weight  and  truth  in  it,  though  it 
brings  me  to  a  different  conclusion.  I 
feel  that  man  is,  in  many  respects  and 
in  many  situations,  and,  above  all,  com- 
pared with  what  he  should  be,  —  that 
man  is  a  mean  creature.  I  feel  it,  as  1 
should  if  I  saw  some  youth  of  splendid 
talents  and  promise  plunging  in  at  the 
door  of  vice  and  infamy.  Yes,  it  is 
meanness  for  a  man,  who  stands  in 
the  presence  of  his  God  and  among  the 
sons  of  heaven,  —  it  is  meanness  in  him 
to  play  the  humble  part  of  sycophant 
before  his  fellows  ;  to  fawn  and  flatter, 
to  make  his  very  soul  a  slave,  barely  to 
gain  from  that  fellow-man  his  smile,  his 
nod,  his  hand ;  his  favor,  his  vote,  his 
patronage.  It  is  meanness  for  a  i?iait  to 
prevaricate  and  falsify,  to  sell  his  con- 
science for  advantage,  to  barter  his  soul 
for  gain,  to  give  his  noble  brow  to  the 
smiting  blush  of  shame,  or  his  cheek  to 
the  deadly  paleness  of  convicted  dishon- 
esty. Yes,  it  is  a  degradation  unutter- 
able, for  a  man  to  steep  his  soul  in  gross, 
sensual,  besotting  indulgence  ;  to  live 
for  this,  and  in  this  one,  poor,  low  sen- 
sation to  shut  up  the  mind  with  all  its 
boundless  range  ;  to  sink  to  a  debase- 
ment mere  than  beastly,  below  where 
an  animal  can  go.  Yes,  all  this,  and 
much  beside  this,  is  meanness;  but 
why,  now  I  ask,  — why  do  we  speak  of 
it  thus,  unless  it  is  because  we  speak  of 
a  being  who  might  have  put  on  such  a 
nobility  of  soul,  and  such  a  loftiness  and 
independence,  and  spiritual  beauty  and 
glor}',  as  would  fling  rebuke  upon  all  the 
hosts  of  sin  and  temptation,  and  cast 
dimness  upon  all  tlie  splendor  of  the 
world  ? 

It  may  be  proper  under  the  head  of 
philosophical  objections  to  take  notice 
of  the  celebrated  maxim  of  Rochefou- 
cauld ;  since  it  is  among  the  written, 
and  has  as  good  a  title  as  others  to  be 
among  the  philosophic,  objections.  This 
maxim  is,  that  we  take  a  sort  of  pleasure 


in  the  disappointments  and  miseries  of 
others,  and  are  pained  at  their  good  for- 
tune and  success.  If  this  maxim  were 
intended  to  fix  upon  mankind  the  charge 
of  pure,  absolute,  disinterested  malig- 
nity, and  if  it  could  be  sustained,  it 
would  be  fatal  to  my  argument.  If  I 
believed  this,  I  should  believe  not  only 
in  total,  but  in  diabolical  depravity. 
And  1  am  aware  that  the  apologists  for 
human  nature,  receiving  the  maxim  in 
this  light,  have  usually  contented  them- 
selves with  indignantly  denying  its  truth. 
I  shall,  however,  for  myself,  take  differ- 
ent ground.  I  suppose,  and  I  admit, 
that  the  maxim  is  true  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent. Yet  I  deny  that  the  feelings  on 
which  it  is  founded  are  malignant. 
They  may  be  selfish,  they  may  be  bad  ; 
but  they  are  not  malicious  and  diaboli- 
cal. But  let  us  explain.  It  should  lie 
premised  that  there  is  nothing  wrong  in 
our  desiring  the  goods  and  advantages 
of  life,  provided  the  desire  be  kept  within 
proper  bounds.  Suppose,  then,  that  you 
are  pursuing  the  same  object  with  your 
neighbor,  a  situation,  an  office,  for  in- 
stance, and  suppose  that  he  succeeds. 
His  success,  at  the  first  disclosure  of  it 
to  you,  will  of  course  give  you  a  degree 
of  pain;  and  for  this  reason  :  it  immedi- 
ately brings  the  sense  of  your  own  dis- 
appointment. Now  it  is  not  wrong, 
perhaps,  that  you  do  regret  your  own 
failure  ;  it  is  probably  unavoidable  that 
you  should.  You  feel,  perhaps,  that  you 
need  or  deserve  the  appointment  more 
than  your  rival.  You  cannot  help,  there- 
fore, on  every  account,  regretting  that  he 
has  obtained  it.  It  does  not  follow  that 
you  wish  him  any  less  happy.  You  may 
make  the  distinction  in  your  own  mind. 
You  may  say—''  I  ^m  glad  he  is  happy, 
but  I  am  sorry  he  has  the  place;  I  wish 
he  could  be  as  happy  in  some  other  sit- 
uation." Now  all  this,  so  far  from  be- 
ing  malignant,  is  scarcely  selfish  ;  and 
even  when  the  feeling  in  a  very  bad 
mind  is  altogether  selfish,  yet  it  is  very 
different  from  a  malignant  pain  at  an- 
other's good  fortune.  But  now  let  us 
extend  the  case  a  little,  from  immediate 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


5 


rivalsliip  to  that  general  competition  of 
interests  which  exists  in  society, —  a 
competition  which  the  selfishness  of 
men  makes  to  be  far  more  than  is  nec- 
essary, and  conceive  sto  be  far  greater 
than  it  is.  There  is  an  erroneous  idea, 
or  imagination  shall  I  call  it,  —  and  cer- 
tainly it  is  one  of  the  moral  delusions  of 
the  world,  —that  something  gained  by 
another  is  something  lost  to  one's  self  ; 
and  hence  the  feeling,  before  described, 
may  arise  at  almost  any  indifferent  in- 
stance of  good  fortune.  But  it  always 
rises  in  this  proportion  :  it  is  stronger, 
the  nearer  the  case  comes  to  direct  com- 
petition. You  do  not  envy  a  rich  man 
in  China,  nor  a  great  man  in  Tartary. 
But  if  envy,  as  it  has  been  sometimes 
called,  were  pure  malignity,  a  man 
should  be  sorry  that  anybody  is  happy, 
that  anybody  is  fortunate  or  honored  in 
the  world.  But  this  is  not  true  ;  it  does 
not  apply  to  human  nature.  If  you  ever 
feel  pain  at  the  successes  or  acquisitions 
of  another,  it  is  when  they  come  into 
comparison  or  contrast  with  your  own 
failures  or  deficiencies.  You  feel  that 
those  successes  or  acquisitions  might 
have  been  your  own  ;  you  regret,  and 
perhaps  rightly,  that  they  are  not ;  and 
then  you  insensibly  slide  into  the  very 
wrong  feehng  of  regret  that  they  belong 
to  another.  This  is  envy,  and  it  is 
sufficiently  base  ;  but  it  is  not  purely 
malicious,  and  it  is,  in  fact,  the  perver- 
sion of  a  feeling  originally  capable  of 
good  and  valuable  uses. 

But  I  must  pursue  the  sceptical  phi- 
losopher a  step  farther,  into  actual  life. 
The  term  "  philosopher  "  may  seem  to  be 
but  ill  applied  here ;  but  we  have  prob- 
ably all  of  us  known  or  heard  those 
who,  pretending  to  have  a  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  worlds  if  not  much 
other  knowledge,  take  upon  them,  with 
quite  an  air  of  philosophic  superiority, 
to  pronounce  human  nature  nothing  but 
a  mass  of  selfishness  ;  and  to  say  that 
this  mass,  whenever  it  is  refined,  is  only 
refined  into  luxury  and  licentiousness, 
duplicity  and  knavery.  Some  simple 
souls  they  suppose  there  may  be,  in  the 


retired  corners  of  the  earth,  that  are 
walking  in  the  chains  of  mechanical 
habit  or  superstitious  piety,  who  have 
not  the  knowledge  to  understand,  nor 
the  courage  to  seek,  what  they  want. 
But  the  moment  they  do  act  freely,  they 
act,  says  our  objector,  upon  the  selfish 
principle.  And  this  he  maintains  is 
the  principle  which,  in  fact,  governs  the 
world.  Nay  more,  he  avers  that  it  is 
the  only  reasonable  and  sufficient  prin- 
ciple of  action,  and  freely  confesses 
that  it  is  his  own. 

Let  me  ask  you  here  to  keep  distinctly 
in  view  the  ground  which  the  objector 
now  assumes.  There  are  talkers  against 
human  virtue  who  never  think,  however, 
of  going  to  this  length ;  men,  in  fact,  who 
are  a  great  deal  better  than  their  theory; 
whose  example,  indeed,  refutes  their 
theory.  But  there  are  worse  objectors 
and  worse  men,  —  vicious  and  corrupt 
men;  sensualists;  sensualists  in  phi- 
losophy and  in  practice  alike,  —  who 
would  gladly  believe  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  as  bad  as  themselves.  And  these 
are  objectors,  I  say,  who,  like  the  objec- 
tions before  stated,  refute  themselves. 

For  who  is  this  small  philosopher, 
that  smiles,  either  at  the  simplicity  of  all 
honest  men,  or  at  the  simplicity  of  all 
honest  defenders  of  them  i  He  is,  in 
the  first  place,  a  man  who  stands  up 
before  us  and  has  the  face  to  boast 
that  he  is  himself  without  principle. 
No  doubt  he  thinks  other  men  as  bad 
as  himself.  A  man  necessarily,  per- 
haps, judges  the  actions  of  other  men 
by  his  own  feelings.  He  has  no  other 
interpreter.  The  honest  man,  there- 
fore, will  often  presume  honesty  in 
another ;  and  the  generous  man,  gen- 
erosity. And  so  the  selfish  man  can  see 
nothins:  around  him  but  selfishness, 
and  the  knave  nothing  but  dishonesty  ; 
and  he  who  never  felt  anything  of  a 
generous  and  self-devoting  piety,  who 
never  bowed  down  in  that  holy  and 
blessed  worship,  can  see  in  prayer  noth- 
ing but  the  offering  of  selfish  fear,  in 
piety  nothing  but  a  shvish  superstition. 
In  the  next  place,  this  sneerer  at  all 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


virtue  and  piety  not  only  imagines 
others  to  be  as  destitute  of  principle  as 
himself,  but  to  some  extent  he  makes 
them  such,  or  makes  them  seem  such. 
His  eye  of  pride  chills  every  goodly 
thing  it  looks  upon.  Flis  breath  of  scorn 
blights  every  generous  virtue  where  it 
comes.  His  supple  and  crafty  hand 
puts  all  men  upon  their  guard.  They 
become  like  himself,  for  the  time  ;  they 
become  more  crafty  while  they  deal  with 
him.  How  shall  any  noble  aspiration, 
any  high  and  pure  thoughts,  any  benev- 
olent purposes,  any  sacred  and  holy 
communing,  venture  into  the  presence 
of  the  proud  and  selfish  scorner  of  all 
goodness!  It  has  been  said,  that  the 
letters  your  friends  write  to  you  will 
show  their  opinion  of  your  temper  and 
tastes.  And  so  it  is,  to  a  certain  extent, 
with  conversation. 

But,  in  the  third  place,  where,  let  us 
ask,  has  this  man  studied  human  nature  ^ 
Lord  Chesterfield  observes  —  and  the 
observation  is  worthy  of  a  man  who 
never  seems  to  have  looked  beneath  the 
surface  of  anything  —  that  the  court 
and  the  camp  are  the  places  in  which  a 
knowledge  of  mankind  is  to  be  gained. 
And  we  may  remark  that  it  is  from  two 
fields  not  altogether  dissimilar  that  our 
sceptic  about  virtue  always  gains  his 
knowledge  of  mankind :  I  mean,  from 
fashion  and  business,  the  two  most 
artificial  spheres  of  active  life.  Our 
objector  has  witnessed  heartless  civili- 
ties, and  imagines  that  he  is  acquainted 
with  the  deep  fountains  of  human  nature. 
Or  he  has  been  out  into  the  paths  of 
business,  and  seen  men  girt  up  for  com- 
petition, and  acting  in  that  artificial  state 
of  things  which  trade  produces  ;  and  he 
imagines  that  he  has  witnessed  the  free 
and  unsophisticated  workings  of  the  hu- 
man heart ;  he  supposes  that  the  laws 
of  trade  are  also  the  laws  of  human 
affection.  He  thinks  himself  deeply 
read  in  the  book  of  the  human  heart, 
that  unfathomalile  mystery,  because  he 
is  acquainted  with  notes  and  bonds,  with 
cards  and  compliments. 

How   completely,   then,    is   this    man 


disqualified  from  judging  of  human  na- 
ture !  There  is  a  power,  which  few- 
possess,  which  none  have  attained  in 
perfection,  —  a  power  to  unlock  the  re- 
tired, the  deeper  and  nobler  sensibilities 
of  men's  minds,  to  draw  out  the  hoarded 
and  hidden  virtues  of  the  soul,  to  open 
the  fountains  which  custom  and  cere- 
mony and  reserve  have  sealed  up;  it  is 
a  power,  I  repeat,  which  few  possess,  — 
how  evidently  does  our  objector  possess 
it  not,  —  and  yet  without  some  portion 
of  which,  no  man  should  think  himself 
qualified  to  study  human  nature.  Men 
know  but  little  of  each  other,  after  all ; 
but  little  know  how  many  good  and 
tender  affections  are  suppressed  and 
kept  out  of  sight  by  diffidence,  by  deli- 
cacy, by  the  fear  of  appearing  awkward 
or  ostentatious,  by  habits  of  life,  by 
education,  by  sensitiveness,  and  even 
by  strong  sensibility,  that  sometimes 
puts  on  a  hard  and  rough  exterior  for 
its  own  check  or  protection.  And  the 
power  that  penetrates  all  these  barriers 
must  be  an  extraordinary  one.  There 
must  belong  to  it  charity,  and  kindness, 
and  forbearance,  and  sagacity,  and  fidel- 
ity to  the  trust  which  the  opening  heart 
reposes  in  it.  But  how  peculiarly,  I 
repeat,  how  totally  -devoid  of  this  power 
of  opening  and  unfolding  the  real  char- 
acter of  his  fellows,  must  be  the  scoffer 
at  human  nature  ! 

I  have  said  that  this  man  gathers  his 
conclusions  from  the  most  formal  and 
artificial  aspects  of  the  world.  He  never 
could  have  drawn  them  from  the  holy 
retreats  of  domestic  hfe, —  to  say  noth- 
ing of  those  deeper  privacies  of  the 
heart  of  which  I  have  just  been  speak- 
ing ;  he  never  could  have  drawn  his  con- 
clusions from  those  family  scenes  where 
unnumbered,  nameless,  minute,  and  in- 
describable sacrifices  are  daily  made  by 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  all  around 
us;  he  never  could  have  drawn  them 
from  the  self-devoting  mother's  cares, 
or  from  the  grateful  return,  the  lovely 
assiduity  and  tenderness,  of  filial  affec- 
tion ;  he  never  could  have  derived  his 
contemptuous  inference   from  the  sick- 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


room,  where  friendship,  in  silent  prayer, 
watches  and  tends  its  charge.  No  :  he 
dare  not  go  out  from  our  dwelHngs,  from 
our  temples,  from  our  hospitals,  —  he 
dare  not  tread  upon  the  holy  places  of 
the  land,  the  high  places  where  the  de- 
vout have  prayed,  and  the  brave  have 
died,  and  proclaim  that  patriotism  is  a 
visionary  sentiment,  and  jjiety  a  selfish 
delusion,  and  charity  a  pretence,  and 
virtue  a  name  ! 

II.  But  it  is  time  that  we  come  now 
to  the  objection  of  the  theologian.  And 
1  go  at  once  to  the  single  and  strong 
point  of  his  objection.  The  theologian 
says  that  human  nature  is  bad  and  cor- 
rupt. Now,  taking  this  language  in  the 
practical  and  popular  sense,  I  find  no 
difficulty  in  agreeing  with  the  theolo- 
gian. And,  indeed,  if  he  would  confine 
himself,  —  leaving  vague  and  general 
declamation  and  technical  phraseology, 
—  if  he  would  confine  himself  to  facts, 
if  he  would  confine  himself  to  a  descrip- 
tion of  actual  bad  qualities  and  disposi- 
tions in  men,  I  think  he  could  not  well 
go  too  far.  Nay  more,  I  am  not  certain 
that  any  theologian's  description,  so  far 
as  it  is  of  this  nature,  has  gone  deep 
enough  into  the  frightful  mass  of  human 
depravity.  For  it  requires  an  acute 
perception,  that  is  rarely  possessed,  and 
a  higher  and  holier  conscience,  perhaps, 
than  belongs  to  any,  to  discover  and  to 
declare,  hoiu  bad  and  degraded  and  un- 
worthy a  being  a  bad  7naii  is.  I  con- 
fess that  nothing  would  beget  in  me  a 
higher  respect  for  a  man  than  a  real  — 
not  a  theological  and  factitious  but  a 
real  —  and  deep  sense  of  human  sinful- 
ness and  unworthiness  ;  of  the  grievous 
wrong  which  man  does  to  himself,  to  his 
religion,  and  to  his  God,  when  he  yields 
to  the  evil  and  accursed  inchnations 
that  find  place  in  him.  This  moral  in- 
dignation is  not  half  strong  enough,  even 
in  those  who  profess  to  talk  the  most 
about  human  depravity.  And  the  ob- 
jection to  them  is,  not  that  they  feel  too 
much,  or  speak  too  strongly, about  the  ac- 
tual wickedness,  the  actual  and  distinct 
sins  of  the  wicked  ;  but  that  they  speak 


too  generally  and  vaguely  of  human 
wickedness,  that  they  speak  with  too  lit- 
tle discrimination  to  every  man  as  if  he 
were  a  murderer  or  a  monster,  that  they 
speak  in  fine  too  argumentatively,  and 
too  much,  if  I  may  say  so,  with  a  sort 
of  argumentative  satisfaction,  as  if  they 
were  glad  that  they  could  make  this 
point  so  strong. 

I  know,  then,  and  admit,  that  men,  and 
all  men  more  or  less,  are,  alas  !  sinful 
and  bad.  I  know  tjiat  the  catalogue  of 
human  transgressions  is  long  and  dark 
and  mournful.  The  words,  pride  and 
envy  and  anger  and  selfishness  and  base 
indulgence,  are  words  of  lamentation. 
They  are  words  that  should  make  a  man 
weep  when  he  pronounces  them,  and 
most  of  all  when  he  applies  them  to  him- 
self or  to  his  fellow-men. 

But  what  now  is  the  inference  from 
all  this?  Is  it  that  man  is  an  utterly 
debased,  degraded,  and  contemptible 
creature  ;  that  there  is  nothing  in  him 
to  be  revered  or  respected ;  that  the 
human  heart  presents  nothing  to  us  but 
a  mark  for  cold  and  blighting  reproach  .'' 
Without  wishing  to  assert  anything 
paradoxical,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
very  reverse  is  the  inference. 

I  should  reason  thus  upon  this  point. 
I  should  say,  it  must  be  a  noble  creature 
that  can  so  offend.  I  should  say,  there 
must  be  a  contrast  of  light  and  shade, 
to  make  the  shade  so  deep.  It  is  no 
ordinary  being,  surely  ;  it  is  a  being  of 
conscience,  of  moral  powers  and  glori- 
ous capacities,  that  calls  from  us  such 
intense  reproach  and  indignation.  We 
never  so  arraign  the  animal  creation. 
The  very  power  of  sinning  is  a  lofty  and 
awful  power  !  It  is,  in  the  language  of 
our  holiest  poet,  "  the  excess  of  glory 
obscured."  Neither  is  it  a  power  stand- 
ing alone.  It  is  not  a  solitary,  unquali- 
fied, diabolical  power  of  evil  ;  a  dark 
and  cold  abstraction  of  wickedness. 
No,  it  is  clothed  with  other  qualities. 
No,  it  has  dread  attendants  ;  attendants, 
I  had  almost  said,  that  dignify  even  the 
wrong.  A  waiting  conscience,  visitings 
—  oh !    visitings    of    better    thoughts, 


8 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


calls  of  honor  and  self-respect,  come  to 
the  sinner;  terrific  admonition  whisper- 
ing in  his  secret  ear,  prophetic  warning 
pointing  him  to  the  dim  and  veiled  shad- 
ows of  future  retribution,  and  the  all- 
penetrating,  all-surrounding  idea  of  an 
avenging  God,  are  present  with  him :  and 
the  right  arm  of  the  felon  and  the  trans- 
gressor is  lifted  up  amidst  lightnings  of 
conviction  and  thunderings  of  reproach. 
I  can  tremble  at  such  a  being  as  this  ; 
I  can  pity  him  ;  I  can  weep  for  him  ; 
but  I  cannot  scorn  him. 

The  very  words  of  condemnation 
which  we  apply  to  sin  are  words  of 
comparison.  When  we  describe  the 
act  of  the  transgressor  as  mean,  for  in- 
stance, we  recognize,  I  repeat,  the  nobil- 
ity of  his  nature  ;  and  when  we  say  that 
his  oflFence  is  a  degradation,  we  imply  a 
certain  distinction.  And  so  io  do  wrcmg 
implies  a  noble  power,  the  very  power 
which  constitutes  the  glory  of  heaven, 
the  power  to  do  right.  And  thus  it  is, 
as  I  apprehend,  that  the  inspired  teach- 
ers speak  of  the  wickedness  and  unwor- 
thiness  of  man.  They  seem  to  do  it 
under  a  sense  of  his  better  capacities 
and  higher  distinction.  They  speak  as 
if  he  had  wronged  himself.  And  when 
they  use  the  words  ruin  and  perdition, 
they  announce,  in  affecting  terms,  the 
worth  of  that  which  is  reprobate  and 
lost.  Paul,  when  speaking  of  his  trans- 
gressions, says,  —  "not  I,  but  the  sin 
that  dwelleth  in  me."  There  was  a  bet- 
ter nature  in  him  that  resisted  evil, 
though  it  did  not  always  successfully 
resist.  And  we  read  of  the  Prodigal 
Son,  —  in  terms  which  have  always 
seemed  to  me  of  the  most  affecting  im- 
port, —  that  when  he  came  to  the  sense 
of  his  duty,  he  "  came  —  io  himself. '''' 
Yes,  the  sinner  is  beside  himself ;  and 
there  is  no  peace,  no  reconciliation  of 
his  conduct  to  his  nature,  till  he  returns 
from  his  evil  ways.  Shall  we  not  say, 
then,  that  his  nature  demands  virtue 
and  rectitude  to  satisfy  it  ? 

True  it  is,  and  I  would  not  be  one  to 
weaken  or  obscure  the  truth,  that  man 
is    sinful ;  but   he   is  not  satisfied  with 


sinning.  Not  his  conscience  only,  but 
his  wants,  his  natural  affections,  are  not 
satisfied.  He  pays  deep  penalties  for 
his  transgressions.  And  these  suffer- 
ings proclaim  a  higher  nature.  The 
pain,  the  disappointment,  the  dissatis- 
faction, that  wait  on  an  evil  course, 
show  that  the  human  soul  was  not 
made  to  be  the  instrument  of  sin,  but 
its  lofty  avenger.  The  desolated  affec- 
tions, the  haggard  countenance,  the  pal- 
lid and  sunken  cheek,  the  sighings  of 
grief,  proclaim  that  there  are  ruins,  in- 
deed, but  they  proclaim  that  something 
noble  has  fallen  into  ruin,  —  proclaim  it 
by  signs  mournful,  yet  venerable,  like 
the  desolations  of  an  ancient  temple, 
like  its  broken  walls  and  falling  columns 
and  the  hollow  sounds  of  decay,  that 
sink  down  heavily  among  its  deserted 
recesses. 

The  sinner,  I  repeat  it,  is  a  sufferer. 
He  seeks  happiness  in  low  and  unworthy 
objects  ;  that  is  his  sin  :  but  he  does 
not  find  it  there ;  and  that  is  his  glory. 
No,  he  does  not  find  it  there  :  he  returns 
disappointed  and  melancholy  ;  and  there 
is  nothing  on  earth  so  eloquent  as  his 
grief.  Read  it  in  the  pages  of  a  Byron 
and  a  Burns.  There  is  nothing  in  liter- 
ature so  touching  as  these  lamenta- 
tions of  noble  but  erring  natures,  in  the 
vain  quest  of  a  happiness  which  the 
world  and  the  world's  pleasure  can  never 
give.  The  sinner  is  often  dazzled  by 
earthly  fortune  and  pomp,  but  it  is  in 
the  very  midst  of  these  things  that  he 
sometimes  most  feels  their  emptiness  ; 
that  his  higher  nature  most  feels  that  it 
is  solitary  and  unsatisfied.  It  is  in  the 
giddy  whirl  of  frivolous  pursuits  and 
amusements  that  his  soul  oftentimes  is 
sick  and  weary  with  trifles  and  vanities  : 
that  "he  says  of  laughter,  it  is  mad; 
and  of  mirth,  what  doeth  it?" 

And  yet  it  is  not  bare  disappointment, 
nor  the  mere  destitution  of  happiness 
caused  by  sin,  —  it  is  not  these  alone 
that  give  testimony  to  a  better  nature. 
There  is  a  higher  power  that  bears  sway 
in  the  human  heart.  It  is  remorse, 
sacred,  uncompromising  remorse ;  that 


ON    HUMAN    NATURE. 


will  hear  of  no  selfish  calculations  of 
pain  and  pleasure  ;  that  demands  to  suf- 
fer ;  that,  of  all  sacrifices  on  earth,  save 
those  of  benevolence,  brings  the  only 
willing  victim.  What  lofty  revenge 
does  the  abused  soul  thus  take  for  its 
offences  ;  never,  no,  never,  in  all  its  an- 
ger, punishing  another,  as  in  its  justice, 
it  punishes  itself ! 

Such,  then,  are  the  attributes  that 
still  dwell  in  the  dark  grandeur  of  the 
soul ;  the  beams  of  original  light,  of 
which  amidst  its  thickest  darkness  it  is 
never  shorn.  That  in  which  all  the  no- 
bleness of  earth  resides  should  not  be 
condemned  even,  but  with  awe  and  trem- 
bling. It  is  our  treasure;  and  if  this  is 
lost,  all  is  lost.  Let  us  take  care,  then, 
that  we  be  not  unjust.  Man  is  not  an 
angel  ;  but  neitlier  is  he  a  demon,  nor 
a  brute.  The  evil  he  does  is  not  com- 
mitted with  brutish  insensibility,  nor 
with  diabolical  satisfaction.  And  the 
evil,  too,  is  often  disguised  under  forms 
that  do  not,  at  once,  permit  him  to  see 
its  real  character.  His  affections  be- 
come wrong  by  excess  ;  passions  be- 
wilder ;  semblances  delude ;  interests 
ensnare ;  example  corrupts.  And  yet 
no  tyrant  over  men's  thoughts,  no  un- 
worthy seeker  of  their  adulation,  no 
pander  for  guilty  pleasure,  could  ever 
make  the  human  heart  what  he  would. 
And  in  making  it  what  he  has,  he  has 
often  found  that  he  had  to  work  with 
stubborn  materials.  No  perseverance 
of  endeavor,  nor  devices  of  ingenuity, 
nor  depths  of  artifice,  have  ever  equalled 
those  which  are  sometimes  employed  to 
corrupt  the  heart  from  its  youthful  sim- 
plicity and  uprightness. 

In  endeavoring  to  state  the  views 
which  are  to  be  entertained  of  human 
nature,  I  have  at  present,  and  before  I 
reverse  the  picture,  but  one  further  ob- 
servation to  make.  And  that  is  on  the 
spirit  and  tone  with  which  it  is  to  be 
viewed  and  spoken  of.  I  have  wished, 
even  in  speaking  of  its  faults,  to  awak- 
en a  feeling  of  reverence  and  regret  for 
it,  such  as  would  arise  within  us  on 
beholding  a  noble  but  mutilated  statue. 


or  the  work  of  some  divine  architect,  in 
ruins,  or  some  majestic  object  in  nature 
which  had  been  marred  by  the  rending 
of  this  world's  elements  and  changes. 
Above  all  other  objects,  surely,  human 
nature  deserves  to  be  regarded  with 
these  sentiments.  The  ordinary  tone 
of  conversation  in  allusion  to  this  sub- 
ject, the  sneering  remark  on  mankind, 
as  a  set  of  poor  and  miserable  crea- 
tures, the  cold  and  bitter  severity,  wheth- 
er of  philosophic  scorn  or  theological 
rancor,  become  no  being;  least  of  all, 
him  who  has  part  in  this  common  na- 
ture. He,  at  least,  should  speak  with 
consideration  and  tenderness.  And  if 
he  must  speak  of  faults  and  sins,  he 
would  do  well  to  imitate  an  apostle, 
and  to  tell  these  things,  even  weeping. 
His  tone  should  be  that  of  forbearance 
and  pity.  His  words  should  be  record- 
ed in  a  Book  of  Lamentations.  "  How  is 
the  gold  become  dim,"  he  might  exclaim 
in  the  words  of  an  ancient  lamenta- 
tion, — "  how  is  the  gold  become  dim, 
and  the  most  fine  gold  changed  !  The 
precious  sons  of  Zion,  comparable  to 
fine  gold,  how  are  they  esteemed  but  as 
earthen  vessels,  the  work  of  the  hands 
of  the  potter  !  " 


II. 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 

Psalm  viii.  5:  "  For  thou  hast  made  him  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  and  hast  crowned  him  with 
glory  and  honor." 

I  HAVE  endeavored,  in  my  last  dis- 
course, to  show  that  the  very  objections 
which  are  usually  brought  against  human 
nature  imply  in  the  very  fact,  in  the 
very  spirit  and  tone  of  them,  the 
strongest  concessions  to  its  worth.  I 
shall  now  proceed  to  the  direct  argu- 
ment in  its  favor.  It  is  the  constitu- 
tional worth  of  human  nature  that  we 
have  thus  far  considered,  rather  than 
its  moral  worth,  or  absolute  virtue. 
We  have  considered  the  indignant  re- 
proaches  against   its   sin   and   debase- 


lO 


ON    HUMAN    NATURE. 


ment,  whether  of  the  philosopher  or  the 
theologian,  as  evidence  of  their  own 
conviction  that  it  was  made  for  some- 
thing better.  We  have  considered  that 
moral  constitution  of  human  nature  by 
which  it  was  evidently  made  not  to.  be 
the  slave  of  sin,  but  its  conqueror. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  take  some 
account  of  its  moral  traits  and  acquisi- 
tions. I  say  its  moral  traits  and  acqui- 
sitions. For  there  are  feelings  of  the 
human  mind  which  scarcely  rise  to  the 
character  of  acquisitions,  which  are  in- 
voluntary impulses  ;  and  yet  which  pos- 
sess a  nature  as  truly  moral,  though  not 
in  as  high  a  degree,  as  any  voluntary 
acts  of  virtue.  Such  is  the  simple,  nat- 
ural love  of  excellence.  It  bears  the 
same  relation  to  moral  effort  as  spon- 
taneous reason  does  to  reflection  or 
logical  effort ;  and  what  is  spontaneous, 
in  both  cases,  is  the  very  foundation  of 
the  acquisitions  that  follow.  Thus  the 
involuntary  perception  of  a  few  axioms 
lies  at  the  foundation  of  mathematical 
science  ;  and  so  from  certain  spontane- 
ous impressions  of  truth  springs  all 
knowledge  ;  and  in  the  same  manner 
our  spontaneous  moral  impressions  are 
the  germs  of  the  highest  moral  efforts. 

Of  these  spontaneous  impressions  I 
ain  to  speak  in  the  first  place ;  and  then 
to  produce  in  favor  of  human  nature 
the  testimony  of  its  higher  and  more 
confirmed  virtues. 

But  I  am  not  willing  to  enter  upon 
this  theme  without  first  offering  a  re- 
mark or  two,  to  prevent  any  misconcep- 
tion of  the  purpose  for  which  I  again 
bring  forward  this  discussion.  It  is  not 
to  bring  to  the  altar  at  which  I  minister, 
an  oblation  of  flattery  to  my  fellow-wor- 
shippers. It  is  not  to  make  any  man 
feel  his  moral  dangers  to  be  less,  or  to 
make  him  easier  in  reference  to  that  sol- 
emn spiritual  trust  that  is  committed  to 
his  nature,  but  the  very  contrary.  It 
is  not  to  make  him  think  less  of  his 
faults,  but  more.  It  is  not,  in  fine,  to 
build  up  any  one  theological  dogma  or 
to  beat  down  another. 

My  view  of  t!ie  subject,  if  I  miy  state 


it  without  presumption,  is  this  :  that 
there  is  a  treasure  in  human  nature  of 
which  most  men  are  not  conscious,  and 
with  which  none  are  yet  fully  acquaint- 
ed !  If  you  had  met  in  a  retired  part  of 
the  country  with  some  rustic  youth  who 
bore  in  his  character  the  indications  of 
a  most  sublime  genius,  and  if  you  saw 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  it,  and  that  those 
around  him  were  ignorant  of  it,  you 
would  look  upon  him  with  extreme,  with 
enthusiastic  interest,  and  you  would  be 
anxious  to  bring  him  into  the  light,  and 
to  rear  him  up  to  his  proper  sphere  of 
honor.  This,  may  I  be  permitted  to 
say,  illustrates  the  view  which  I  take  of 
human  nature.  I  believe  that  there  is 
something  in  every  man's  heart  upon 
which  he  ought  to  look  as  a  found  treas- 
ure ;  something  upon  which  he  ought 
to  look  with  awe  and  wonder;  some- 
thing which  should  make  him  tremble 
when  he  thinks  of  sacrificing  it  to  evil  ; 
something,  also,  to  encourage  and  cheer 
him  in  every  endeavor  after  virtue  and 
purity.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  that 
that  something  is  confirmed  goodness, 
or  is  thfe  degree  of  goodness  which  is 
necessary  to  make  him  happy,  here  or 
hereafter  ;  or  that  it  is  something  to 
rest  upon,  or  to  rely  upon,  in  the  antici- 
pation of  God's  judgment.  Still,  I  be- 
lieve that  he  who  says  there  is  iiotJting 
good  in  him,  no  foundation,  no  feeling  of 
goodness,  says  what  is  not  true,  what  is 
not  just  to  himself,  what  is  not  just  to 
his  Maker's  beneficence. 

I  will  refer  now  to  those  moral  traits, 
to  those  involuntary  moral  impressions, 
of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 

Instances  of  this  nature  might  un- 
doubtedly be  drawn  from  every  depart- 
ment of  social  life  :  from  social  kindness, 
from  friendship,  from  parental  and  filial 
love,  from  the  feelings  of  spontaneous 
generosity,  pity,  and  admiration,  which 
every  day  kindles  into  life  and  warmth 
around  us.  But  since  these  feelings 
are  often  alleged  to  be  of  a  doubtful 
character,  and  are  so,  indeed,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent ;  since  they  are  often  mixed 
up  with  interested  considerations  which 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


II 


lessen  their  weight  in  this  argument,  I 
am  about  to  appeal  to  cases  which, 
though  they  are  not  often  brought  into 
the  pulpit,  will  appear  to  you,  I  trust,  to 
be  excused,  if  not  justified,  by  the  cir- 
cumstance that  they  are  altogether  ap- 
posite cases  ;  cases,  that  is  to  say,  of 
disinterested  feeling. 

The  world  is    inundated   in  this  age 
with  a  perfect  deluge  of  fictitious  pro- 
ductions.    I  look,  indeed,  upon  the  ex- 
clusive reading  of  such  works,  in  which 
too  many  employ  their  leisure  time,  as 
having  a  very  bad  and  dangerous  ten- 
dency :  but  this  is  not  to  my  purpose  at 
present.     I  only  refer  now  to  the  well- 
known   extent    and    fascination    of   this 
kind  of  reading,  for  the  purpose  of  put- 
ting a  single  question.     I  ask,  What  is 
the  moral    character   of  these   produc- 
tions ?      Not   high    enough,    certainly  ; 
but  then  I  ask,  still    more    specifically, 
whether  the  preference  is  given  to  vir- 
tue or  to  vice  in  these  books  ;  and  to 
which  of  them  the  feelings  of  the  reader 
generally  lean  ?     Can  there  be  one  mo- 
ment's  doubt?     Is    not   virtue    usually 
held  up  to  admiration,  and  are  not  the 
feelings  universally  enlisted    in  its   fa- 
vor ?     Must    not   the   character   of  the 
leading  personage  in  the  story,  to  satisfy 
the  public  taste,  be  good,  and  is  not  his 
career  pursued  with  intense  interest  to 
the  end?     Now  reverse  the  case.     Sup- 
pose his  character  to  be  bad.     Suppose 
him  ungenerous,  avaricious,  sensual,  de- 
based.    Would   he    then    be   admired  ? 
Would    he    then  enlist  the  sympathies 
even  of  the  most  frivolous  reader  ?     It 
is  unnecessary  to  answer  the  question. 
Here,  then,  is  a  right  and  virtuous  feel- 
ing at  work  in  the  world  ;  and  it  is  a 
perfectly   disinterested    feeling.     Here, 
1    say,    is    a   right   and    virtuous    feel- 
ing beating  through  the  whole  heart  of 
society.     Why  should  any  one  say  it  is 
not   a   feeling ;    that    it    is  conscience  ; 
that  it  is  mere    approbation  !     It   ts   a 
feeling,  if  anything  is.    There  is  intense 
interest,    there  are  tears,  to  testify  that 
it  is  a  feeling. 

If,  then,  I   put  such   a  book  into  the 


hands  of  any  reader,  and  if  he  feels  thus, 
let  him  not  tell  me  that  there  is  nothing 
good  in  him.  There  may  not  be  good- 
ness, fixed,  habitual  goodness  in  him  ; 
but  there  is  something  good,  out  of 
which  goodness  may  grow. 

Of  the  same  character  are  the  most 
favorite    popular    songs     and     ballads. 
The  chosen  themes  of  these  composi- 
tions   are    patriotism,    generosity,   pity, 
love.     Now   it   is  known   that   nothing 
sinks  more  deeply  into  the  heart  of  na- 
tions ;  and  yet  these  are  their  themes. 
Let  me   make  the  ballads  of  a  people, 
some  one  has  said,  and   let   who   will, 
make  their  laws  ;  and  yet  he  must  con- 
struct  them    on    these   principles ;    he 
must  compose  them  in  praise  of  patriot- 
ism, honor,  fidelity,  generous  sympathy, 
and  pure  love.     I  say  pure  love.     Let 
the  passion  be  made  a  base  one,  let  it 
be    capricious,    mercenary,    or   sensual, 
and  it  instantly  loses  the  pubhc  sympa- 
thy :  the  song  would  be  instantly  hissed 
from  the  stage  of  the  vilest  theatre  that 
ever  was  opened.     No,  it  must  be  true- 
hearted  affection,  holding  its  faith  and 
fealty  bright  and  unsoiled  amidst  change 
of  fortunes,  amidst  poverty,  and  disaster, 
and    separation,    and    reproach.       The 
popular  taste  will  hardly  allow  the  affec- 
tion to  be  as  prudent  as  it  ought  to  be. 
And  when  I  listen  to  one  of  these  popu- 
lar ballads  or  songs  that  tells,  —  it  may 
be  not  in  the  best  taste,  —  but  which 
tells  the  thrilling  tale  of  high,  disinter- 
ested, magnanimous  fidelity  to  the  sen- 
timents of  the  heart;  that  tells  of  pure 
and   faithful   affection,    which    no   cold 
looks  can  chill,  which  no  storms  of  mis- 
fortune can  quench,  which  prefers  sim- 
ple merit  to  all  worldly  splendor,  —  when 
I  observe  this,  I  sa}',  I  see  a  noble  feel- 
ing at  work ;  and  that  which  many  will 
pronounce  to  be  silly,  through  a  certain 
shamefacedness  about  their  own  sensi- 
bility, I  regard  as  respectable,  and  hon- 
orable to  human  nature. 

Now  I  say  again,  as  I  said  before, 
let  these  popular  compositions  set  forth 
the  beauties  of  vice;  let  them  celebrate 
meaimess,  parsimony,  fraud,  or  coward- 


12 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


ice,  and  would  they  dwell,  as  they  now 
do,  in  the  habitations,  and  in  the  hearts, 
and  upon  the  lips,  of  whole  nations  ? 
What  a  disinterested  testimony  is  this 
to  the  charms  of  virtue  !  What  evidence 
that  men  feel  those  charms,  though  they 
may  not  be  won  by  them  to  virtuous 
lives  !  The  national  songs  of  a  people 
do  not  embrace  cold  sentiments  ;  they 
are  not  sung  or  heard  with  cold  appro- 
bation. They  fire  the  breasts  of  mil- 
lions. They  draw  tears  from  the  eyes 
of  ten  tliousand  listening  throngs  that 
are  gathered  in  the  homes  of  human 
affection. 

And  the  power  of  music,  too,  as  a 
separate  thing,  lies  very  much,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  in  the  sentiments  and 
affections  it  awakens.  There  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  the  ear,  doubtless  ;  but  there  is  a 
pleasure  also  to  the  heart,  and  this  is 
the  greater  pleasure.  But  what  kind  of 
pleasure  is  it  ?  Does  that  melody  which 
addresses  the  universal  mind  appeal  to 
vile  and  base  passions  ?  Is  not  the 
state  into  which  it  naturally  throws  al- 
most every  mind  favorable  to  gentle 
and  kind  emotions,  to  lofty  efforts  and 
heroic  sacrifices  ?  But  if  the  human 
heart  possessed  no  high  nor  holy  feel- 
ings, if  it  were  entirely  alien  to  them, 
then  the  music  which  excites  them 
should  excite  them  to  voluptuousness, 
cruelty,  strife,  fraud,  avarice,  and  to  all 
the  mean  aims  and  indulgences  of  a 
selfish  disposition. 

Let  not  these  illustrations,  —  wliich 
are  adopted,  to  be  sure,  partly  because 
they  are  fitted  to  unfold  a  moral  char- 
acter where  no  credit  has  usually  been 
given  for  it,  and  because,  too,  they  pre- 
sent at  once  universal  and  disinterested 
manifestations  of  human  feeling, —  let 
not  these  illustrations,  I  say,  be  thought 
to  furnish  an  unsatisfactory  inference, 
because  they  are  drawn  from  the  lighter 
actions  of  the  human  mind.  The  feel- 
ing in  all  these  cases  is  not  superficial 
nor  feeble  ;  and  the  slighter  the  occa- 
sion that  awakens  it,  the  stronger  is  our 
argument.  If  the  leisure  and  recrea- 
tions of  men  yield  such  evidence  of  deep 


moral  feeling,  what  are  they  not  capable 
of,  when  armed  with  lofty  purposes  and 
engaged  in  high  duties.^  If  the  instru- 
ment yields  such  noble  strains,  though 
incoherent  and  intermitted,  to  the  slight- 
est touch,  what  might  not  be  done,  if 
the  hand  of  skill  were  laid  upon  it,  to 
bring  out  all  its  sublime  harmonies  ? 
Oh  that  some  powerful  voice  might 
speak  to  this  inward  nature,  —  powerful 
as  the  story  of  heroic  deeds,  moving  as 
the  voice  of  song,  arousing  as  the  trum- 
pet-call to  honor  and  victory  I  My 
friends,  if  we  are  among  those  who  are 
pursuing  the  sinful  way,  let  us  be  as- 
sured that  we  know  not  ourselves  yet  ; 
we  have  not  searched  the  depths  of  our 
nature  ;  we  have  not  communed  with  its 
deepest  wants  ;  we  have  not  listened  to 
its  strongest  and  highest  affections  ;  if 
we  had  done  all  this,  we  could  not  abuse 
it  as  we  do,  nor  could  we  neglect  it  as 
we  do. 

But  it  is  time  to  pass  from  these  in- 
stances of  spontaneous  and  universal 
feeling  to  those  cases  in  which  such 
feeling,  instead  of  being  occasional  and 
evanescent,  is  formed  into  a  prevailing 
habit  and  a  consistent  and  fixed  char- 
acter ;  to  pass  from  good  affections, 
transient,  uncertain,  and  unworthily  neg- 
lected, to  good  men,  who  are  perma- 
nently such,  and  worthy  to  be  called 
such.  Our  argument  from  this  source 
is  more  confined,  but  it  gains  strength 
by  its  compression  within  a  narrower 
compass. 

I  shall  not  be  expected  here  to  occupy 
the  time  with  asserting  or  proving  that 
there  are  good  men  in  the  world.  It 
will  be  more  important  to  reply  to  a 
single  objection  under  this  head,  which 
would  be  fatal  if  it  were  just,  and  to 
point  to  some  characteristics  of  human 
virtue  which  prove  its  great  and  real 
worth.  Let  me  however  for  a  moment 
indulge  myself  in  the  simple  assertion 
of  what  every  mind,  not  entirely  misan- 
thropic, must  feel  to  be  true.  I  say, 
then,  that  there  are  good  men  in  the 
world  ;  there  are  good  men  everywhere. 
There  are  men  who  are  good  for  good- 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


13 


ness'  sake.  In  obscurity,  in  retirement, 
beneath  the  shadow  o£  ten  thousand 
dwell! n2;s,  scarcely  known  to  the  world 
and  never  asking  to  be  known,  there  are 
good  men.  In  adversity,  in  poverty, 
amidst  temptations,  amidst  all  the  sever- 
ity of  earthly  trials,  there  are  good  men, 
whose  lives  shed  brightness  upon  the 
dark  clouds  that  surround  them.  Be  it 
true,  if  we  must  admit  the  sad  truth, 
that  many  are  wrong,  and  persist  in 
being  wrong  ;  that  many  are  false  to 
every  holy  trust,  and  faithless  towards 
every  holy  affection  ;  that  many  are 
estranged  from  infinite  goodness  ;  that 
many  are  coldly  selfish  and  meanly  sen- 
sual,—  yes,  cold  and  dead  to  everything 
that  is  not  wrapped  up  in  their  own  little 
earthly  interest,  or  more  darkly  wrapped 
up  in  the  veil  of  fleshly  appetites.  Be 
it  so  ;  but  1  thank  God,  that  is  not  all 
that  we  are  obliged  to  believe.  No, 
there  are  true  hearts,  amidst  the  throng 
of  the  false  and  the  faithless.  There 
are  warm  and  generous  hearts,  which 
the  cold  atmosphere  of  surrounding  self- 
ishness never  chills  ;  and  eyes,  unused 
to  weep  for  personal  sorrow,  which 
often  overflow  with  sympathy  for  the 
sorrows  of  others.  Yes,  there  are  good 
men,  and  true  men  ;  I  thank  them  ;  I 
bless  them  for  what  they  are  :  I  thank 
them  for  what  they  are  to  me.  What 
do  I  say  — why  do  I  utter  my  weak 
benediction.''  God  from  on  high  doth 
bless  them,  and  he  giveth  his  angels 
charge  to  keep  them  ;  and  nowhere  in 
the  holy  Record  are  there  words  more 
precious  or  strong  than  those  in  which 
it  is  written  that  God  loveth  these  right- 
eous ones.  Such  men  are  there.  Let 
not  their  precious  virtues  be  distrusted. 
As  surely  and  as  evidently  as  some  men 
have  obeyed  the  calls  of  ambition  and 
pleasure,  so  surely,  and  so  evidently, 
have  other  men  obeyed  tlie  voice  of 
conscience,  and  "  chosen  rather  to  suf- 
fer with  the  people  of  God  than  to  en- 
joy the  pleasures  of  sin  for  a  season." 
Why,  every  meek  man  suffers  in  a  con- 
flict keener  far  than  the  contest  for 
honor   and   applause.      And    there    are 


such  men,  who  amidst  injury,  and  insult, 
and  misconstruction,  and  the  pointed 
finger,  and  the  scornful  lip  of  pride, 
stand  firm  in  their  integrity  and  alle- 
giance to  a  loftier  principle,  and  still 
their  throbbing  hearts  in  prayer,  and 
hush  them  to  the  gentle  motions  of  kind- 
ness and  pity.  Such  witnesses  there 
are,  even  in  this  bad  world  ;  signs  that  a 
redeeming  work  is  going  forward  amidst 
its  mournful  derelictions ;  proofs  that 
it  is  not  a  world  forsaken  of  Heaven  ; 
pledges  that  it  will  not  be  forsaken  ; 
tokens  that  cheer  and  touch  every  good 
and  thoughtful  mind,  beyond  all  other 
power  of  earth  to  penetrate  and  enkin- 
dle it. 

I  believe  that  what  I  have  now  said 
is  a  most  legitimate  argument  for  the 
worth  of  human  nature.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  will  not  be  denied  that  such 
beings  as  I  have  represented,  there  are. 
And  I  now  further  maintain,  and  this 
is  the  most  material  point  in  the  argu- 
ment, that  such  men  —  that  good  men,  in 
other  words  —  are  to  be  regarded  as  the 
rightful  and  legitimate  representatives 
of  human  nature.  Surely,  not  man's 
vices  but  his  virtues,  not  his  failure  but 
his  success,  should  teach  us  what  to 
think  of  his  nature.  Just  as  we  should 
look,  for  their  real  character,  to  the  pro- 
ductions nourished  by  a  favorable  soil 
and  climate,  and  not  to  the  same  plants 
or  trees  as  they  stand  withered  and 
stunted  in  a  barren  desert. 

But  here  we  are  met  with  the  objec- 
tion before  referred  to.  It  is  said  that 
man's  virtues  come  from  God,  and  his 
sins  only  from  his  own  nature.  And 
thus,  —  for  this  is  the  result  of  the  ob- 
jection,—  from  the  estimate  of  what  is 
human,  all  human  excellence  is  at  once 
cut  off  by  this  fine  discrimination  of 
theological  subtilty.  Unreasonable  as 
this  seems  to  me,  if  the  objector  will 
forget  his  theology  for  one  moment,  I 
will  answer  it.  I  say,  then,  that  the 
influence  of  the  good  spirit  of  God  does 
not  destroy  our  natural  powers,  but 
guides  them  into  a  right  direction  ;  that 
it  does  not   create  anything    unnatural 


14 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


surely,  nor  supernatural  in  man,  but 
what  is  suitable  to  his  nature  ;  that,  in 
fine,  his  virtues  are  as  truly  the  volun- 
tary putting  forth  of  his  native  powers 
as  his  vices  are.  Else  would  his  virtues 
have  no  worth.  Human  nature,  in  short, 
is  the  noble  stock  on  which  these  vir- 
tues grow.  With  heaven's  rain,  and 
sunshine,  and  genial  influence,  do  you 
say  ?  Be  it  so  ;  still  they  are  no  less 
human,  and  show  the  stock  from  which 
they  spring.  When  you  look  over  a 
grain-field,  and  see  some  parts  more 
luxuriant  than  others,  do  you  say  that 
they  are  of  a  different  nature  from  the 
rest  ?  And  when  you  look  abroad  upon 
the  world,  do  you  think  it  right  to  take 
Tartars  and  Hottentots  as  specimens 
of  the  race.''  And  why  then  shall  you 
regard  the  worst  of  men,  rather  than  the 
best,  as  samples  of  human  nature  and 
capability  ? 

The  way,  then,  is  open  for  us  to  claim 
for  human  nature,  however  that  nature 
is  breathed  upon  by  heavenly  influences, 
all  the  excellent  fruits  that  have  sprung 
from  it.  And  they  are  not  few  ;  they  are 
not  small  ;  they  are  not  contemptible. 
They  have  cost  too  much,  if  there  were 
no  other  consideration  to  give  them 
value,  —  they  have  cost  too  much  to  be 
thus  estimated. 

The  true  idea  of  human  nature  is  not 
that  it  passively  and  spontaneously  pro- 
duces its  destined  results  ;  but  that, 
placed  in  a  fearful  contest  between  good 
and  evil,  it  is  capable  of  glorious  exertions 
and  attainments.  Human  virtue  is  the 
result  of  effort  and  patience  in  circum- 
stances that  most  severely  try  it.  Hu- 
man excellence  is  much  of  it  gained 
at  the  expense  of  self-denial.  All  the 
wisdom  and  worth  in  the  world  are  a 
struggle  with  ignorance  and  infirmity 
and  temptation  ;  often  with  sickness  and 
pain.  There  is  not  an  admirable  char- 
acter presented  before  you,  but  it  has 
cost  years  and  years  of  toil  and  watch- 
ing and  self-government  to  form  it.  You 
see  the  victor,  but  you  forget  the  battle. 
And  you  forget  it,  for  a  reason  that 
exalts    and  ennobles  the  fortitude  and 


courage  of  the  combatant.  You  forget 
it  because  the  conflict  has  been  carried 
on,  all  silently,  in  his  own  bosom.  You 
forget  it,  because  no  sound  has  gone 
forth,  and  no  wreath  of  fame  has  awaited 
the  conqueror. 

And  what  has  he  gained  ?  —  to  refer 
to  but  one  more  of  the  views  that  might 
be  urged,  what  has  he  gained  ?  I  answer, 
what  is  worth  too  much  to  be  slightly 
estimated.  The  catalogue  of  human 
virtues  is  not  brief  nor  dull.  What 
glowing  words  do  we  involuntarily  put 
into  that  record !  with  what  feelings  do 
we  hallow  it  !  The  charm  of  youthful 
excellence,  the  strong  integrity  of  man- 
hood, the  venerable  piety  of  age  ;  unsul- 
lied honor,  unswerving  truth  ;  fidelity, 
magnanimity,  self-sacrifice,  martyrdom  ; 
ay,  and  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  in  many 
a  form  of  virtue  ;  sacred  friendship,  with 
its  disinterested  toil,  ready  to  die  for 
those  it  loves  ;  noble  patriotism,  slain  in 
its  high  places,  beautiful  in  death  ;  holy 
philanthropy,  that  pours  out  its  treasure 
and  its  life  !  dear  and  blessed  virtues  of 
humanity  !  (we  are  ready  to  exclaim) 
what  human  heart  does  not  cherish  you  ? 
Bright  cloud  that  hath  passed  on  with 
"  the  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect  " 
through  ages,  —  how  dark  and  deso- 
late, but  for  you,  would  be  this  world's 
history  ! 

My  friends,  I  have  spoken  of  the  real- 
ity and  worth  of  virtue,  and  I  have  spok- 
en of  it  as  a  part  of  human  nature,  not 
surely  to  awaken  a  feeling  of  pride,  but 
to  lead  you  and  myself  to  an  earnest 
aspiration  after  that  excellence  which 
embraces  the  chief  welfare  and  glory  of 
our  nature.  A  cold  disdain  of  our  spe- 
cies, an  indulgence  of  sarcasm,  a  feeling 
that  is  always  ready  to  distrust  and  dis- 
parage every  indication  of  virtuous  prin- 
ciple, or  an  utter  despair  of  the  moral 
fortunes  of  our  race,  will  not  help  the 
purpose  in  view,  but  must  have  a  power- 
ful tendency  to  hinder  its  accomplish- 
ment. 

Unhappy  is  it  that  any  are  left,  by 
any  possibility,  to  doubt  the  virtues  of 
their  kind  !    Let  us  do  something  to  wipe 


THE    WRONG    WHICH    SIN    DOES    IT. 


15 


away  from  the  history  of  human  life  that 
fatal  reproach.  Let  us  make  that  best 
of  contributions  to  the  stock  of  human 
happiness,  an  example  of  goodness  that 
shall  disarm  such  gloomy  and  chilling 
scepticism  and  win  men's  hearts  to 
virtue.  I  have  received  many  benefits 
from  my  fellow-beings.  But  no  gift,  in 
their  power  to  bestow,  can  ever  impart 
such  a  pure  and  thrilling  delight  as  one 
bright  action,  one  lovely  virtue,  one  char- 
acter that  shines  with  all  the  enraptur- 
ing beauty  of  goodness. 

Who  would  not  desire  to  confer  such 
benefits  on  the  world  as  these  ?  Who 
would  not  desire  to  leave  such  memorials 
behind  him  ?  Such  memorials  have  been 
left  on  earth.  The  virtues  of  the  de- 
parted, but  forever  dear,  hallow  and 
bless  many  of  our  dwellings,  and  call 
forth  tears  that  lose  half  of  their  bitter- 
ness in  gratitude  and  admiration.  Yes, 
there  are  such  legacies,  and  there  are 
those  on  earth  who  have  inherited  them. 
Yes,  there  are  men,  poor  men,  whose 
parents  have  left  them  a  legacy  in  their 
bare  memory,  that  they  would  not  ex- 
change—  no,  they  would  not  exchange 
it  for  boundless  wealth.  Let  it  be  our 
care  to  bequeath  to  society  and  to  the 
world  blessings  like  these.  "  The  me- 
morial of  virtue,"  saith  the  wisdom  of 
Solomon,  "is  immortal.  When  it  is 
present,  men  take  example  from  it ;  and 
when  it  is  gone,  they  desire  it ;  it  wear- 
eth  a  crown,  and  triumpheth  forever." 


III. 


ON  THE  WRONG  WHICH  SIN  DOES 
TO  HUMAN  NATURE. 

Proverbs  viii.  36 :  "  He  that  siiineth  against  me 
wroiigeth  his  own  soul." 

This  is  represented  as  the  language 
of  wisdom.  The  attribute  of  wisdom  is 
personified  throughout  the  chapter,  and 
it  closes  its  instructions  with  the  decla- 
ration of  our  text:  "  He  that  sinneth 
against  me  wrongeth  his  own  soul." 
The  theme,  then,  which  in  these  words 


is  obviously  presented  for  our  medita- 
tion, is  the  wrong  which  the  sinner  does 
to  himself,  to  his  nature,  to  his  own 
soul. 

He  does  a  wrong,  indeed,  to  others. 
He  does  them,  it  may  be,  deep  and 
heinous  injury.  The  moral  offender  in- 
jures society,  and  injures  it  in  the  most 
vital  part.  Sin  is,  to  all  the  dearest  in- 
terests of  society,  a  desolating  power. 
It  spreads  misery  through  the  world. 
It  brings  that  misery  into  the  daily  lot 
of  millions.  The  violence  of  anger,  the 
exactions  of  selfishness,  the  corrodings 
of  envy,  the  coldness  of  distrust,  the 
contests  of  pride,  the  excesses  of  pas- 
sion, the  indulgences  of  sense,  carry 
desolation  into  the  very  bosom  of  domes- 
tic life;  and  the  crushed  and  bleeding 
hearts  of  friends  and  kindred,  or  of  a 
larger  circle  of  the  suffering  and  op- 
pressed, are  everywhere  witnesses  at 
once,  and  victims  to  the  mournful  pres- 
ence of  this  great  evil. 

But  all  the  injury,  great  and  terrible 
as  it  is,  which  the  sinner  does  or  can  in- 
flict upon  others  is  not  equal  to  the  in- 
jury that  he  inflicts  upon  himself.  The 
evil  that  he  does,  is,  in  almost  all  cases, 
•the  greater,  the  nearer  it  comes  to  him- 
self ;  greater  to  his  friends  than  to  soci- 
ety at  large;  greater  to  his  family  than 
to  his  friends;  and  so  it  is  greater  to 
himself  than  it  is  to  any  other.  Yes,  it 
is  in  his  own  nature,  whose  glorious 
traits  are  dimmed  and  almost  blotted 
out,  whose  pleading  remonstrances  are 
sternly  disregarded,  whose  immortal 
hopes  are  rudely  stricken  down,  —  it  is  in 
his  own  nature  that  he  does  a  work  so 
dark  and  mournful,  and  so  fearful,  that 
he  ought  to  shudder  and  weep  to  think 
of  it.  ^ 

Does  any  one  say  he  is  glad  that  it 
is  so  :  glad  that  it  is  himself  he  injures 
most  ?  What  a  feeling,  my  brethren, 
of  disinterested  justice  is  that !  How 
truly  may  it  be  said  that  there  is  some- 
thing good  in  bad  men.  Doubtless 
there  are  those  who  in  their  remorse  at 
an  evil  deed  would  be  glad  if  all  the  in- 
jury and  suffering  could  be  their  own. 


\6 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


I  rejoice  in  that  testimony.  But  does 
that  feeling  make  it  any  less  true,  — 
does  not  that  feeling  make  it  more  true, 
that  such  a  nature  is  wronged  by  base 
and  selfish  passions  ?  Or,  because  it  is 
a  man's  self,  because  it  is  his  own  soul 
that  he  has  most  injured,  because  he 
has  not  only  wronged  others  but  ruined 
himself,  is  his  course  any  the  less  guilt}', 
or  unhappy,  or  unnatural  .'' 

I  say  unnatural;  and  this  is  a  point 
on  which  I  wish  to  insist,  in  the  consid- 
eration of  that  wrong  which  the  moral 
offender  does  to  himself.  The  sinner, 
I  say,  is  to  be  pronounced  an  unnatural 
being.  He  has  cast  ofF  the  government 
of  those  powers  of  his  nature  which,  as 
being  the  loftiest,  have  the  best  right  to 
reign  over  him,  the  government,  that  is 
to  say,  of  his  intellectual  and  moral  fac- 
ulties, and  has  yielded  himself  to  mean- 
er appetites.  Those  meaner  appetites, 
though  tliey  belong  to  his  nature,  have 
no  right,  and  he  knows  they  have  no 
right,  to  govern  him.  The  rightful  au- 
thority, the  lawful  sovereignty,  belongs, 
and  he  knows  that  it  belongs,  not  to 
sense,  but  to  conscience.  To  rebel 
against  this  is  to  sin  against  nature.  It 
is  to  rebel  against  nature's  order.  It  is< 
to  rebel  against  the  government  that 
God  has  set  up  within  him.  It  is  to 
obey,  not  venerable  authorit}',  but  the 
faction  which  his  passions  have  made 
Avithin  him. 

Thus  violence  and  misrule  are  always 
the  part  of  transgression.  Nay,  every 
sin, —  I  do  not  mean  now  the  natural 
and  unavoidable  imperfection  of  a  weak 
and  ignorant  being,  —  but  every  wilful 
moral  offence  is  a  monstrous  excess  and 
excrescence  in  the  mind,  a  hideous  de- 
formity, a  loathsome  disease,  a  destruc- 
tion, so  far  as  it  goes,  of  the  purposes 
for  which  our  nature  was  made.  As 
well  might  you  say  of  the  diseased  plant 
or  tree,  whicli  is  wasting  all  its  vigor 
on  the  growth  of  one  huge  and  unsightly 
deformity,  that  it  is  in  a  natural  condi- 
tion. Grant  that  the  natural  powers  of 
the  plant  or  tree  are  converted,  or  rath- 
er perverted,  to  this  misuse,  and  help 


to  produce  this  deformity  ;  yet  the  de- 
formity is  not  natural.  Grant  that  evil 
is  the  possible,  or  supposable,  or  that  it 
is  the  actual,  nay,  and  in  this  world  the 
common,  result  of  moral  freedom.  But 
it  is  evidently  not  the  just  and  legiti- 
mate result ;  it  is  not  the  fair  and  natu- 
ral result  ;  it  violates  all  moral  powers 
and  responsibilities.  If  the  mechanism 
of  a  vast  manufactory  were  thrown  into 
sudden  disorder,  the  power  which  pro- 
pels it  might,  indeed,  spread  destruction 
throughout  the  whole  work  ;  but  would 
that  be  the  natural  course  of  things,  the 
result  for  which  the  fabric  was  made  ? 
So  passion,  not  in  its  natural  state,  but 
still  natural  passion  in  its  unnatural 
state  of  excess  and  fury,  may  spread 
disorder  and  destruction  through  the 
moral  system  ;  but  wreck  and  ruin  are 
not  the  proper  order  of  any  nature, 
whether  material  or  moral. 

The  idea  against  which  I  am  now  con- 
tending, that  evil  is  natural  to  us,  and, 
in  fact,  that  nothing  else  is  natural,  — 
this  popular  and  prevailing  idea  is  one, 
it  seems  to  me,  so  fearful  and  fatal  in 
its  bearings,  is  one  of  such  compre- 
hensive and  radical  mischief,  as  to  in- 
fect the  religious  state  of  all  mankind, 
and  to  overshadow,  almost  with  despair, 
the  moral  prospects  of  the  world.  There 
is  no  error,  theological  or  moral,  that 
appears  to  me  so  destructive  as  this. 
There  is  nothing  that  lies  so  near  the 
very  basis  of  all  moral  reform  and  spir- 
itual improvement  as  this. 

If  it  were  a  matter  of  mere  doctrine, 
it  would  be  of  less  consequence.  But 
it  is  a  matter  of  habitual  feeling,  I  fear, 
and  of  deep-settled  opinion.  The  world, 
alas  !  is  not  only  in  the  sad  and  awful 
condition  of  being  filled  with  evil,  and 
filled  with  misery  in  consequence,  but 
of  thinking  that  this  is  the  natural  order 
of  things.  Sin  is  a  thing  of  course  ;  it 
is  taken  for  granted  that  it  must  exist 
very  much  in  the  way  that  it  does,  and 
men  are  everywhere  easy  about  it;  they 
are  everywhere  sinking  into  worldliness 
and  vice  as  if  they  were  acting  out  the 
principles   of  their   moral    constitution, 


THE   WRONG    WHICH    SIN   DOES   IT. 


17 


and  almost  as  if  they  were  fulfilling  the 
will  of  God.  And  thus  it  comes  to 
piss  that  that  which  should  fill  the 
world  with  grief  and  astonishment  and 
horror  beyond  all  things  else  most  hor- 
rible and  lamentable  is  regarded  with 
perfect  apathy  as  a  thing  natural  and 
necessary.  Why,  my  bretliren,  if  but 
tlie  animal  creation  were  found,  on  a 
sudden,  disobedient  to  the  principles  of 
their  nature;  if  they  were  ceasing  to 
regard  the  guiding  instincts  with  which 
they  are  endowed,  and  were  rushing 
into  universal  madness,  the  whole  world 
would  stand  aghast  at  the  spectacle. 
But  multitudes  in  the  rational  creation 
disobey  a  higher  law  and  forsake  a 
more  sacred  guidance  ;  they  degrade 
themselves  below  the  beasts,  or  make 
themselves  as  entirely  creatures  of  this 
world  ;  they  plunge  into  excess  and 
profligacy;  they  bow  down  divine  and 
immortal  faculties  to  the  basest  uses  ; 
and  there  is  no  wonder,  there  is  no  hor- 
ror, there  is  no  consciousness  of  the 
wrong  done  to  themselves.  They  say, 
'■  It  is  the  natural  course  of  things,"  as 
if  th^y  had  solved  the  whole  problem  of 
moral  evil.  They  say,  "It  is  the  way  of 
the  world,"  almost  as  if  they  thought  it 
was  the  order  of  Providence.  They  say, 
"It  is  what  men  are,"  almost  as  if  they 
thought  it  was  what  men  were  designed 
to  be.  And  thus  ends  their  comment, 
and  with  it  all  reasonable  endeavor  to 
make  themselves  better  and  happier. 

If  this  state  of  prevailing  opinion  be 
as  certainly  erroneous  as  it  is  evidently 
dangerous,  it  is  of  the  last  importance 
that  every  resistance,  however  feeble, 
should  be  offered  to  its  fatal  tendencies. 
Let  us  therefore  consider,  a  little  more 
in  detail,  the  wrong  which  sin  does  to 
human  nature.  I  say,  then,  that  it  does 
a  wrong  to  every  natural  faculty  and 
power  of  the  mind. 

Sin  does  a  wrong  to  reason.  Tliere 
are  instances,  and  not  a  few,  in  which  it 
absolutely  destroys  reason.  There  are 
other  and  more  numerous  cases  in  which 
it  employs  that  faculty,  but  employs  it 
in  a  toil  most  deerradins:  to  its  nature. 


There  is  reasoning,  indeed,  in  the  mind 
of  a  miser  ;  the  solemn  arithmetic  of 
profit  and  loss.  There  is  reasoning  in  tlie 
schemes  of  unscrupulous  ambition  ;  the 
absorbing  and  agitating  intrigue  for  office 
or  honor.  There  is  reasoning  upon 
the  modes  of  sensual  pleasure  ;  and  the 
whole  power  of  a  very  acute  mind  is 
sometimes  employed  and  absorbed  in 
plans  and  projects  and  imagination*  of 
evil  indulgence.  But  what  an  unnatural 
desecration  is  it  for  reason,  sovereign, 
majestic,  all-comprehending  reason,  to 
contract  its  boundless  range  to  the 
measure  of  what  the  hand  can  grasp  ;  to 
be  sunk  so  low  as  to  idolize  outward  or 
sensitive  good  ;  to  make  its  god,  not  in- 
deed of  wood  or  stone,  but  of  a  sense 
or  a  nerve  !  What  a  prostration  of  im- 
mortal reason  is  it,  to  bend  its  whole 
power  to  the  poor  and  pitiful  uses  which 
sinful  indulgence  demands  of  it ! 

Sin  is  a  kind  of  insanity.  So  far  as  it 
goes,  it  makes  man  an  irrational  crea- 
ture :  it  makes  him  a  fool.  The  consum- 
mation of  evil  is  ever,  and  in  every  form, 
the  extreme  of  folly  ;  and  it  is  that  most 
pitiable  folly  which  is  puffed  up  with 
arrogance  and  self-sufficiency.  Sin  de- 
grades, it  impoverishes,  it  beggars  the 
soul ;  and  yet  the  soul  in  this  very  con- 
dition blesses  itself  in  its  superior  en- 
dowments and  happy  fortune.  Yes, 
every  sinner  is  a  beggar  as  truly  as  the 
most  needy  and  desperate  mendicant. 
He  begs  for  a  precarious  happiness ;  he 
begs  it  of  his  possessions  or  his  coffers, 
that  cannot  give  it  ;  he  begs  it  of  every 
passing  trifle  and  pleasure  ;  he  begs  it  of 
things  most  empty  and  uncertain,  —  of 
every  vanity,  of  every  shout  of  praise  in 
the  vacant  air  ;  of  every  wandering  eye 
he  begs  its  homage :  he  wants  these 
things,  he  wants  them  for  happiness  ;  he 
wants  them  to  satisfy  the  craving  soul  ; 
and  yet  he  imagines  that  he  is  very  for- 
tunate ;  he  accounts  himself  wise,  or 
great,  or  honorable,  or  rich,  increased 
in  goods,  and  in  need  of  nothing.  The 
infatuation  of  the  inebriate  man,  who  is 
elated  and  gay  just  when  he  ought  to 
be  most  depressed  and  sad,  we  very  well 


i8 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


understand.  But  it  is  just  as  true  of 
every  man  that  is  intoxicated  by  any  of 
liis  senses  or  passions,  by  wealth,  or 
honor,  or  pleasure,  that  he  is  infatuated  ; 
that  he  has  abjured  reason. 

What  clearer  dictate  of  reason  is  there 
than  to  prefer  the  greater  good  to  the 
lesser  good  ?  But  every  offender,  every 
sensualist,  every  avaricious  man,  sacri- 
fices the  greater  good,  the  happiness  of 
virtue  and  piety,  for  the  lesser  good, 
wiiich  he  finds  in  his  senses  or  in  the 
perishing  world.  Nor  is  this  the  strong- 
est view  of  the  case.  He  sacrifices  the 
greater  for  the  less  without  any  neces- 
sity for  it.  He  might  have  both.  He 
gives  up  heaven  for  earth,  when  in  the 
best  sense  he  might,  I  repeat,  have 
both.  A  pure  mind  can  derive  more  en- 
joyment from  this  world,  and  from  the 
senses,  than  an  impure  mind.  This  is 
true  even  of  the  lowest  senses.  But 
there  are  other  senses  besides  these  ; 
and  the  pleasures  of  the  epicure  are  far 
from  equalling  even  in  intensity  those 
wliich  piety  draws  from  the  glories  of 
vision  and  the  melodies  of  sound,  min- 
isters as  they  are  of  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings that  swell  far  beyond  the  measure 
of  all  worldly  joy. 

The  love  of  happiness  might  properly 
be  treated  as  a  separate  part  of  our 
nature,  and  I  had  intended,  indeed,  to 
speak  of  it  distinctly  ;  to  speak  of  the 
meagre  and  miserable  provision  which 
unholy  gratification  makes  for  it  ;  and 
yet  more  of  the  cruel  wrong  which  is 
done  to  this  eager  and  craving  love  of 
happiness.  But  as  I  have  fallen  on  this 
topic,  and  find  the  space  that  belongs  to 
me  diminishing,  I  must  content  myself 
with  a  single  suggestion. 

What  bad  man  ever  desired  that  his 
child  should  be  like  himself?  Vice  is 
said  to  wear  an  alluring  aspect  ;  and 
many  a  heedless  youth,  alas  !  rushes  into 
its  embraces  for  happiness  ;  but  what 
vicious  man,  what  corrupt  and  dissolute 
man,  ever  desired  that  his  child  should 
walk  in  his  steps?  And  what  a  testi- 
mony is  this,  what  a  clear  and  disinter- 
ested testimony,  to  the  unhappiness  of  a 


sinful  course  !  Yes,  it  is  the  bad  man 
that  often  feels  an  interest  about  the  vir- 
tue of  others,  beyond  all,  perhaps,  that 
good  men  feel,  —  feels  an  intensity,  an 
agony  of  desire  for  his  children,  tha': 
they  may  be  brought  up  virtuously  ;  that 
they  may  never,  never  be  such  as  he  is  ! 

How  truly,  and  with  what  striking 
emphasis,  did  the  venerable  Cranmer 
reply,  wlien  told  that  a  certain  man  had 
cheated  him,  "  No,  he  has  cheated  him- 
self." Every  bad  man,  every  dishonest 
man,  every  corrupt  man,  cheats  himself 
of  a  good  far  dearer  than  any  advan- 
tage that  he  obtains  over  his  neighbor. 
Others  he  may  injure,  abuse,  and  delude  ; 
but  another  thing  is  true,  though  com- 
monly forgotten,  and  that  is,  that  he 
deludes  himself,  abuses  himself,  injures 
himself,  more  than  he  does  all  other  men. 

In  the  next  place,  sin  does  a  wrong 
to  conscience.  There  is  a  conscience 
in  every  man,  which  is  as  truly  a  part  of 
his  nature  as  reason  or  memory.  The 
offender  against  this,  therefore,  violates 
no  unknown  law  nor  impracticable  rule. 
From  the  very  teaching  of  his  nature 
he  knows  what  is  right,  and  he  knows 
that  he  can  do  it  ;  and  his  very  nature, 
therefore,  instead  of  furnishing  him  with 
apologies  for  wilful  wrong,  holds  him 
inexcusable.  Inexcusable,  I  am  aware, 
is  a  strong  word ;  and  when  I  have 
looked  at  mankind,  and  seen  the  ways 
in  which  they  are  instructed,  educated, 
and  influenced,  I  have  been  disposed  to 
feel  as  if  there  were  palliations.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  when  I  consider  how 
strong  is  the  voice  of  nature  in  a  man, 
how  sharp  and  piercing  is  the  work  of  a 
restraining  and  condemning  conscience, 
how  loud  and  terrible  is  its  remonstrance, 
what  a  peculiar,  what  a  Heaven-com- 
missioned anguish  it  sometimes  inflicts 
upon  the  guilty  man,  I  am  compelled  to 
say,  despite  of  all  bad  teaching  and  bad 
influence,  "This  being  is  utterly  inex- 
cusable." For,  I  repeat  it,  there  is  a 
conscience  in  men.  I  cannot  admit  that 
human  nature  ever  chooses  evil  as  such. 
It  seeks  for  good,  for  gratification,  in- 
deed.   But  take  the  vilest  man  that  lives ; 


THE    WRONG    WHICH    SIN    DOES    IT. 


19 


and  if"  it  were  so  that  he  could  obtain 
the  gratification  he  seeks, — be  it  prop- 
erty or  sensual  pleasure,  — that  he  could 
obtain  it  honestly  and  innocently,  he 
would  greatly  prefer  it  on  such  terms. 
This  sliows  that  there  is  conscience  in 
him.  But  he  ivill  have  the  desired  grati- 
fication. And  to  obtain  it  he  sets  his 
foot  upon  that  conscience,  and  crushes  it 
down  to  dishonor  and  agony  worse  than 
death.  Ah  !  my  brethren,  we  who  sit  in 
our  closets  talk  about  vice,  and  dishon- 
esty, and  bloody  crime,  and  draw  dark 
pictures  of  them,  —  cold  and  lifeless, 
though  dark  pictures.  But  we  little  know, 
perhaps,  of  what  we  speak.  The  heart 
all  conscious  and  alive  to  the  truth  would 
smile  in  bitterness  and  derision  at  the 
feebleness  of  our  description.  And  could 
that  heart  speak;  could  "the  bosom 
black  as  death  "  send  forth  its  voice  of 
living  agony  in  our  holy  places,  it  would 
rend  the  vaulted  arches  of  every  sanc- 
tuary with  the  cry  of  a  pierced,  and 
wounded,  and  wronged,  and  ruined 
nature  ! 

Finally,  sin  does  a  wrong  to  the  affec- 
tions. How  does  it  mar  even  that  im- 
age of  the  affections,  that  mysterious 
shrine  from  which  their  revealings  flash 
forth,  "the  human  face  divine,"  bereav- 
ing the  world  of  more  than  half  its 
beauty  !  Can  you  ever  behold  sullen- 
ness  clouding  the  clear,  fair  brow  of 
childhood,  or  the  flushed  cheek  of  anger, 
or  the  averted  and  writhen  features  of 
envy,  or  the  dim  and  sunken  eye  and 
haggard  aspect  of  vice,  or  the  red  sig- 
nals of  bloated  excess  hung  out  on 
every  feature,  proclaiming  the  fire  that 
is  consuming  within,  —  without  feeling 
that  sin  is  the  despoiler  of  all  that  the 
affections  make  most  hallowed  and  beau- 
tiful ? 

But  these  are  only  indications  of  the 
wrong  that  is  done  and  the  ruin  that  is 
wrouglit  in  the  heart.  Nature  has  made 
our  affections  to  be  full  of  tenderness, 
to  be  sensitive  and  alive  to  every  touch, 
to  cling  to  their  cherished  objects  with 
a  grasp  from  which  nothing  but  cruel 
violence    can    sever   them.      We   hear 


much,  I  know,  of  the  coldness  of  the 
world,  but  I  cannot  believe  much  that 
I  hear ;  nor  is  it  perhaps  meant  in  any 
sense  that  denies  to  man  naturally  the 
most  powerful  affections,  —  affections 
that  demand  the  most  gentle  and  consid- 
erate treatment.  Human  love,  —  I  am 
ready  to  exclaim,  —  how  strong  is  it  ! 
What  yearnings  are  there  of  parental 
fondness,  of  filial  gratitude,  of  social 
kindness,  everywhere!  What  impatient 
asking  of  ten  thousand  hearts  for  the 
love  of  others  ;  not  for  their  gold,  not  for 
their  praise,  but  for  their  love  ! 

But  sin  enters  into  this  world  of  the 
affections  and  spreads  around  the  death- 
like coldness  of  distrust ;  the  word  of 
anger  falls  like  a  blow  upon  the  heart ; 
or  avarice  hardens  the  heart  against 
every  finer  feeling;  or  the  insane  merri- 
ment or  the  sullen  stupor  of  the  inebri- 
ate man  falls  like  a  thunderbolt  amidst 
the  circle  of  kindred  and  children.  Oh  ! 
the  hearts  where  sin  is  to  do  its  work 
should  be  harder  than  the  nether  mill- 
stone ;  yet  it  enters  in  among  affections 
all  warm,  all  sensitive,  all  gushing  forth 
in  tenderness;  and,  deaf  to  all  their 
pleadings,  it  does  its  work  as  if  it  were 
some  demon  of  wrath  that  knew  no  pity, 
and  heard  no  groans,  and  felt  no  relent- 
ing. 

But  r  must-  not  leave  this  subject  to 
be  regarded  as  if  it  were  only  a  matter 
for  abstract  or  curious  speculation.  It 
goes  beyond  reasoning;  it  goes  to  the 
conscience,  and  demands  penitence  and 
humiliation. 

For  of  what,  in  this  view,  is  the  sens- 
ualist guilty  ?  He  is  guilty  not  merely 
of  indulging  the  appetites  of  his  body, 
but  of  sacrificing  to  that  body  a  soul  ! 
—  I  speak  literally,  —  of  sacrificing  to 
that  body  a  soul ;  yes,  of  sacrificing  all 
the  transcendent  and  boundless  creation 
of  God  in  his  nature  to  one  single  nerve 
of  his  perishing  frame.  The  brightest 
emanation  of  God,  a  flame  from  the 
everlasting  altar,  burns  within  him;  and 
he  voluntarily  spreads  over  it  a  fleshy 
veil,  a  veil  of  appetites,  a  veil  of  thick 
darkness  ;   and  if   from  its  awful  folds 


20 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


one  beam  of  the  unholy  and  insufferable 
light  within  breaks  forth,  he  closes  his 
eyes,  and  quickly  spreads  another  cov- 
ering of  wilful  delusion  over  it,  and  ut- 
terly refuses  to  see  that  light,  though 
it  flashes  upon  him  from  the  shrine  of 
the  Divinity.  There  is,  in-deed,  a  pecu- 
liarity in  the  sensuality  of  a  man  distin- 
guishing it  from  the  sensual  gratification 
of  which  an  animal  is  capable,  and 
which  many  men  are  exalted  above  the 
brutes  only  to  turn  to  the  basest  uses. 
The  sensual  pleasures  of  a  human  being 
derive  a  quality  from  the  mind.  They 
are  probably  more  intense  through  the 
co-operating  action  of  the  mind.  The 
appetite  of  hunger  or  thirst,  for  instance, 
is  doubtless  the  same  in  both  animal  and 
man,  and  its  gratification  the  same  in 
kind;  but  the  mind  communicates  to  it 
a  greater  intensity.  To  a  certain  extent 
this  is  unquestionalily  natural  and  law- 
ful. But  the  mind,  finding  that  it  has 
this  power,  and  that  by  absorption  in 
sense,  by  gloating  over  its  objects,  it 
can  for  a  time  add  something  to  their 
enjoyment, —  the  mind,  I  say,  surrenders 
itself  to  the  base  and  ignoble  ministry. 
The  angel  in  man  does  homage  to  the 
brute  in  man.  Reason  toils  for  sense; 
the  imagination  panders  for  appetite ; 
and  even  the  conscience,  — that  no  fac- 
ulty maybe  left  undebased,  —  the  divine 
conscience,  strives  to  spread  around  the 
loathsome  forms  of  voluptuousness  a 
haze  of  moral  beauty,  calling  intoxica- 
tion, enthusiasm  ;  and  revelling,  good-fel- 
lowship ;  and  dignifying  every  species  of 
indulgence  with  some  name  that  is  holy. 
Of  what,  again,  is  the  miser,  and  of 
what  is  every  inordinately  covetous 
man,  guilty  ?  Conversant  as  he  may  be 
with  every  species  of  trade  and  traffic, 
there  is  one  kind  of  barter  coming  yet 
nearer  to  his  interest,  l>ut  of  which,  per- 
chance, he  has  never  thought.  Ke 
barters  virtue  for  gain !  That  is  the 
stupendous  moral  traffic  in  which  he 
is  engaged.  The  very  attributes  of  the 
mind  are  made  a  part  of  the  stock  in 
the  awful  trade  of  avarice.  And  if  its 
account-book    were    to   state    truly  the 


whole  of  every  transaction,  it  would 
often  stand  thus  :  "  Gained,  my  hun- 
dreds or  my  thousands  ;  lost,  the  rec- 
titude and  peace  of  my  conscience." 
"  Gained,  a  great  bargain,  driven  hard  ; 
lost,  in  the  same  proportion,  the  gener- 
osity and  kindness  of  my  affections." 
"  Credit"  —  and  what  strife  is  there  for 
that  ultimate  item,  for  that  final  record  ! 

—  '*  credit,  by  .an  immense  fortune  ;  " 
but  on  the  opposing  page,  the  last  page 
of  that  moral  as  truly  as  mercantile  ac- 
count, I  read  those  words,  written  not 
in  golden  capitals,  but  in  letters  of   fire, 

—  "a  lost  soul  !  " 

Oh,  my  brethren,  it  is  a  pitiable  dese- 
cration of  such  a  nature  as  ours  to  give 
it  up  to  the  world.  Some  baser  thing 
might  have  been  given  without  regret ; 
but  to  bow  down  reason  and  conscience, 
to  bind  them  to  the  clods  of  earth  ;  to 
contract  those  faculties  that  spread 
themselves  out  beyond  the  world,  even 
to  infinity,  —  to  contract  them  to  worldly 
trifles,  it  is  pitiable :  it  is  something  to 
mourn  and  to  weep  over.  He  who  sits 
down  in  a  dungeon  which  another  has 
made,  has  not  such  cause  to  bewail 
himself  as  he  who  sits  down  in  the 
dungeon  which  he  has  thus  made  for 
himself.  Poverty  and  destitution  are 
sad  things  ;  but  there  is  no  such  pov- 
erty, there  is  no  such  destitution,  as  that 
of  a  covetous  and  worldly  heart.  Pov- 
erty is  a  sad  thing,  but  there  is  no  man 
so  poor  as  he  who  is  poor  in  his  affec- 
tions and  virtues.  IVIany  a  house  is 
full,  where  the  mind  is  unfurnished  and 
the  heart  is  empty  ;  and  no  hovel  of 
mere  penury  ever  ought  to  be  so  sad  as 
that  house.  Behold,  it  is  left  desolate  ; 
to  the  immortal  it  is  left  desolate  as  the 
chambers  of  death.  Death  is  there  in- 
deed, and  it  is  the  death  of  the  soul. 

But,  not  to  dwell  longer  upon  particu- 
lar forms  of  evil,  of  what,  let  us  ask,  is 
the  vtan  guilty  ?  IVho  is  it  that  is  thus 
guilty  ?  To  say  that  he  is  noble  in  his 
nature  has  been  sometimes  thought  a 
dangerous  laxity  of  doctrine,  a  proud 
assumption  of  merit,  "a  flattering  unc- 
tion "  laid  to  the  soul.      But  what  kind 


THE   WRONG   WHICH    SIN   DOES   IT. 


21 


of  flattery  is  it  to  say  to  a  man,  "  You 
were  made  but  little  lower  than  the 
ani^els  ;  you  might  have  been  rising  to 
the  state  ot  angels  ;  and  you  have  made 

—  7i//ialha.ve  you  made  yourself  ?  What 
you  are/  a  slave  to  the  world;  a  slave 
to  sense  ;  a  slave  to  masters  baser  than 
nature  made  them,  to  vitiated  sense, 
and  a  corrupt  and  vain  world  !  "  Alas  ! 
the  irony  implied  in  such  flattery  as  this 
is  not  needed  to  add  poignancy  to  con- 
viction. Boundless  capacities  shrunk 
to  worse  than  infantile  imbecility!  im- 
mortal faculties  made  toilers  for  the  van- 
ities of  a  moment !  a  glorious  nature 
sunk  to  a  willing  fellowship  with  evil  ! 

—  it  needs  no  exaggeration,  but  only 
simple  statement,  to  make  this  a  sad  and 
afflicting  case.  Ill  enough  had  it  been 
for  us  if  we  had  been  ///ac/i;  a  depraved 
and  degraded  race.  Well  might  *the 
world  even  then  have  sat  down  in  sack- 
cloth and  sorrow,  though  repentance 
could  properly  have  made  no  part  of  its 
sorrow.  But  ill  is  it,  indeed,  if  we  have 
made  ourselves  the  sinful  and  unhappy 
brings  that  we  are  ;  if  we  have  given 
ourselves  the  wounds  which  have 
brought  languishment  and  debility  and 
distress  upon  us  !  What  keen  regret 
and  remorse  would  any  one  of  us  feel, 
if  in  a  fit  of  passion  he  had  destroyed 
ills  own  right  arm  or  had  planted  in  it 
a  lingering  wound!  And  yet  this,  and 
this  last  especially,  is  what  every  of- 
fender does  to  some  faculty  of  his  na- 
ture. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Ill  enough  had  it 
been  for  us  if  we  had  wrought  out  evil 
from  nothing  ;  if  from  a  nature  negative 
and  indifferent  to  the  result  we  had 
brought  forth  the  fruits  of  guilt  and 
misery.  But  if  we  have  wronged,  if  we 
have  wrested  from  its  true  bias,  a  na- 
ture made  for  heavenly  ends  ;  if  it  was 
all  beautiful  in  God's  design  and  in  our 
capacity,  and  we  have  made  it  all  base, 
so  that  human  nature,  alas  !  is  but  the 
byword  of  the  satirist,  and  a  mark  for 
the  scorner  ;  if  affections  that  might 
have  been  sweet  and  pure  almost  as  the 
thoughts   of   angels  have   been    soured 


and  embittered  and  turned  to  wrath, 
even  in  the  homes  of  human  kindness  ; 
if  the  very  senses  have  been  brutalized 
and  degraded,  and  changed  from  min- 
isters of  pleasure  to  inflicters  of  pain  ; 
and  yet  more,  if  all  the  dread  authority 
of  reason  has  been  denied,  and  all  the 
sublime  sanctity  of  conscience  has  been 
set  at  naught  in  this  downward  course  ; 
and  yet  once  more,  if  all  these  things, 
not  chimerical,  not  visionary,  are  actu- 
ally witnessed,  are  matters  of  history, 
in  ten  thousand  dwellings  around  us  ; 
ah  !  if  they  are  actually  existing,  my 
brethren,  in  you  and  in  me  !  —  and 
finally,  if,  uniting  together,  these  causes 
of  depravation  have  spread  a  flood  of 
misery  over  the  world,  and  there  are 
sorrows  and  sighings  and  tears  in  all  the 
habitations  of  men,  all  proceeding  from 
this  one  cause,  —  then,  I  say,  shall  peni- 
tence be  thought  a  strange  and  uncalled- 
for  emotion  ?  Shall  it  be  thought  strange 
that  the  first  great  demand  of  the  Gos- 
pel should  be  for  repentance  .''  Shall  it 
be  thought  strange  that  a  man  should 
sit  down  and  weep  bitterly  for  his  sins  ; 
so  strange  that  his  acquaintances  shall 
ask,  "  What  hath  he  done  ?  "  or  shall 
conclude  that  he  is  going  mad  with  fa- 
naticism, or  is  on  the  point  of  losing  his 
reason  ?  No,  truly  ;  the  dread  infatuation 
is  on  the  part  of  those  who  weep  not! 
It  is  the  negligent  world  tliat  is  fa- 
natical and  frantic  in  the  pursuit  of  un- 
holy indulgences  and  unsatisfying  pleas- 
ures. It  is  such  a  world  refusing  to 
weep  over  its  sins  and  miseries,  that 
is  fatally  deranged.  Repentance,  my 
brethren,  shall  it  be  thought  a  virtue  dif- 
ficult of  exercise  .''  What  can  the  world 
sorrow  for,  if  not  for  the  cause  of  all 
sorrow  'i  What  is  to  awaken  grief,  if 
not  guilt  and  shame  .-*  Where  shall  the 
human  heart  pour  out  its  tears,  if  not  on 
those  desolations  which  have  been  of  its 
own  creating  ? 

How  fitly  is  it  written,  and  in  lan- 
guage none  too  strong,  that  "  the  sac- 
rifices of  God  are  a  broken  and  contrite 
heart"!  And  how  encouragingly  is  it 
written  also,    "  A    broken  and  contrite 


22 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


heart  thou  wilt  not  despise."  "O  Is- 
rael," saith  again  the  sacred  Word,  — 
"O  Israel,  thou  hast  destroyed  thyself; 
but  in  me  is  thine  help  found." 


IV. 

ON  THE  ADAPTATION  WHICH  RE- 
LIGION, TO  BE  TRUE  AND  USE- 
FUL, SHOULD  HAVE  TO  HUMAN 
NATURE. 

Isaiah  xlii.  3  :  "A  bruised  reed  shall  he  not  break, 
and  the  smoking  flax  shall  he  not  quench." 

This  was  spoken  by  prophecy  of  our 
Saviour,  and  is  commonly  considered 
as  one  of  the  many  passages  which 
either  prefigure  or  describe  the  con 
siderate  and  gracious  adaptation  of  his 
religion  to  the  wants  and  weaknesses 
of  human  nature.  This  adaptation  of 
Christianity  to  the  wants  of  the  mind 
is,  indeed,  a  topic  that  has  been  much 
and  very  justly  insisted  on  as  an  evi- 
dence of  its  truth. 

I  wisli,  however,  in  tiie  present  dis- 
course to  place  this  subject  before  you 
in  a  light  somewhat  different,  perhaps, 
from  that  in  which  it  has  usually  been 
viewed.  If  Christianity  is  suited  to  the 
wants  of  our  nature,  it  is  proper  to  con- 
sider what  our  nature  needs.  I  shall 
therefore  in  the  following  discourse  give 
considerable  prominence  to  this  inquiry. 
The  wants  of  our  nature  are  various.  I 
shall  undertake  to  show  in  several  re- 
spects what  a  religion  that  is  adapted  to 
these  wants  should  be.  In  the  same 
connection  I  shall  undertake  to  show 
that  Christianity  is  such  a  religion. 

This  course  of  inquiry,  I  believe,  will 
elicit  some  just  views  of  religious  truth, 
and  will  enable  us  to  judge  whether  our 
own  views  of  it  are  just.  My  object  in 
it  is  to  present  some  temperate  and  com- 
prehensive views  of  religion,  which  shall 
be  seen  at  once  to  meet  the  neccessities 
of  our  nature  and  to  accord  with  the 
spirit  of  the  Christian  religion. 

Nothmg,  it  would  seem,  could  be  more 


obvious  than  that  a  religion  for  human 
beings  should  be  suited  to  human  be- 
ings ;  not  to  angels  nor  to  demons,  not  to 
a  fictitious  order  of  creatures,  not  to  the 
inhabitants  of  some  other  world,  but  to 
men,  —  to  men  of  this  world,  of  this  state 
and  situation  in  which  we  are  placed,  of 
this  nature  which  is  given  us  ;  to  men, 
with  all  their  passions  and  affections 
warm  and  alive,  and  all  their  weaknesses 
and  wants  and  fears  about  them.  And 
yet,  evident  and  reasonable  as  all  this 
is,  nothing  has  been  more  common  than 
for  religion  to  fail  of  this  very  adapta- 
tion. Sometimes  it  has  been  made  a 
quality  all  softness,  all  mercy  and  gentle- 
ness; something  joyous  and  cheering, 
light  and  easy,  as  if  it  were  designed  for 
angels.  At  others  it  has  been  clothed 
with  features  as  dark  and  malignant  as 
if  it  belonged  to  fiends  rather  than  to 
men.  In  no  remote  period  it  has  laid 
penances  on  men  ;  as  if  their  sinews  and 
nerves  were  like  the  mails  of  steel  which 
they  wore  in  those  days.  While  the 
same  religion,  with  strange  inconsisten- 
cy, lifted  up  the  reins  to  their  passions, 
as  if  it  had  been  the  age  of  Stoicism 
instead  of  being  the  age  of  Chivalry. 
Alas!  how  little  has  there  been  in  the 
religions  of  past  ages,  how  httle  in  the 
prevalent  forms  even  of  the  Christian 
religion,  to  draw  out,  to  expand  and 
brighten,  the  noble  faculties  of  our  na- 
ture !  How  many  of  the  beautiful  fruits 
of  human  affection  have  withered  away 
under  the  cold  and  blighting  touch  of 
a  scholastic  and  stern  theology  !  How 
many  fountains  of  joy  in  the  human 
heart  have  been  sealed  and  closed  up 
forever  by  the  iron  hand  of  a  gloomy 
superstition  !  How  many  bright  spirits, 
how  many  comely  and  noble  natures, 
have  been  marred  and  crushed  by  the 
artificial,  the  crude  and  rough  dealing  of 
religious  frenzy  and  fanaticism  ! 

It  is  suitable,  then,  it  is  expedient,  to 
consider  the  adaptation  which  religion, 
to  be  true  and  useful,  ought  to  have  to 
human  nature.  It  may  serve  to  correct 
errors.  It  may  serve  to  guide  those  who 
are  asking  what  ideas  of  religion  they 


THE   ADAPTATION   OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


23 


are  to  entertain,  what  sentiments  they  are 
to  embrace,  what  conduct  to  pursue. 

In  entering  upon  this  subject,  let  me 
offer  one  leading  observation,  and  after- 
wards proceed  to  some  particulars. 

I.  I  say,  then,  in  the  tirst  place,  that 
religion  should  be  adapted  to  our  -whole 
nature.  It  should  remember  that  we 
have  understandings  ;  and  it  should  be 
a  rational  religion.  It  should  remember 
that  we  have  feelings  ;  and  it  should  be 
an  earnest  and  fervent  religion.  It  should 
remember  that  our  feelings  revolt  at  vio- 
lence and  are  all  alive  to  tenderness  ; 
and  it  should  be  gentle,  ready  to  entreat, 
and  full  of  mercy.  It  should  remember, 
too,  that  our  feelings  naturally  lean  to 
self-indulgence,  and  it  should  be,  in  its 
gentleness,  strict  and  solemn.  It  should 
in  a  due  proportion  address  all  our  fac- 
ulties. 

Most  of  the  erroneous  forms  of  re- 
ligious sentiment  that  prevail  in  the 
Christian  world  have  arisen  from  the 
predominance  that  has  been  given  to 
some  one  part  of  our  nature  in  the  mat- 
ters of  spiritual  concernment.  Some 
religions  have  been  all  speculation,  all 
doctrine,  all  theology  ;  and,  as  you  might 
expect,  they  have  been  cold,  barren,  and 
dead.  Others  have  been  all  feeling; 
and  have  become  visionary,  wild,  and 
extravagant.  Some  have  been  all  senti- 
ment, and  have  wanted  practical  virtue. 
Others  have  been  all  practice ;  their  ad- 
vocates have  been  exclaiming,  "Works, 
works  !  these  are  the  evidence  and  test 
of  all  goodness."  And  so,  with  certain 
exceptions  and  qualifications,  they  are. 
But  this  substantial  character  of  religion, 
this  hold  which  it  really  has  upon  all 
the  active  principles  of  our  nature,  has 
been  so  much,  so  exclusively,  contended 
far,  that  religion  has  too  often  degen- 
erated into  a  mere  superficial,  decent 
morality- 
Religion,  then,  let  it  be  repeated,  if 
it  be  true  and  just,  addresses  our  whole 
nature.  It  addresses  the  active  and 
the  contemplative  in  us ;  reason  and  im- 
agination; thought  and  feeling.  It  is 
experience,  but  it  is  conduct  too  ;  it  is 


high  meditation,  but  then  it  is  also 
humble  virtue.  It  is  excitement,  it  is 
earnestness ;  but  no  less  truly  is  it 
calmness.  Let  me  dwell  upon  this  last 
point  a  moment.  It  is  not  uncommon 
to  hear  it  said  that  excitement  is  a  very 
bad  thing,  and  that  true  religion  is  calm. 
And  yet  it  would  seem  as  if,  by  others, 
repose  was  regarded  as  deadly  to  the 
soul,  and  as  if  the  only  safety  lay  in  a 
tremendous  agitation.  Now  what  saiih 
our  nature,  —  for  the  being  that  is  the 
very  subject  of  this  varying  discipline 
may  surely  be  allowed  to  speak,  —  what 
saith  our  nature  to  these  different  advis- 
ers ?  It  says,  I  think,  that  both  are  to 
a  certain  extent  wrong,  and  both  to  a 
certain  extent  right.  That  is  to  say, 
human  nature  requires,  in  their  due  pro- 
portion, both  excitement  and  tranquillity. 
Our  minds  need  a  complex  and  blended 
influence ;  need  to  be  at  once  aroused 
and  chastened,  to  be  at  the  same  time 
quickened  and  subdued ;  need  to  be 
impelled,  and  )'et  guided  ;  need  to  be 
humbled,  no  doubt,  and  that  deeply,  but 
not  that  only,  as  it  seems  to  be  com- 
monly thought, —  humbled,  I  say,  and 
yet  supported  ;  need  to  be  bowed  down  in 
humility,  and  yet  strengthened  in  trust ; 
need  to  be  nerved  to  endurance  at  one 
time,  and  at  another  to  be  transported 
with  joy.  Let  religion,  let  the  reason- 
able and  gracious  doctrine  of  Jesus 
Christ,  come  to  us  with  these  adapta- 
tions ;  generous  to  expand  our  affections, 
strict  to  restrain. our  passions,  plastic 
to  mould  our  temper,  strong,  ay.  strong 
to  control  our  will.  Let  religion  he 
thus  welcomed  to  every  true  principle 
and  passion  of  our  nature.  Let  it  touch 
all  the  springs  of  intellectual  and  of 
moral  life.  Let  it  penetrate  to  every 
hidden  recess  of  the  soul,  and  bring 
forth  all  its  powers,  and  enlighten,  in- 
spire, perfect  them. 

I  hardly  need  say  that  the  Christian 
religion  is  thus  adapted  to  our  whole 
nature.  Its  evidences  address  them- 
selves to  our  sober  judgment.  Its  pre- 
cepts commend  themselves  to  our  con- 
sciences.    It  imp.'irts  light  to  our  undtr- 


24 


ON    HUMAN    NATURE. 


standings  and  fervor  to  our  affections. 
It  speaks  gently  to  our  repentance,  but 
terribly  to  our  disobedience.  It  really 
does  that  for  us  which  religion  should 
do.  It  does  arouse  and  chasten,  quick- 
en and  subdue,  impel  and  guide,  humble 
and  yet  support  ;  it  arms  us  with  forti- 
tude, and  it  transports  us  with  joy.  It 
is  profitable  for  the  life  that  now  is,  and 
for  that  which  is  to  come. 

II.  But  I  must  pass  now  to  observe 
that  there  are  more  particular  adapta- 
tions which  religion  should  have,  and 
which  the  Gospel  actually  has,  to  the 
condition  of  human  nature,  and  to  the 
various  degrees  of  its  improvement. 

One  of  the  circumstances  of  our 
moral  condition  is  danger.  Religion, 
then,  should  be  a  guardian,  and  a  vigi- 
lant guardian  ;  and  let  us  be  assured 
that  the  Gospel  is  such.  Such  emphati- 
cally do  we  read.  If  we  cannot  bear  a 
religion  that  admonishes  us,  watches 
over  us,  warns  us,  restrains  us,  let  us  be 
assured  that  we  cannot  bear  a  religion 
that  will  save  us.  Religion  should  be 
the  keeper  of  the  soul;  and  without 
such  a  keeper,  in  the  slow  and  under- 
mining process  of  temptation,  or  amidst 
the  sudden  and  strong  assaults  of  pas- 
sion, it  will  be  overcome  and  lost. 

Again,  the  human  condition  is  one 
of  weakness.  There  are  weak  points, 
where  religion  should  be  stationed  to 
support  and  strengthen  us.  Points,  did 
I  say  ?  Are  we  not  encompassed  with 
weakness  ?  Where,  in  the  whole  circle 
o{  our  spiritual  interests  and  affections, 
are  we  not  exposed  and  vulnerable  ? 
Where  have  we  not  need  to  set  up 
the  barriers  of  habit,  and  to  build  the 
strongest  defences  with  which  resolu- 
tions and  vows  and  prayers  can  sur- 
round us  ?  Where,  and  wherein,  I  ask 
again,  is  any  man  safe  ?  What  virtue 
of  any  man  is  secure  from  frnilty? 
What  strong  purpose  of  his  is  not  liable 
to  failure?  What  affection  of  his  heart 
can  say,  "  I  have  strength,  I  am  estab- 
lished, and  nothing  can  move  me"  ? 
How  weak  is  man  in  trouble,  in  per- 
plexity, in  doubt ;  how  weak  in  afflic- 


tion, or  when  sickness  bows  the  spirit, 
or  when  approaching  death  is  unloosing 
all  the  bands  of  his  pride  and  self-reli- 
ance !  And  whose  spirit  does  not  some- 
times faint  under  its  intrinsic  weakness, 
under  its  native  frailty,  and  the  burden 
and  pressure  of  its  necessities .?  Re- 
ligion, then,  should  bring  supply,  and 
support,  and  strength  to  the  soul  ;  and 
the  Gospel  does  bring  supply,  and  sup- 
port, and  strength.  And  it  thus  meets  a 
universal  want.  Every  mind  wants  the 
stability  which  principle  gives,  wants 
the  comfort  which  piety  gives  ;  wants 
it  continually,  in  all  the  varying  experi- 
ence of  life. 

I  have  said,  also,  that  religion  should 
be  adapted  to  the  various  degrees  of 
mental  improvement,  and,  I  may  add, 
to  the  diversities  of  temperament.  Now 
there  are  sluggish  natures  that  need  to 
be  aroused.  All  the  machinery  of  spir- 
itual terror  can  scarce  be  too  much  to 
arouse  some  persons,  though  it  may 
indeed  be  very  improper!}'  applied.  But, 
on  the  contrary,  there  are  minds  so  ex- 
citable and  sensitive  that  religion  should 
come  to  tJiem  with  all  its  sobering  and 
tranquillizing  influence.  In  how  many 
cases  do  we  witness  this!  How  many 
are  there  whose  minds  are  chilled  or 
stupefied  by  denunciation  !  How  many 
are  repelled  by  severity,  or  crushed  by 
a  weight  of  fear  and  anxiety !  How- 
man}'  such  are  there  that  need  a  help- 
ing hand  to  be  stretched  out  to  them  ; 
that  need  to  be  raised,  and  soothed,  and 
comforted  ;  that  need  to  be  won  with 
gentleness  and  cheered  with  promises  ! 
The  Gospel  has  terrors,  indeed,  but  it 
is  not  all  terror ;  and  its  most  awful  re-, 
bukes  soften  into  pity  over  the  fearful. 
the  dejected,  the  anxious  and  humble. 

But  the  most  striking  circumstance 
in  the  adaptation  of  religion  to  the  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  mental  improvement 
is  its  character  as  supplying  not  merely 
the  general  necessities  but  the  con- 
scious wants  of  the  mind.  There  may 
be  some  who  have  never  been  conscious 
of  these  intrinsic  wants,  though  they 
spring  from  human  nature  and  must   be 


THE   ADAPTATION   OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


sooner  or  later  felt.  To  the  very  young, 
or  to  the  unreflecting,  religion  can  be 
scarcely  anything  more,  perhaps,  than 
direction.  It  .says,  "  Do  this,  and  do 
that ;  and  refrain  from  this  gratification, 
and  beware  of  that  danger."  It  is 
chiefly  a  set  of  rules  and  precepts  to 
them.  Speak  to  them  of  religion  as  the 
-.'rand  resort  of  the  mind,  as  that  whigh 
meets  its  inward  necessities,  supplies 
its  deei>felt  wants,  fills  its  capacious 
desires,  and  they  do  not  well  understand 
vou ;  or  they  do  not  understand  why 
this  view  of  the  subject  should  be  so 
interesting  to  you.  But  another  mind 
shall  be  bound  to  the  Gospel  by  noth- 
ing so  much  as  by  its  wants.  It  craves 
something  thus  vast,  glorious,  infinite, 
and  eternal.  It  sought,  sought  long, 
perhaps,  and  anxiously,  for  something 
thus  satisfying  ;  and  it  has  found  what 
it  long  and  painfully  sought,  in  the 
teachings  of  Jesus,  in  the  love  of  God, 
in  that  world  of  spiritual  thoughts  and 
objects  which  the  great  Teacher  has 
opened,  in  that  solemn  and  majestic 
vision  of  immortality  which  he  has 
brought  to  light.  To  such  a  religion 
the  soul  clings  with  a  peace  and  satisfac- 
tion never  to  be  expressed,  never  to  be 
uttered.  It  says,  "To  whom  shall  I  go 
—  to  whom  shall  I  go  ?  thou,  O  blessed 
religion,  minister  and  messenger  from 
heaven  !  —  thou  hast  the  words  of  eter- 
nal life,  of  eternal  joy  !  "  The  language 
which  proclaims  the  sufficiency  of  re- 
ligion, which  sets  forth  the  attraction 
and  the  greatness  of  it,  as  supplying  the 
great  intellectual  want,  is  no  chimerical 
language,  it  is  not  merely  a  familiar 
language,  but  is  intimate  with  the  deep- 
est and  the  dearest  feelings  of  the 
heart. 

In  descending  to  the  more  specific 
applications  of  the  principle  of  religion 
to  human  nature,  I  must  content  myself 
for  the  present  with  one  further  obser- 
vation ;  and  that  is,  that  it  meets  and 
mingles  with  all  the  varieties  of  natural 
temperament  and  disposition. 

Religion  should  not  propose  to  break 
up  all  the  diversities  of  individual  char- 


acter, and  Christianity  does  not  pro- 
pose this.  It  did  not  propose  this,  even 
when  it  first  broke  upon  the  world  with 
manifestation  and  miracle.  It  allowed 
the  rash  and  forward  Peter,  the  timid 
and  doubting  Thomas,  the  mild  and 
affectionate  John,  the  resolute  and;  fer- 
vent Paul,  still  to  retain  all  their  peculi- 
arities of  character.  The  way  of  becom- 
ing religious,  orjnterested  in  religion, 
was  not  the  same  to  all.  There  was 
Cornelius,  the  Pagan,  whose  "  alms  and 
prayers  were  accepted:"  and  there  were 
others  who  became  Christians  "with- 
out so  much  as  hearing  that  there  was 
any  Holy  Ghost."  There  were  the 
immediate  disciples  of  our  Lord,  who, 
through  a  course  of  gradual  teaching, 
came  to  apprehend  his  spiritual  king- 
dom ;  and  there  was  Paul,  to  whom  this 
knowledge  came  by  miracle,  and  with  a 
light  brighter  than  the  sun.  There  was 
the  terrified  jailer  who  fell  down  trem- 
bling and  said,  "  What  must  I  do  to  be 
saved?"  and  there  was  the  cautious 
and  inquiring  Nicodemus,  who,  as  if  he 
had  been  reflecting  on  the  matter,  said, 
"  We  know  that  thou  art  a  teacher  come 
from  God,  for  no  man  can  do  these  mir- 
acles that  thou  doest,  except  God  be 
with  him." 

Now  it  is  painful  to  observe  at  this 
day  hojv  little  of  this  individuality  there 
is  in  the  prevailing  and  popular  expe- 
rience of  religion.  A  certain  process 
is  pointed  out,  a  certain  result  is  de- 
scribed ;  particular  views  and  feelings 
are  insisted  on  as  the  only  right  and 
true  state  of  mind  ;  and  every  man 
strives  to  bring  himself  through  the  re- 
quired process  to  the  given  result.  It 
is  common,  indeed,  to  observe  that  if 
you  read  one  account  of  a  conversion, 
one  account  of  a  religious  excitement, 
3'cm  have  all.  I  charge  not  this  to  any 
particular  set  of  opinions,  though  it  may 
be  found  to  have  been  connected  with 
some  creeds  more  than  with  others  ;  but 
it  results,  too,  from  the  very  weakness  of 
human  nature.  One  man  leans  on  the 
experience  of  another,  and  it  contributes 
to  his  satisfaction,  of  course,  to  have 


26 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


the  same  experience.  How  refreshing 
is  it,  amidst  this  dull  and  artificial  uni- 
formity, to  meet  with  a  man  whose  re- 
ligion is  his  own  ;  who  has  thought  and 
felt  for  himself;  who  has  not  propped 
up  his  hopes  on  other  men's  opinions  ; 
who  has  been  willing  to  commune  with 
the  spirit  of  religion  and  of  God,  alone, 
and  who  brings  forth  to  you  the  fruits 
of  his  experience,  fresh  and  original, 
and  is  not  much  concerned  for  your 
judgment  of  them,  provided  they  have 
nourished  and  comforted  Jiimself.  I 
would  not  desire  that  every  man  should 
view  all  the  matters  of  piety  as  I  do ; 
but  would  rather  that  every  man  should 
bring  the  results  of  his  own  individual 
conviction  to  aid  the  common  cause  of 
right  knowledge  and  judgment. 

In  the  diversities  of  character  and  sit- 
uation that  exist,  there  will  naturally 
be  diversities  of  religious  experience. 
Some,  as  I  have  said  before,  are  consti- 
tutionally lively,  and  others  serious ; 
some  are  ardent,  and  others  moderate  ; 
some,  also,  are  inclined  to  be  social,  and 
others  to  be  retired.  Knowledge  and 
ignorance,  too,  and  refinement  and  rude- 
ness of  character,  are  cases  to  be  pro- 
vided for.  And  a  true  and  thorough 
religion, —  this  is  the  special  observa- 
tion I  wish  to  make  on  the  diversities 
of  character,  —  a  true  and  thorough  re- 
ligion, when  it  enters  the  mind,  will 
show  itself  by  its  naturally  blending  and 
mingling  with  the  mind  as  it  is;  it  will 
sit  easily  upon  the  character  ;  it  will  take 
forms  in  accordance,  not  with  the  bad, 
but  with  the  constitutional  tempers  and 
dispositions  it  finds  in  its  subjects. 

Nay,  I  will  say  yet  further  that  re- 
ligion ought  not  to  repress  the  natural 
buoyancy  of  our  aflfections,  the  innocent 
gayety  of  the  heart.  True  religion  was 
not  designed  to  do  this.  Undoubtedly 
it  will  discriminate.  It  will  check  what 
is  extravagant  in  us,  all  tumultuous  and 
excessive  joy  about  acquisitions  of  little 
consequence,  or  of  doubtful  utility  to 
us  ;  it  will  correct  what  is  deformed  ; 
it  will  uproot  what  is  hurtful.  But  there 
is  a  native  buoyancy  of  the  heart,  the 


meed  of  youth,  or  of  health,  which  is  a 
sensation  of  our  animal  nature,  a  ten- 
dency of  our  being.  This,  true  religion 
does  not  propose  to  withstand.  It  does 
not  war  against  our  nature.  As  well 
should  the  cultivator  of  a  beautiful  and 
variegated  garden  cut  up  all  the  flowers 
in  it,  or  lay  weights  and  encumbrances 
on  them,  lest  they  should  be  too  flour- 
ishing and  fair.  Religion  is  designed 
for  the  culture  of  our  natural  faculties, 
not  for  their  eradication  ! 

It  would  be  easy  now,  did  the  time 
permit,  to  illustrate  the  views  which 
have  been  presented,  by  a  reference  to 
the  teachings  of  our  Saviour.  He  did 
not  address  one  passion  or  part  of  our 
nature  alone,  or  chiefly.  There  was  no 
one  manner  of  address  ;  and  we  feel  sure, 
as  we  read,  that  there  was  no  one  tone. 
He  did  not  confine  himself  to  any  one 
class  of  subjects.  He  was  not  always 
speaking  of  death,  nor  of  judgment, 
nor  of  eternity,  frequently  and  solemnly 
as  he  spoke  of  them.  He  was  not  always 
speaking  of  the  state  of  the  sinner,  nor 
of  repentance  and  the  new  heart,  though 
on  these  subjects  too  he  delivered  his 
solemn  message.  There  was  a  varied 
adaptation,  in  his  discourses,  to  every 
condition  of  mind,  and  every  duty  of 
life,  and  every  situation  in  which  his 
hearers  were  placed.  Neither  did  the 
preaching  of  our  Saviour  possess,  ex- 
clusively, any  one  moral  complexion. 
It  was  not  terror  only,  nor  promise  only; 
it  was  not  exclusively  severity  nor  gentle- 
ness ;  but  it  was  each  one  of  them  in  its 
place,  and  all  of  them  always  subdued 
to  the  tone  of  perfect  sobriety.  At  one 
time  we  hear  him  saying,  with  lofty  self- 
respect,  "  neither  tell  I  you  by  what  au- 
thority I  do  these  things  :  "  at  another, 
with  all  the  majesty  of  the  Son  of  God, 
we  hear  him,  in  reply  to  the  fatal  ques- 
tion of  the  judgment  hall,  "  Art  thou  the 
Christ?"  —  we  hear  him  say,  "I  am; 
and  hereafter  ye  shall  see  the  Son  of  man 
seated  on  the  throne  of  power  and  com- 
ing in  the  clouds  of  heaven."  But  it  is 
the  same  voice  that  says,  "Come  unto 
me,  all  ye  that   labor    and    are   heavy 


THE   ADAPTATION   OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


27 


laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ;  take  my 
yoke,  which  is  easy,  and  my  burden,  which 
is  lio-ht,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  to  your 
souls."  At  one  time  he  speaks  in  the 
language  of  terror,  and  says,  "  Fear  not 
them  who  after  that  they  have  killed  the 
body  have  no  more  that  they  can  do  ; 
but  fear  Him  who  is  able  to  cast  both 
soul  and  body  into  hell,  yea,  I  say  unto 
you,  fear  him."  But  at  another  time 
the  awful  admonisher  breaks  out  into 
the  pathetic  exclamation,  '•  O  Jerusalem, 
Jerusalem !  how  often  would  I  have 
gathered  your  children,  even  as  a  hen 
gathereth  her  brood  under  her  wings,  but 
ye  would  not." 

If  I  might  be  permitted  now  to  add  a 
suggestion  of  an  advisory  nature,  it 
would  be  in  the  language  of  an  apostle  : 
"  Let  your  moderation  be  known  to  all 
men."  The  true  religion,  the  true  ex- 
cellence of  character,  requires  that  we 
should  hold  all  the  principles  and  affec- 
tions of  our  nature  in  a  due  subordina- 
tion and  proportion  to  each  other ;  that 
we  should  subdue  all  the  clamoring 
voices  of  passion  and  desire,  of  fear  and 
hope,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  to  complete 
harmony ;  that  we  should  regard  and 
cultivate  our  nature  as  a  whole.  Almost 
all  error  is  some  truth  carried  to  excess, 
or  diminished  from  its  proper  magnitude. 
Almost  all  evil  is  some  good  or  useful 
principle  suffered  to  be  immoderate  and 
ungovernable,  or  suppressed  and  denied 
its  proper  influence  and  action.  Let, 
then,  moderation  be  a  leading  trait  of  our 
virtue  and  piety.  This  is  not  dulness. 
Nothing  is  farther  from  dulness.  And 
nothing,  surely,  is  more  beautifulin  char- 
acter, or  more  touching,  than  to  see  a 
lively  and  intense  sensibility  controlled 
by  the  judgment ;  strong  passions  sub- 
dued and  softened  by  reflection  :  and,  on 
the  otiier  hand,  to  find  a  vigorous,  clear, 
and  manly  understanding  quickened  by 
a  genuine  fervor  and  enthusiasm.  Noth- 
ing is  more  wise  or  more  admirable  in 
action  than  to  be  resolute  and  yet  calm, 
earnest  and  yet  self-possessed,  decided 
and  yet  modest ;  to  contend  for  truth 
and  right   with  meekness   and  charity ; 


to  go  forward  in  a  good  cause  without 
pretension,  to  retire  with  dignity  ;  to  give 
without  pride,  and  to  withliold  without 
meanness;  to  rejoice  with  moderation, 
and  to  suflfer  with  patience.  And  noth- 
ing, I  may  add,  was  more  remarkable 
in  the  character  of  our  Saviour  than 
this  perfect  sobriety,  consistency,  self- 
control. 

This,  therefore,  is  the  perfection  of 
character.  This  will  always  be  found, 
I  believe,  to  be  a  late  stage  in  the  pro- 
gress of  religious  worth  from  its  first 
beginnings.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to 
be  one  thing  and  that  alone  ;  to  be  all 
zeal  or  all  reasoning ;  all  faith  or  all 
action ;  all  rapture  or  all  chilling  and 
captious  fault-finding.  Here  novices  be- 
gin. Thus  far  they  may  easily  go.  Thus 
far  men  may  go  whose  character  is  the 
result  of  temperament,  and  not  of  culture  ; 
of  headlong  propensity,  and  not  of  care- 
ful and  conscientious  discipline.  It  is 
easy  for  the  bruised  reed  to  be  broken. 
It  is  easy  for  the  smoking  flax  to  be 
quenched  It  is  easy  to  deal  harshly 
and  rudely  with  the  matters  of  religious 
and  virtuous  experience  :  to  make  a  hasty 
effort,  to  have  a  paroxysm  of  emotion, 
to  give  way  to  a  feverish  and  transient 
feeling,  and  then  to  smother  and  quench 
all  the  rising  purposes  of  a  better  life. 
But  true  religion  comes  to  us  with  a  wiser 
and  more  considerate  adaptation,  —  to 
sustain  and  strengthen  the  bruised  reed 
of  human  weakness;  to  fan  the  rising 
flame  of  virtuous  and  holy  purposes:  it 
comes  to  revive  our  failing  courage,  to 
restrain  our  wayward  passions.  It  will 
not  suffer  us  to  go  on  with  our  fluctua- 
tions and  our  fancies  ;  with  our  transient 
excitements  and  momentary  struggles. 
It  will  exert  a  more  abiding,  a  more  ra- 
tional influence.  It  will  make  us  more 
faithful  and  persevering.  It  will  lay  its 
hand  on  the  very  energies  of  our  nature, 
and  will  take  the  lead  and  control,  the 
forming  and  perfecting,  of  them.  May 
we  find  its  real  and  gracious  power ! 
May  it  lead  us  in  the  true,  the  brighten- 
ing path  of  the  just,  till  it  brings  us  to 
the  perfect  day  ! 


28 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


Oh,  my  brethren,  we  sin  against  our 
own  peace,  v.e  have  no  mercy  upon  our- 
selves, when  we  neglect  such  a  religion 
as  this.  It  is  the  only  wisdom,  the  only 
soundness,  the  only  consistency  and 
harmony  of  character,  the  only  peace  and 
blessedness  of  mind.  We  should  not 
have  our  distressing  doubts  and  fears  ; 
we  should  not  be  so  subject  as  we  are  to 
the  distracting  influences  of  passion,  or 
of  the  world  without  us,  if  we  had  yielded 
our  hearts  wholly  to  the  spirit  and  re- 
ligion of  Jesus.  It  is  a  religion  adapted 
to  us  all.  To  every  affection,  to  every 
state  of  mind,  troubled  or  joyous,  to 
every  period  of  life,  it  would  impart  the 
very  influence  that  we  need.  How  surely 
would  it  guide  our  youth,  and  how  would 
it  temper,  and  soften,  and  sanctify  all 
the  fervors  of  youthful  affection  !  How 
well  would  it  support  our  age,  making 
it  youthful  again  with  the  fervent  hope  of 
immortality  !  How  would  it  lead  us.  too, 
in  all  the  paths  of  earthly  care  and  busi- 
ness and  labor,  turning  the  brief  and 
weary  courses  of  worldly  toil  into  the 
ways  that  are  everlasting!  How  faith- 
fully and  how  calmly  would  it  conduct 
us  to  the  everlasting  abodes  !  And  how 
well,  in  fine,  does  he,  of  whom  it  was 
prophesied  that  he  should  not  break  the 
bruised  reed  nor  quench  the  smoking 
flax,  —  how  well  does  he  meet  that  gra- 
cious character,  when  he  says  ;  — shall  we 
not  listen  to  him?  —  "Come  unto  me,  all 
ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest ;  take  my  yoke,  whicli 
is  easy,  and  my  burden,  which  is  light ; 
learn  of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in 
heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your 
souls." 


THE   APPEAL   OF    RELIGION    TO 
HUMAN   NATURE. 

Proverbs  viii.  4  :  "  Unto  you,  O  men,  I  call  ;  and 
my  voice  is  to  the  sons  of  men." 

The  appeal  of  religion  to  human  na- 
ture, the  deep  wisdom  of  its  instruc- 
tions to  the  liuman  heart,  the  language 


of  power  and  of  cheering  with  wliich 
it  is  fitted  to  address  the  inmost  soul  of 
man,  is  never  to  be  understood,  perhaps, 
till  our  nature  is  exalted  far  beyond  its 
present  measure.  When  the  voice  of 
wisdom  and  purity  shall  find  an  inward 
wisdom  and  purity  to  which  it  can 
speak,  it  will  be  received  with  a  wel- 
come and  gladness,  with  a  joy  beyond 
all  other  joy,  such  as  no  tongue  of  elo- 
quence has  ever  expressed,  nor  the 
heart  of  worldly  sensibility  ever  yet  con- 
ceived. It  is  therefore  with  tlie  most 
unfeigned  diffidence,  with  the  most 
distinct  consciousness  that  riiy  present 
labor  must  be  incipient  and  imperfect, 
that  I  enter  upon  this  great  theme,  — 
the  appeal  of  religion  to  human  nature. 

What  ought  it  to  be  ?  What  has  it 
been?  These  are  the  inquiries  which 
I  shall  pursue.  Nor  shall  I  attempt  to 
keep  them  altogether  separate  in  the 
discussion,  since  both  the  defects  and 
the  duties  of  religious  instruction  may 
often  be  best  exhibited  under  the  same 
head  of  discourse.  Neither  shall  I  la- 
bor to  speak  of  religion  under  that 
abstract  and  figurative  character  with 
which  wisdom  is  personified  in  the  con- 
text, t^ough  that  may  be  occasionally 
convenient  ;  but  whether  it  be  the 
language  of  individual  reason  or  con- 
science ;  whether  it  be  the  voice  of  the 
parent  or  of  the  preacher;  whether  it 
be  the  language  of  forms  or  of  institu- 
tions, I  would  consider  how  religion  has 
appealed,  and  hovv  it  ought  to  have  ap- 
pealed, to  human  nature. 

The  topics  of  discourse  under  which 
I  shall  pursue  these  inquiries  are  the 
following:  In  wJtat  c/iaracter  should 
religion  address  us  ?  To  what  in  us 
should  it  speak  ?  And  /low  should  it 
deliver  its  message  ?  That  is  to  say, 
the  substance,  the  subject,  and  the  spirit 
of  the  appeal  are  the  topics  of  our  in- 
quiry. I  cannot,  of  course,  pursue 
these  inquiries  beyond  the  point  to 
which  the  immediate  object  of  my  dis- 
course will  carry  them  ;  and  I  am  will- 
ing to  designate  that  point  at  once  by 
saying  that  the  questions  are,  whether 


THE   APPEAL  OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


29 


the  character  in  which  religion  is  to 
appeal  to  us  be  moral  or  not ;  whether 
that  in  us  to  which  it  chiefly  api)eals 
should  be  the  noblest  or  the  basest  part 
of  our  nature;  and,  finally,  whether  the 
manner  and  spirit  of  its  appeal  should 
be  tliat  of  confidence  or  distrust,  of 
friendship  or  hatred. 

I.  And  with  regard  to  thd  first  ques- 
tion, the  answer,  of  course,  is,  that  the 
character  in  which  religion  should  ad- 
dress us  is  purely  moral.  As  a  moral 
principle,  as  a  principle  of  rectitude,  it 
must  speak  to  us.  Institutions,  rites, 
commands,  threatenings,  promises,  —  all 
forms  of  appeal  must  contain  this  es- 
sence ;  they  must  be  moral  ;  they  must 
be  holy. 

It  may  be  thought  strange  that  I 
should  insist  upon  a  point  so  obvious, 
but  let  me  crave  your  patience.  What 
is  the  most  comprehensive  form  of  mo- 
rality, holiness,  gratitude,  religion  ?  It 
is  love ;  it  is  goodness.  The  character 
of  the  Supreme  Perfection  is  set  forth 
in  this  one  attribute:  ''God  is  love." 
This  is  the  very  glory  of  God.  For 
when  an  ancient  servant  desired  to  "see 
his  glory,"  the  answer  to  the  prayer  was, 
that  "'he  caused  all  his  goodness  to  pass 
before  him." 

The  character,  then,  in  which  religion 
should  appeal  to  human  nature  is  that 
of  simple  and  essential  goodness.  This, 
the  moral  nature  of  man  is  made  to 
understand  and  to  feel  ;  and  nothing 
else  but  this.  This  character,  doubt- 
less, has  various  expressions.  Some- 
times it  takes  the  forms  of  command 
and  threatening;  but  still  these  must 
speak  in  the  name  of  goodness.  If 
command  and  threatening  stand  up  to 
speak  for  themselves,  alone,  —  dissoci- 
ated from  that  love  which  gives  them  all 
their  moral  character.  —  tlien,  I  say,  that 
the  moral  nature  of  man  cannot  receive 
their  message.  A  brute  can  receive 
that ;  a  dog  or  a  horse  can  yield  to  mere 
command  or  menace.  But  the  moral 
nature  can  yield  to  nothing  which  is  not 
moral  ;  and  that  which  gives  morality 
to   every   precept   and    warning   is    the 


goodness  which  is  breathed  into  them. 
Divest  them  of  this,  and  they  are  not 
even  rehgious.  Nor  are  those  persons 
religious  who  pay  obedience  to  com- 
mand as  command,  and  without  any 
consideration  of  its  moral  nature,  of  the 
intrinsic  and  essential  sanction  which 
goodness  bestows  on  the  command. 

The  voice  of  religion,  then,  must  be 
as  the  voice  of  goodness.  Conceive  of 
everything  good  and  lovely,  of  every- 
thing morally  excellent  and  admirable, 
of  everything  glorious  and  godlike  ;  and 
when  these  speak  to  you,  know  that 
religion  speaks  to  you.  Whether  that 
voice  comes  from  the  page  of  genius,  or 
from  the  record  of  heroic  and  heavenly 
virtue,  or  from  its  living  presence  and 
example,  or  from  the  bosom  of  silent 
reverie,  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  med- 
itation, —  whatever  of  the  holy  and  beau- 
tiful speaks  to  you,  and  through  what 
medium  soever  it  comes,  it  is  the  voice 
of  religion.  All  excellence,  in  other 
words,  is  religion. 

But  here  we  meet  with  what  seems 
to  me  —  and  so  must  I  denominate  it, 
in  justice  to  my  own  apprehensions  —  a 
stupendous  error ;  an  error,  prevalent  I 
believe,  and  yet  fatal,  so  far  as  it  goes, 
to  all  religious  emotion.  All  excel- 
lence, I  said,  is  religion.  But  the  great 
error  is,  that  in  the  popular  apprehen- 
sion these  things  are  not  identified. 
In  other  words,  religion  and  goodness 
are  not  identified  in  the  general  mind  ; 
they  are  not  held  by  most  men  to  be  the 
same  thing.  This  error,  I  sav,  if  it  ex- 
ists, is  fatal  to  genuine  religious  emo- 
tion ;  because  men  cannot  heartily  love, 
as  a  moral  quality,  anything  which  is 
not,  to  them,  goodness.  Or,  to  state 
this  position  as  a  simple  truism,  they 
cannot  love  anything  which  is  not,  to 
them,  loveliness. 

Now  I  am  willing,  nay,  I  earnestly 
wish,  that  with  regard  to  the  real  nature 
of  religion  there  should  be  the  utmost 
discrimination  ;  and  I  will  soon  speak  to 
that  point.  But  I  say  for  the  pres- 
ent, —  I  say,  again,  that  religion  is  made, 
intrinsically  and  altogether,  a  different 


ON    HUMAN   NATURE. 


thing  from  what  is  commonly  regarded 
as  loveliness  of  character,  and  therefore 
that  it  speaks  to  men,  speaks  to  human 
nature,  not  as  goodness  but  as  some 
other  thing. 

For  proof  of  this,  I  ask  you  first  to 
look  at  that  phraseology  by  which  re- 
ligion is  commonly  described,  and  to 
compare  it  with  the  language  by  which 
men  express  those  lovely  qualities  that 
they  most  admire.  See,  then,  how  they 
express  their  admiration.  You  hear 
them  speak  of  one  who  is  amiable, 
lovely,  fascinating  ;  of  one  who  is  hon- 
orable, upright,  generous.  You  hear 
them  speak  of  a  good  parent,  of  an  affec- 
tionate child,  of  a  worthy  citizen,  of  an 
obliging  neighbor,  of  a  kind  and  faith- 
ful friend,  of  a  man  whom  they  emphati- 
cally call  "a  noble  man;"  and  you  ob- 
serve a  fervor  of  language  and  a  glow 
of  pleasure  while  these  things  are  said  ; 
a  kindling  animation  in  the  tone  and 
the  countenance  which  inspires  you 
with  a  kindred  sympathy  and  delight. 
But  mark  now  in  how  different  a  lan- 
guage and  manner  the  qualities  of 
religion  are  described.  The  votary  of 
religion  is  said  to  be  very  "serious," 
perhaps,  but  with  a  look  and  tone  as  if 
a  much  worse  thing  were  stated  ;  or  you 
hear  it  said  of  him  that  he  is  "  a  pious 
man,"  or  he  is  "  a  very  experienced 
person,"  or  he  is  "a  Christian,  if  ever 
there  was  one ; "  but  it  seems,  even 
when  the  religious  themselves  say  all 
this,  as  if  it  were  an  extorted  and  cold 
homage  ;  as  if  religion  were  something 
very  proper  indeed,  very  safe  perhaps, 
but  not  very  agreeable  certainly ;  there 
is  no  glow,  there  is  no  animation,  and 
there  is  generally  no  sympathy. 

In  further  proof  that  religion  is  not 
identified  with  the  beautiful  and  admira- 
ble in  character,  I  might  turn  from  the 
language  in  common  use,  to  actual  ex- 
perience. Is  religion,  I  ask,  —  not  the 
religion  of  poetry,  but  that  which  exists 
in  the  actual  conceptions  of  men,  the 
religion  of  professors,  the  religion  that 
is  commonly  taught  from  our  pulpits, — 
is  it  usually  regarded  as  the  loveliest  at- 


tribute of  the  human  character  ?  Wlien 
your  minds  glow  with  the  love  of  excel- 
lence, when  you  weep  over  the  examples 
of  goodness,  is  this  excellence,  is  this 
goodness  which  you  admire,  religion  ? 
Consult  the  books  of  fiction,  open  the 
pages  of  history,  resort  to  the  stores  of 
cxir  classical  literature,  and  say  if  the 
religious  m'an  of  our  times  appears  in 
them  at  all ;  or  if,  when  he  does  appear 
in  them,  it  is  he  that  chiefly  draws  your 
affection  ?  Say,  rather,  if  it  is  not  some 
personage,  whether  of  a  real  or  ficti- 
tious tale,  that  is  destitute  of  every  dis- 
tinctive quality  of  the  popular  religion, 
who  kindles  your  enthusiasm  ?  So  true 
is  this,  that  many  who  have  held  the 
prevailing  ideas  of  religion  have  regard- 
ed, and  on  their  principles  have  justly 
regarded,  the  hterature  of  taste  and  of 
fiction  as  one  of  the  most  insidious 
temptations  that  could  befall  them.  No, 
I  repeat,  the  images  of  loveliness  that 
dwell  in  the  general  mind,  whether  of 
writers  or  readers,  have  not  been  the 
images  of  religion.  And  thus  it  has 
happened  that  the  men  of  taste,  and  of 
a  lively  and  ardent  sensibility,  have  by 
no  means  yielded  their  proportion  of  vo- 
taries to  religion.  The  dull,  the  gloomy, 
the  sick,  the  aged,  have  been  religious  ; 
not  —  i.  e.  not  to  the  same  extent  —  the 
young  and  the  joyous  in  their  first  ad- 
miration and  their  first  love  ;  not  the 
intellectual  and  refined  in  the  enthu- 
siasm of  their  feelings  and  in  the  glory 
of  their  imaginations. 

But  let  me  appeal  once  more  to  experi- 
ence. I  ask,  then,  do  you  love  religion? 
I  ask  you,  I  ask  any  one,  who  will 
entertain  the  question,  do  you  love  re- 
ligion ?  Does  the  very  word  carry  a 
sound  that  is  agreeable,  delightful  to 
you  ?  Does  it  stand  for  sometiiing  at- 
tractive and  lovely  .^  Are  the  terms  that 
describe  religion,  —  grace,  holiness,  re- 
pentance, faith,  godliness,  —  are  they  in- 
vested with  a  charm  to  your  heart,  to 
your  imagination,  to  your  whole  mind  ? 
Now  to  this  question  I  am  sure  that 
many  would  answer  freely  and  decidedly, 
"  No,  religion   is    not  a   thing   that   we 


THE   APPEAL   OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


31 


love.  We  cannot  say  that  we  take  tliat 
sort  of  interest  in  it.  We  do  not  profess 
to  be  religious,  and  —  honestly  —  we  do 
not  wish  to  be."  What  !  I  might  answer 
in  return,  do  you  love  nothing  that  is 
good  ?  Is  there  nothing  in  character, 
nothing  in  attribute,  no  abstract  charm, 
that  vou  love  .''  "  Far  otherwise,"  would 
be  the  reply.  "  There  are  many  persons 
that  we  love  ;  there  are  many  characters 
in  histor}',  in  biography,  in  romance, 
that  are  delightful  to  us,  they  are  so 
noble,  so  beautiful." 

How  different,  then,  —  do  we  not  see  ? 
—  are  the  ideas  of  religion  from  the 
images  of  loveliness  that  dwell  in  many 
minds  !  They  are  actually  the  same,  in 
principle.  All  excellence  has  the  same 
foundation.  There  are  not,  and  cannot 
be,  two  different  and  opposite  kinds  of 
rectitude.  The  moral  nature  of  man, 
deranged  though  it  be,  is  not  deranged 
so  far  as  to  admit  this  ;  and  yet  how 
evident  is  it  that  religion  is  not  inden- 
tified  with  the  excellence  that  men  love ! 

But  I  hear  it  said,  "  The  images  of 
loveliness  which  dwell  in  the  general 
mind  are  7iot  indeed  the  images  of  re- 
ligion, and  ought  not  to  be  ;  for  they 
are  false,  and  would  utterly  mislead  us." 
Grant,  now,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
that  this  were  true,  and  whom  would  the 
admission  benefit  ?  What  would  follow 
from  the  admission  ?  Why,  this  clearly : 
that  of  being  religious,  no  power  or 
possibility  is  within  human  reach.  For 
men  must  love  that  which  seems  to  them 
to  be  lovely.  If  that  which  seems  to 
tlietn  to  be  lovely  is  not  religion;  if 
religion  is  something  else,  and  some- 
thing alogether  different,  religion,  it  is 
clear,  they  cannot  love.  That  is  to  say, 
on  this  hypothesis,  they  cannot  be  re- 
ligious ;  they  cannot,  by  any  possibility, 
but  that  in  which  all  things  are  possible 
with  God;  they  cannot  by  any  possi- 
bility that  comes  within  the  range  of  the 
powers  and  affections  that  God  has 
given  them. 

But  it  is  not  true  that  men's  prevailing 
and  constitutional  perceptions  of  moral 
beauty  are  false.     It  is  not  true,  that  is 


to  say,  that  their  sense  of  right  and 
wrong  is  false ;  that  their  conscience  is 
a  treacherous  and  deceitful  guide.  It 
is  not  true  ;  and  yet,  doubtless,  there 
is  a  discrimination  to  be  made.  Their 
perceptions  may  be,  and  undoubtedly  of- 
ten are,  low  and  inadequate,  and  marred 
with  error.  And  therefore  when  we  use 
the  words,  excellent,  admirable,  lovely, 
there  is  danger  that  to  many  they  will 
not  mean  all  that  they  ought  to  mean  ; 
that  men's  ideas  of  these  qualities  will 
not  be  as  deep  and  thorougii  and  strict 
as  they  ought  to  be  :  while,  if  we  con- 
fine ourselves  to  such  terms  for  religious 
qualities  as  serious,  holy,  godly,  the 
danger  is  that  they  will  be  just  as  er- 
roneous, besides  being  technical,  barren, 
and  uninteresting. 

There  is  a  difficulty  on  this  account 
attending  the  language  of  the  pulpit, 
which  every  reflecting  man,  in  the  use 
of  it,  must  have  felt.  But  the  truth, 
amidst  all  these  discriminations,  I  hold' 
to  be  this  :  that  the  universal  and  con- 
stitutional perceptions  of  moral  loveli- 
ness which  mankind  entertain  are  radi- 
cally just.  And  therefore  the  only  right 
doctrine  and  the  only  rational  direction 
to  be  addressed  to  men,  on  this  sub- 
ject, is  to  the  following  effect :  "  What- 
ever your  conscience  dictates,  whatever 
your  rnind  clothes  with  moral  beauty, 
that,  to  you,  is  right;  be  that,  to  you, 
religion.  Nothing  else  can  be,  if  you 
think  rationally ;  and  therefore  let  that 
be  to  you  the  religion  that  you  love  ; 
and  let  it  be  your  endeavor,  continually 
to  elevate  and  purify  your  conceptions 
of  all  virtue  and  goodness."  Nay.  if  I 
knew  a  man  whose  ideas  of  excellence 
were  ever  so  low,  I  should  still  say  to 
him,  "  Revere  those  ideas ;  they  are  all 
that  you  can  revere.  The  very  appre- 
hensions you  entertain  of  the  glory  of 
God  cannot  go  beyond  your  ideas  of 
excellence.  All  that  you  can  worship, 
then,  is  the  most  perfect  excellence  you 
can  conceive  of.  Be  that,  therefore,  the 
object  of  your  reverence.  However  low, 
however  imperfect  it  is.  still  be  that  to 
you  the  image  of  the  Divinity.     On  that 


12 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


scale  of  your  actual  ideas,  however 
humble,  let  your  thoughts  rise  to  higher 
and  higher  perfection." 

I  say,  however  low.  And  grant  now 
that  the  moral  conceptions  of  a  man  are 
very  low  ;  yet  if  they  are  the  highest 
he  has,  is  there  anything  higher  that  he 
can  follow  ?  Will  it  be  said  there  are 
the  Scriptures  ?  But  the  aid  of  the  Scrip- 
tures is  already  presupposed  in  the  case. 
They  contribuie  to  form  the  very  per- 
ceptions in  question.  They  are  a  light 
to  man  only  as  they  kindle  a  light  with- 
in him.  They  do  not  and  they  cannot 
mean  more  to  any  man  than  he  under- 
stands, than  he  perceives  them  to  mean. 
His  perceptions  of  their  intent,  then,  he 
must  follow.  He  cannot  follow  the  light 
any  farther  than  he  sees  it. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  many  of  the 
ignorant  and  debased  see  very  little 
light  ;  that  their  perceptions  are  very 
low  ;  that  they  admire  qualities  and  ac- 
tions of  a  very  questionable  character. 
What  then  ?  You  must-  begin  with 
them  where  they  are  !  But  let  us  not 
grant  too  much  of  this.  Go  to  the  most 
degraded  being  you  know,  and  tell  him 
some  story  of  noble  disinterestedness 
or  touching  charity  ;  tell  him  the  story 
of  Howard,  or  Swartz,  or  Oberlin  ;  and 
will  he  not  approve,  will  he  not  admire  ? 
Then  tell  him,  I  say,  —  as  the  summing 
up  of  this  head  of  my  discourse,  —  tell 
him  that  this  is  religion.  Tell  him  that 
this  is  a  faint  shadow,  to  the  infinite 
brightness  of  divine  love  ;  a  feeble  and 
marred  image,  compared  with  the  infi- 
nite benignity  and  goodness  of  God  ! 

II.  My  next  observation  is,  on  the 
principles  to  be  addressed.  And,  on 
this  point,  I  say  in  general  that  religion 
should  appeal  to  the  good  in  man  against 
the  bad.  That  there  is  good  in  man  — 
not  fixed  goodness,  but  tliat  there  is 
something  good  in  man  —  is  evident  from 
the  fact  that  he  has  an  idea  of  goodness. 
For  if  the  matter  be  strictly  and  philo- 
sophically traced,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  idea  of  goodness  can  spring  from 
nothing  else  but  experience,  but  the  in- 
ward sense  of  it. 


But  not  to  dwell  on  this  ;  my  principal 
object  under  this  head  of  discourse  is 
to  maintain  that  religion  should  appeal 
chiefiy,  not  to  the  lowest,  but  to  the 
highest  of  our  moral  sentiments. 

There  are  sentiments  in  our  nature 
to  which  powerful  appeal  can  be  made, 
and  they  are  emphatically  its  high  and 
honorable  sentiments.  If  you  wished  to 
speak  intones  that  should  thrill  through 
the  very  heart  of  the  world,  you  would 
speak  to  these  before  all  others.  Almost 
all  the  richest  poetry,  the  most  admi- 
rable, the  fine  arts,  the  most  popular 
and  powerful  eloquence  in  the  world, 
have  addressed  these  moral  and  gener- 
ous sentiments  of  human  nature.  And 
I  have  observed  it  as  quite  remarkable 
indeed,  because  it  is  an  exception  to  the 
general  language  of  the  pulpit,  that  all 
the  most  eloquent  preachers  have  made 
great  use  of  these  very  sentiments  ;  they 
have  appealed  to  the  sense  of  beauty, 
to  generosity  and  tenderness,  to  the 
natural  conscience,  the  natural  sense  of 
right  and  wrong,  of  honor  and  shame. 

To  these,  then,  if  you  would  move  the 
human  heart,  you  would  apply  yourself. 
You  would  appeal  to  the  indignation  at 
wrong,  at  oppression,  or  treachery,  or 
meanness,  or  to  the  natural  admiration 
which  men  feel  for  virtuous  and  noble 
deeds.  If  you  would  touch  the  most 
tender  feelings  of  the  human  heart,  you 
would  still  make  your  appeal  to  these 
sentiments.  You  would  represent  inno- 
cence borne  down  and  crushed  by  the 
arm  of  power  ;  you  would  describe  pa- 
triotism laboring  and  dying  for  its  coun- 
try ;  or  you  would  describe  a  parent's 
love  with  all  its  cares  and  anxieties 
and  its  self-sacrificing  devotion  ;  or  you 
would  portray  filial  affection,  watching 
over  infirmity  and  relieving  pain  and 
striving  to  pay  back  something  of  the 
mighty"  debt  of  filial  gratitude.  Look 
abroad  in  the  world,  or  look  back  upon 
the  history  of  ages  past,  and  ask  for 
those  on  whom  the  enthusiasm  and  pride 
and  affection  of  men  love  to  dwell. 
Evoke  from  the  shadows  of  the  times 
gone  by,  their  majestic,  their  cherished 


THE   APPEAL  OF   RELIGION   TO   IT. 


33 


forms,  around  which  the  halo  of  ever- 
lasting admiration  dwells,  and  what  are 
they?  Behold  the  names  of  the  gener- 
ous, the  philanthropic,  and  the  good  ; 
behold,  the  voice  of  martyred  blood  on 
the  altars  of  cruelty,  or  on  the  hills  of 
freedom  forever  rising  from  the  earth,  — 
eternal  testimonies  to  the  right  and  no- 
ble sentiments  of  mankind. 

To  these,  then,  religion  ought  to  have 
appealed.  In  these  sentiments  it  ought 
to  have  laid  its  foundation,  and  on  these 
it  ought  to  have  built  up  its  power. 
But  has  it  done  so  ?  Could  it  do  so, 
while  it  held  human  nature  to  be  utterly 
depraved  ? 

But  there  is  a  further  question.  Can 
any  religion,  Christian  or  heathen,  in 
fact,  entirely  discard  human  nature  ? 
Certainly  not.  Must  not  every  religion 
that  speaks  to  man  speak  to  somctliing 
human  ?  Undoubtedly  it  must.  What, 
then,  is  the  end  of  all  this  zeal  against 
human  nature  ?  Has  it  not  been,  I  ask, 
to  address  the  worst  parts  of  it  ?  There 
has  been  no  scruple  about  appealing  to 
fear  and  anxiety.  But  of  the  sentiments 
of  admiration,  of  the  sense  of  beauty  in 
the  human  heart,  of  the  deep  love  for 
friends  and  kindred  that  lingers  there, 
religion  has  been  afraid.  Grant,  indeed, 
that  these  sentiments  and  affections 
have  been  too  low.  It  was  the  very 
business  of  religion  to  elevate  them. 
But  while  it  has  failed  to  do  this  in  the 
degree  it  ought,  how  often  has  it  spread 
a  rack  of  torture  for  our  fear  and  solici- 
tude !  How  often  has  it  been  an  engine 
of  superstition,  an  inflicter  of  penance, 
a  minister  of  despondency  and  gloom  ; 
an  instrument  effective,  as  if  it  were 
framed  on  purpose,  to  keep  down  all 
natural  buoyancy,  generosity,  and  liberal 
aspiration !  How  often  has  religion 
frowned  upon  the  nature  that  it  came  to 
save  ;  and  instead  of  winning  its  confi- 
dence and  love,  has  incurred  its  hatred 
and  scorn  ;  and  instead  of  having  drawn 
it  into  the  blessed  path  of  peace  and 
trust,  has  driven  it  to  indifference,  infi- 
delity, or  desperation  ! 

And  how  lamentable  is  this !     Here 


is  a  world  of  beings  filled  with  enthu- 
siasm, filled  with  a  thousand  warm  and 
kindling  affections  ;  the  breasts  of  mil- 
lions are  fired  with  admiration  for  gen- 
erous and  heroic  virtues  ;  and  when  the 
living  representative  of  these  virtues 
appears  among  us  —  a  Washington,  or 
some  illustrious  compeer  in  excellence  — 
crowded  cities  go  forth  to  meet  him, 
and  nations  lift  up  the  voice  of  grati- 
tude. How  remarkable  in  the  human 
character  is  this  moral  admiration  ! 
What  quickening  thoughts  does  it  awak- 
en in  solitude !  What  tears  does  it  call 
forth,  when  we  think  of  the  prisons,  the 
hospitals,  the  desolate  dv/ellings,  visited 
and  cheered  by  the  humane  and  mer- 
ciful !  With  what  ecstasy  does  it  swell 
the  human  breast  when  the  vision  of 
the  patriotic,  the  patiently  suffering,  the 
magnanimous  and  the  good,  passes  be- 
fore us  !  In  all  this  the  inferior  race  has 
no  share.  They  can  fear ;  but  esteem, 
veneration,  the  sense  of  moral  loveli- 
ness, they  know  not.  These  are  the 
prerogatives  of  man,  the  gifts  of  nature 
to  him,  the  gifts  of  God.  But  how  little, 
alas  !  have  they  been  called  into  the  ser- 
vice of  his  religion  !  How  little  have 
their  energies  been  enlisted  in  that 
which  is  the  great  concern  of  man  ! 

And  all  this  is  the  more  to  be  la- 
mented because  those  who  are  most 
susceptible  of  feeling  and  of  enthusiasm 
most  need  the  power  and  support  of 
religion.  The  dull,  the  earthly,  the  chil- 
dren of  sense,  the  mere  plodders  in  busi- 
ness, the  mere  votaries  of  gain,  may  do, 
or  may  think  they  can  do,  without  it. 
But  how  many  beings  are  there,  how 
many  spirits  of  a  finer  mould,  and  of  a 
loftier  bearing,  and  of  more  intellectual 
wants,  who,  when  the  novelty  of  life  is 
worn  off,  when  the  enthusiasm  of  youth 
has  been  freely  lavished,  when  changes 
come  on,  when  friends  die,  and  there  is 
care  and  weariness  and  solitude  to  press 
upon  the  heart,  —  how  many  are  there, 
then,  that  sigh  bitterly  after  some  better 
thing,  after  something  greater,  and  more 
permanent,  and  more  satisfying  !  And 
how  do  they  need  be  told  that  religion 


34 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


is  that  better  thing  ;  that  it  is  not  a 
stranger  to  their  wants  and  sorrows  ; 
that  its  voice  is  speaking  and  pleading 
within  them,  in  the  cry  of  their  lamen- 
tation and  in  the  felt  burden  of  their 
necessity';  that  religion  is  the  home  of 
their  far-wandering  desires  ;  the  rest, 
the  heaven,  of  their  long  troubled  affec- 
tions !  How  do  they  need  to  hear  the 
voice  that  says,  "  Unto  you,  O  men,  — 
men  of  care,  and  fear,  and  importunate 
desire,  —  do  I  call;  and  my  voice  is  to 
the  sons  of  men, — to  the  children  of 
frailty,  and  trouble,  and  sorrow  "  ! 

III.  Let  us  now  proceed  to  consider, 
in  the  third  place  and  finally,  from  the 
relation  between  the  power  that  speaks 
and  the  principle  addressed,  in  what 
manner  the  one  should  appeal  to  the 
other. 

The  relation,  then,  between  them,  I 
say,  is  a  relation  of  amity.  But  let  me 
explain.  I  do  not  say,  of  course,  that 
there  is  amity  between  right  and  wrong. 
I  do  not  say  that  there  is  amity  between 
pure  goodness  and  what  is  evil  in  man. 
But  that  which  is  wrong  and  evil  in 
man  is  the  perversion  of  something  that 
is  good  and  right.  To  that  good  and 
right,  I  contend  that  religion  should 
speak.  To  that  it  must  speak,  for  there 
is  nothing  else  to  hear  it.  We  do  not 
appeal  to  abstractions  of  evil  in  man, 
because  there  are  no  such  things  in  him  ; 
but  we  appeal  to  affections  ;  to  affec- 
tions in  which  there  is  a  mixture  of  good 
and  evil.  To  the  good,  then,  I  say,  we 
must  appeal,  against  the  evil.  And 
every  preacher  of  righteousness  may 
boldly  and  fearlessly  approach  the  hu- 
man heart,  in  the  confidence  that  how- 
ever it  may  defend  itself  against  him 
however  high  it  may  build  its  battle- 
ments of  habit  and  its  towers  of  pride, 
he  has  friends  in  the  very  citadel. 

I  say,  then,  that  religion  should  ad- 
dress the  true  moral  nature  of  man  as 
its  friend,  and  not  as  its  enemy  ;  as  its 
lawful  subject,  and  not  as  an  alien  or  a 
traitor ;  and  should  address  it,  therefore, 
with  generous  and  hopeful  confidence, 
and  not  with  cold  and  repulsive  distrust. 


What  is  it,  in  this  nature,  to  which 
religion  speaks  ?  To  reason,  to  con- 
science, to  the  love  of  happiness,  to  the 
sense  of  the  infinite  and  the  beautiful,  to 
aspirations  after  immortal  good  ;  to  nat- 
ural sensibility  also,  to  the  love  of  kin- 
dred and  country  and  home.  All  these 
are  in  this  nature,  and  they  are  all  fitted 
to  render  obedience  to  religion.  In  this 
obedience  they  are  satisfied,  and  indeed 
they  can  never  be  satisfied  without  it. 

Admit,  now,  that  these  powers  are 
ever  so  sadly  perverted  and  corrupted  ; 
still,  no  one  maintains  that  they  are 
destroyed.  Neither  is  their  testimony 
to  what  is  right  ever,  in  any  case,  utterly 
silenced.  Should  they  not,  then,  be  ap- 
pealed to  in  a  tone  of  confidence  ?  Sup- 
pose, for  instance,  to  illustrate  our  obser- 
vation, that  simple  reason  were  appealed 
to  on  any  subject  not  religious  ;  and 
suppose,  to  make  the  case  parallel,  that 
the  reason  of  the  man  on  that  subject 
were  very  much  perverted,  that  he  wa/ 
very  much  prejudiced  and  misled.  Yet 
would  not  the  argument  be  directed  to 
his  reason,  as  a  principle  actually  exist- 
ing in  him,  and  as  a  principle  to  be  con- 
fided in  and  to  be  recovered  from  its 
error?  Would  not  every  tone  of  the 
argument  and  of  the  expostulation  show 
confidence  in  the  principle  addressed  ? 

Oh,  what  power  might  religion  have 
had,  if  it  had  breathed  this  tone  of  con- 
fidence; if  it  had  gone  down  into  the 
deep  and  silent  places  of  the  heart  as 
the  voice  of  friendship;  if  it  had  known 
what  precious  treasures  of  love  and  hope 
and  joy  are  there,  ready  to  be  made 
celestial  by  its  touch ;  if  it  had  spoken 
to  man  as  the  most  affectionate  parent 
would  speak  to  his  most  beloved  though 
sadly  erring  child ;  if  it  had  said  in  the 
emphatic  language  of  the  text,  "  Unto 
you,  O  men,  I  call,  and  my  voice  is  to 
the  sons  of  men ;  lo !  I  have  set  my 
love  upon  you  ;  upon  you,  men  of  the 
strong  and  affectionate  nature,  of  the 
aspiring  and  heaven-needing  soul ;  not 
upon  inferior  creatures,  not  upon  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  but  upon  you  have  1 
set  my  love ;  give  entrance  to   me,  not 


THE   CALL   OF   HUMANITY   AND   ITS   ANSWER. 


35 


with  fear  and  mistrust,  but  with  good 
hope  and  with  gladness  ;  give  entrance 
to  me,  and  I  will  make  my  abode  with 
you,  and  I  will  build  up  all  that  is  within 
you,  in  glory,  and  beauty,  and  ineffable 
brightness."  Alas!  for  our  erring  and 
sinful  but  also  misguided  and  ill-used 
nature ;  bad  enough  indeed  we  have 
made  it  or  suffered  it  to  be  made  ;  but 
if  a  better  lot  had  bef;\llen  it;  if  kindlier 
influences  had  breathed  upo.i  it ;  if  the 
parent's  and  the  preacher's  voice,  in- 
spired with  every  tone  of  hallowed  feel- 
ing, had  won  it  to  piety  ;  if  the  train  of 
social  life,  with  every  attractive  charm 
of  goodness,  had  led  it  in  the  conse- 
crated way,  we  had  ere  this  known,  what 
now,  alas  !  we  so  poorly  know,  —  we  had 
known  what  it  is  to  be  children  of  God 
and  heirs  of  heaven. 

My  friends,  let  religion  speak  to  us  in 
its  own  true  character,  with  all  its  mighty 
power  and  winning  candor  and  tender- 
ness. It  is  the  principle  of  infinite  wis- 
dom that  speaks.  From  that  unknown 
period  before  the  world  was  created,  — 
so  saith  the  holy  record  ;  from  the  depth 
of  eternity,  from  the  centre  of  infinity, 
from  the  heart  of  the  universe,  from  "the 
bosom  of  God," —  its  voice  has  come 
forth,  and  spoken  to  us,  to  us,  men,  in 
our  lowly  habitations.  What  a  ministra- 
tion is  it!  It  is  the  infinite  communing 
with  the  finite  ;  it  is  might  communing 
with  frailty;  it  is  mercy  stretching  out  its 
arms  to  the  guilty;  it  is  goodness  taking 
part  with  all  that  is  good  in  us  against 
all  that  is  evil.  So  full,  so  overflowing, 
so  all-pervading  is  it,  that  all  things  give 
it  utterance.  It  speaks  to  us  in  every- 
t'.iing  lowly  and  in  everything  lofty.  It 
s])eaks  to  us  in  every  whispered  accent 
of  human  affection,  and  in  every  reve- 
lation that  is  sounded  out  from  the 
spreading  heavens.  It  speaks  to  us  from 
this  lowly  seat  at  which  we  bow  down  in 
prayer ;  from  this  humble  shrine  veiled 
with  the  shadows  of  mortal  infirmity; 
and  it  speaks  to  us  alike  from  those  altar- 
fires  that  blaze  in  the  heights  of  the  fir- 
mament. It  speaks  where  the  seven 
thunders  utter  their  voices,  and  it  sends 


forth  its  voice  —  of  pity  more  than  hu- 
man, of  agony  more  than  mortal  —  from 
the  silent  summit  of  Calvary. 

Can  a  principle  so  sublime  and  so  be- 
nignant as  religion  speak  to  us  but  for 
our  good  ?  Can  infinity,  can  omnipo- 
tence, can  boundless  love,  speak  to  us 
but  in  the  sj^irit  of  infinite  generosity, 
and  candor,  and  tenderness?  No;  it 
may  be  the  infirmity  of  man  to  use  a 
harsh  tone  and  to  heap  upon  us  bitter 
and  cruel  upbraidings,  but  so  speaks 
not  religion.  It  says,  —  and  I  trace  an 
accent  of  tenderness  and  entreaty  in 
every  word,  —  "  Unto  you,  O  men,  I  call ; 
and  my  voice,  —  my  voice  is  to  the  chil- 
dren of  men." 

O  man  !  whosoever  thou  art,  hear  that 
voice  of  wisdom.  Hear  it,  thou  sacred 
conscience  !  and  give  not  way  to  evil ; 
touch  no  bribe  ;  touch  not  dishonest 
gain  ;  touch  not  the  sparkling  cup  of 
unlawful  pleasure.  Hear  it,  ye  better 
affections,  dear  and  holy  !  and  turn  not 
your  purity  to  pollution,  and  your  sweet- 
ness to  bitterness,  and  your  hope  to 
shame.  Hear  it,  poor,  wearied,  bro- 
ken, prostrate  human  nature  !  and  rise 
to  penitence,  to  sanctity,  to  glorj-,  to 
heaven.  Rise  now,  lest  soon  it  be  for- 
ever too  late.  Rise,  at  this  entreaty  of 
wisdom,  for  wisdom  can  utter  no  more. 
Rise,  — .arise  at  this  voice  ;  for  the  uni- 
verse is  exhausted  of  all  its  revelations, 
—  infinity,  omnipotence,  boundless  love, 
have  lavished  their  uttermost  resources 
in  this  one  provision,  this  one  call,  this 
one  Gospel,  of  mercy  ! 


VI. 


THE  CALL  OF  HUMANITY  AND 
THE  ANSWER  TO  IT. 

Jon  xxiii.  3,4,5:  ''  Oh  th:it  I  knew  where  I  misht 
find  him  ;  tliat  I  miglit  come  even  to  his  seat !  I  woi.ltl 
order  iny  cause  before  him,  and  fill  my  mouth  witli 
arguments.  I  would  know  the  words  which  he  would 
answer  me,  and  understand  what  he  would  say  to 
me." 

It  is  striking  to  observe  how  large  a 
part  of  the  book  of  Job,  and  especially 
of  Job's  own  meditation,  is  occupied  with 


36 


ON   HUMAN    NATURE. 


a  consideration  of  the  nature  and  char- 
acter of  the  Supreme  Being.  The  sub- 
ject-matter of  the  book  is  human  calam- 
ity. The  point  proposed  for  solution 
is  the  interpretation  of  that  calamity. 
The  immediate  question  —  of  very  little 
interest  now,  perhaps,  but  one  of  urgent 
difficulty  in  a  darker  age  —  is,  whether 
calamity  is  retributive  ;  whether,  in  pro- 
portion as  a  man  is  afflicted,  he  is  to  be 
accounted  a  bad  man.  Job  contends 
against  this  principle,  and  the  contro- 
versy with  his  friends  turns  upon  this 
point.  But,  as  I  have  ali"eady  remarked, 
it  is  striking  to  observe  how  often  his 
mind  rises  apparently  quite  above  the 
controversy  to  a  sublime  meditation  on 
God.  As  if  feeling  that,  provided  he 
could  fix  his  trust  there,  he  should  be 
strong  and  triumphant,  thither  he  con- 
tinually resorts.  With  these  loftier  soar- 
ings are  mingled,  it  is  true,  passionate 
complaint  and  sad  despondency  and  bit- 
ter reproaches  against  his  friends,  and 
painful  questionings  about  the  whole  or- 
der of  Providence.  It  is  indeed  a  touch- 
ing picture  of  a  mind  in  distress,  with 
its  sad  fluctuations ;  its  words  of  grief 
and  haste  bursting  into  the  midst  of  its 
words  of  prayer  ;  its  soarings  and  sink- 
ings ;  its  passionate  and  familiar  adju- 
rations of  heaven  and  earth  to  help  it  ; 
and  with  the  world  of  dark  and  unde- 
fined thoughts  which  roll  through  it  like 
waves  of  chaos  ;  in  short,  it  is  a  jjicture 
whose  truth  can  be  realized  only  by  ex- 
perience. 

But  I  was  about  to  observe  that 
this  tendency  of  Job's  mind  in  the 
Supreme,  though  it  may  seem  to  carry 
him,  at  times,  up  quite  out  of  sight  of 
the  question  in  hand,  is  really  a  natural 
tendency,  and  that  it  naturally  sprung 
from  the  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed.  The  human  condition  is, 
throughout,  allied  to  a  divine  power  ; 
and  the  strong  feehng  of  what  this  con- 
dition is  always  leads  us  to  that  Power. 
The  positive  good  and  evil  of  this  con- 
dition, therefore,  have  especially  this 
tendency.  This  is  implied  in  the  proem 
or  preface  of  the    book  of  Job,  which 


gives  an  account,  after  the  dramatic  man- 
ner which  characterizes  the  whole  book, 
of  the  circumstances  that  lead  to  Job's 
trial.  After  a  brief  prefatory  statement, 
informing  the  reader  who  Job  was,  and 
what  were  his  possessions,  the  scene 
is  represented  as  opening  in  heaven. 
Among  the  sons  of  God,  Satan  pre- 
sents himself,  the  Accuser,  the  Adver- 
sary. And  when  Job's  virtue  is  the 
theme  of  commendation,  the  Accuser 
says,  "  Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nouglit  ? 
A  grand  Emir  of  the  East,  cradled  in 
luxury,  loaded  with  the  benefits  of 
heaven, —  doth  he  fear  God  for  nought  ? 
Put  forth  thine  hand  now,  and  touch 
all  that  he  hath,  and  he  will  curse  thee 
to  thy  face  !  "  It  is  done  ;  and  Job  is 
stripped  of  his  possessions,  servants, 
children  —  all.  And  Job  falls  down 
upon  the  ground  and  worships,  and 
says,  "  The  Lord  gave,  the  Lord  hath 
taken  away  ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord." 

But  again  the  Accuser  says  :  thou 
hast  not  laid  thy  hand  yet  upon  his 
person.  Come  yet  nearer  ;  "  put  forth 
thine  hand  now,  and  touch  his  bone, 
and  his  flesh,  and  he  will  curse  thee  to 
thy  face."  Again  it  is  done  ;  and  Job  is 
smitten  and  overwhelmed  with  disease  ; 
and  he  sits  down  in  ashes  and  scrapes 
himself  with  a  potsherd  ;  a  pitiable  and 
loathsome  object.  The  faith  of  his  wife, 
too,  gives  way,  —  of  her  who,  above  all, 
should  have  supported  him  then,  but 
who,  from  the  reverence  and  love  which 
she  felt  for  her  husband,  is  least  able  to 
bear  the  sight  of  his  misery.  She  cannot 
bear  it  ;  and,  partaking  of  the  prevalent 
feelings  of  the  age  about  outward  pros- 
perity as  the  very  measure  and  test  of 
the  Divine  favor,  she  says,  "  Dost  thou 
still  retain  thine  integrity  .''  Curse  God 
and  die  !  "  "  Give  up  the  strife  ;  you 
have  been  a  good  man  ;  you  have 
helped  and  comforted  many  ;  and  now 
you  are  reduced  to  this.  Give  up  the 
strife  ;  curse  God  and  die  ! "  And  Job 
answered,  "  Thou  speakest  as  one  of 
the  foolish  women  speaketh  !  "  What 
nature  !    We  seem  to  hear  that  fireside 


THE   CALL   OF   HUMANITY    AND   ITS   ANSWER. 


37 


conversation.  What  nature  !  and  what 
cleHcacy,  mingled  with  reproof  !  "  Thou 
speakest  not  as  my  wife,  but  as  one  of 
the  fooHsh,  prating  women  speaketh. 
What !  shall  we  receive  good  at  the 
hand  of  the  Lord,  and  shall  we  not 
receive  evil  ?  In  all  this  did  not  Job 
sin  with  his  lips." 

Then  the  three  friends  of  Job  came 
to  him  ;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  trait  of 
delicacy  for  those  ancient  times,  that 
these  friends,  according  to  the  represen- 
tation, "  sat  down  upon  the  ground  with 
him  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  and 
spake  not  a  word  tmto  hivi  j  for  they 
saw  that  his  grief  was  great."  When 
we  recollect  that  all  over  the  East  loud 
wailings  and  lamentations  were  the  usual 
modes  of  testifying  sympathy,  we  are 
led  to  ask.  whence  came  —  whence,  but 
from  inspiration  ?  —  this  finer  conception, 
befitting  the  utmost  culture  and  deli- 
cacy of  later  times  .-'  "  Seven  days  and 
seven  nights  they  sat  with  him,  and 
none  of  them  spake  a  word  to  him." 
Of  course,  we  are  not  to  take  this  too 
literally.  According  to  the  Hebrew 
custom,  they  mourned  with  him  seven 
days :  that  is,  they  were  in  his  house, 
and  they  came,  doubtless,  and  sat  with 
him  from  time  to  time  ;  but  they  entered 
into  no  large  discourse  with  him  ;  they 
saw  that  it  was  not  the  time  for  many 
words  ;  they  mourned  in  silence. 

This,  I  have  said,  is  a  beautiful  con- 
ception of  what  belongs  to  the  most  deli- 
cate and  touching  sympathy.  There 
comes  a  time  to  speak,  and  so  the 
friends  of  Job  judged,  though  their 
speech  proved  less  delicate  and  judi- 
cious than  their  silence.  There  comes 
a  time  to  speak  ;  there  are  circumstan- 
ces which  may  make  it  desirable  ;  there 
are  easy  and  unforced  modes  of  address 
which  may  make  it  grateful  ;  there  are 
cases  where  a  thoughtful  man  may  help 
his  neighbor  with  his  wisdom,  or  an 
affectionate  man  may  comfort  him  with 
sympatiiy;  "A  word  fitly  spoken,"  says 
the  sacred  proverbialist,  "is  like  apples 
of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver." 

And  yet,  after  all,  it  seems  to  me  that 


words  can  go  but  a  little  way  into  the 
depths  of  afiliction.  The  thoughts  that 
struggle  there  in  silence,  that  go  out 
into  the  silence  of  infinitude,  into  the 
silence  of  eternity,  have  no  emblems. 
Thoughts  enough,  God  knoweth,  come 
there,  such  as  no  tongue  ever  uttered. 
And  those  thoughts  do  not  so  much 
want  human  sympathy  as  they  want 
higher  help.  I  deny  not  the  sweetness 
of  that  balm,  but  I  say  that  something 
higher  is  wanted.  The  sympathy  of  all 
good  friends,  too,  we  know  that  we 
have,  without  a  word  spoken.  And 
moreover  the  sympathy  of  all  the  world, 
though  grateful,  would  not  lighten  the 
load  one  feather's  weight.  Something 
else  the  mind  wants,  something  to  rest 
upon.  There  is  a  loneliness  in  deep 
sorrow,  to  which  God  only  can  draw 
near.  Its  prayer  is  emphatically  "the 
prayer  of  a  lonely  heart."  Alone,  the 
mind  is  wrestling  with  the  great  problem 
of  calainity  ;  and  the  solution  it  asks 
from  the  infinite  providence  of  Heaven. 
Did  I  not  rightly  say,  then,  that  calam- 
ity directly  leads  us  to  God ;  and  that 
tiie  tendency,  so  apparent  in  the  mind 
of  Job,  to  lift  itself  up  to  that  exalted 
theme  of  contemplation,  was  natural  ? 
And  it  is  natural  too  that  the  one  book 
of  afiliction  given  us  in  the  holy  record, 
the  one  book  wholly  devoted  to  that 
subject,  is,  throughout  and  almost  en- 
tirely, a  meditation  on  God. 

I  wish  to  speak,  in  the  present  season 
of  meditation,  of  this  tendency  of  the 
mind,  amidst  the  trials  and  distresses 
of  life,  to  things  superior  to  itself,  and 
especially  to  the  Supreme  Being.  It  is 
not  affliction  of  which  I  am  to  speak, 
but  of  that  to  which  it  leads.  My  theme 
is  the  natural  aspiration  of  humanity  to 
things  above  and  beyond  it,  and  the  re- 
vealings  from  above  to  that  aspiration  ; 
it  is,  in  other  words,  the  call  of  human- 
ity and  the  answer  to  it.  "  1  would 
order  my  cause  before  him,"  says  Job, 
"  I  would  know  the  words  he  would  an- 
swer me." 

There  are  many  things  in  us  of  which 
we  are  not  distinctlv  conscious  ;  and  it 


38 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


is  one  ofifice  of  every  great  ministration 
to  human  nature,  whetlier  its  vehicle 
be  the  pen,  the  pencil,  or  the  tongue,  to 
waken  that  slumbering  consciousness 
into  life.  And  so  do  I  think  that  it  is 
one  otlice  of  the  pulpit.  That  inmost 
consciousness,  were  it  called  forth  from 
the  dim  cells  in  the  soul  where  it  sleeps, 
how  instantly  would  it  turn  to  a  waking 
and  spiritual  reality  that  life  which  is 
now  to  many  a  state  so  dull  and  worldly, 
so  uninteresting  and  unprofitable  ! 

How  it  should  be  such  to  any  seems 
to  me,  I  confess,  a  thing  almost  incon- 
ceivable. It  may  be  because  my  lite  is, 
as  I  may  say,  professionally  a  medita- 
tion upon  themes  of  the  most  spiritual 
and  quickening  interest.  Certainly  I  do 
not  lay  any  claim  to  superior  purity  for 
seeming  to  myself  to  see  things  as  they 
are.  But  surely  this  life,  instead  of  be- 
ing anything  negative  or  indifferent,  in- 
stead of  being  anything  dull  and  trivial, 
seems  to  me,  I  was  ready  to  say,  as  if  it 
were  bound  up  with  mystery,  and  agony, 
and  rapture.  Yes,  rapture  as  well  as 
agony ;  the  rapture  of  love,  of  recipro- 
cated affection,  of  hope,  of  joy,  of  prayer  ; 
and  the  agony  of  pain,  of  loss,  of  be- 
reavement ;  and  over  all  their  strug- 
glings  the  dark  cloud  of  mystery.  If 
any  one  is  unconscious  of  the  intensity 
and  awfulness  of  this  life  within  him, 
1  believe  it  is  because  he  does  not  know 
what  he  is  all  the  while  feeling.  Health 
and  sickness,  joy  and  sorrow,  success 
and  disappointment,  life  and  death,  are 
familiar  words  upon  his  lips,  and  he 
does  not  know  to  what  depths  they  point 
within  him.  It  is  just  as  a  man  may 
Hve  unconscious  that  there  is  anything 
unusual  about  him,  in  this  age  of  un- 
precedented excitement ;  in  this  very 
crisis  of  the  world's  story. 

Indeed,  a  man  seems  never  to  know 
what  anything  means  till  he  has  lost  it; 
and  this,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason  why 
losses,  vanishings  away  of  things,  are 
among  the  teachings  of  this  world  of 
shadows.  The  substance  indeed  teach- 
eth  ;  but  the  vacuity  whence  it  has  dis- 
appeared, yet  more.     Many  an  organ, 


many  a  nerve  and  fibre  in  our  bodily 
frame,  performs  its  silent  part  for  years, 
and  leaves  us  almost  or  quite  uncon- 
scious of  its  value.  But  let  there  be 
the  smallest  injury,  the  slightest  cut  of  a 
knife,  which  touches  that  organ  or  sev- 
ers the  fibre,  and  then  we  find,  though 
it  be  the  point  of  our  finger,  that  we 
want  it  continually ;  then  we  discover 
its  value  ;  then  we  learn  that  the  fine 
and  invisible  nerves  that  spread  them- 
selves all  over  this  wonderful  frame  are 
a  significant  handwriting  of  divine  wis- 
dom. And  thus  it  is  with  the  universal 
frame  of  things  in  life.  One  would  think 
that  the  blessings  of  this  world  were 
sufficiently  valued  ;  but,  after  all,  the  full 
significancy  of  those  words,  property, 
ease,  health  ;  the  wealth  of  meaning 
that  lies  in  the  fond  epithets,  parent, 
child,  friend,  we  never  know  till  they 
are  taken  away  ;  till  in  place  of  the 
bright,  visible  being  comes  the  awful 
and  desolate  shadow  where  nothing  is  ;  ' 
where  we  stretch  out  our  hands  in  vain, 
and  strain  our  eyes  upon  dark  and  dis- 
mal vacuity.  Still,  in  that  vacuity  we 
do  not  lose  the  object  that  we  loved  ;  it 
only  becomes  more  real  to  us.  Thus 
do  blessings  not  only  brighten  when 
they  depart,  but  are  fixed  in  enduring 
reality;  and  friendship  itself  receives  its 
everlasting  seal  beneath  the  cold  im- 
press of  death. 

I  have  said  thus  much  for  the  sake  of 
illustration,  of  suggestion  ;  to  show  you 
that  the  imprint  of  things  may  be  upon 
us  which  we  scarcely  know;  to  intimate 
to  you — what  I  believe — that  a  dim 
consciousness  of  infinite  mystery  and 
grandeur  lies  beneath  all  this  common- 
place of  life;  yes,  and  to  arouse  even 
the  most  irreligious  worldhness  by  the 
awfulness  and  majesty  that  are  around 
it.  As  I  have  seen  a  rude  peasant  from 
the  Apennines  failing  asleep  at  the  foot 
of  a  pillar  in  one  of  the  majestic  Roman 
churches  ;  doubtless  the  choral  sym- 
phonies 3'et  fell  soft  upon  his  ear,  and 
the  gilded  arches  were  yet  dimly  seen 
through  the  half  slumbering  eyehds; 
so,  I  think,  it   is    often  with  the  repose 


THE    CALL   OF    HUMANITY    AND    ITS    ANSWER. 


39 


and  the  very  stupor  of  worldliness.  It 
cannot  quite  lose  the  sense  of  where  it 
is,  and  of  what  is  above  and  around  it. 

The  scene  of  its  actual  engagements 
may  be  small  ;  the  paths  of  its  steps 
beaten  and  familiar ;  tlie  objects  it  han- 
dles easily  spanned,  and  quite  worn  out 
with  daily  uses.  So  it  may  be,  and 
amidst  such  things,  that  we  all  live. 
So  we  live  our  little  life ;  but  heaven 
is  above  us,  and  eternity  is  before  us 
and  behind  us,  and  suns  and  stars  are 
silent  witnesses  and  watchers  over  us. 
Not  to  speak  fancifully  of  what  is  mat- 
ter of  fact,  do  you  not  always  feel  that 
you  are  enfolded  by  infinity  ?  Infinite 
powers,  infinite  spaces,  do  they  not 
lie  all  around  you?  Is  not  the  dread 
arch  of  mystery  spread  over  you,  and 
no  voice  ever  pierced  it  ?  Is  not  eter- 
nity enthroned  amidst  yonder  starry 
heights,  and  no  utterance,  no  word, 
ever  came  from  those  far-lying  and  silent 
spaces  ?  Oh,  it  is  strange,  to  think  of 
that  awful  majesty  above,  and  then  to 
think  of  what  is  beneath  it,  —  this  little 
struggle  of  life,  this  poor  day's  conflict, 
this  busy  ant-hill  of  a  city.  Shut  down 
the  dome  of  heaven  close  upon  it ;  let 
it  crush  and  confine  every  thought  to 
the  present  spot,  to  the  present  instant; 
and  such  xvould  a  city  be.  But  now, 
how  is  it.''  Ascend  the  lonely  watch- 
tower  of  evening  meditation,  and  look 
f  jrth  and  listen  ;  and  lo  !  the  talk  of  the 
streets,  the  sounds  of  music  and  revel- 
ling, the  stir  and  tread  of  a  multitude, 
go  up  into  the  silent  and  all-surrounding 
infinitude! 

But  is  it  the  audible  sound  only  that 
goeth  up  .^  (Jh,  no;  but  amidst  the 
stir  and  noise  of  visible  life,  from  the 
inmost  bosom  of  the  visible  man,  there 
goeth  up  a  call,  a  cry,  an  asking,  unut- 
tered,  unutterable,  —  an  asking  for  reve- 
lation, saying  in  almost  speechless 
agony:  "Oh,  break,  dread  arch  of 
mystery ;  tell  us,  ye  stars,  that  roll 
above  the  waves  of  mortal  trouble ; 
speak,  enthroned  majesty  of  those  aw- 
ful heights  ;  bow  down,  you  mysterious 
and  reserved  heavens,  and  come  ne.ir; 


tell  us  what  ye  only  know  ;  tell  us  of 
the  loved  and  lost ;  tell  us  what  we  are, 
and  whither  we  are  going  ! '' 

Is  not  man  such  an  one  .'  Is  he  not 
encompassed  with  a  dome  of  incompre- 
hensible wondtrs  ?  Is  there  not  that 
in  him  and  about  him  which  should  fill 
his  life  with  majesty  and  sacredness  ? 
Is  there  not  something  of  sublimity  and 
sanctity  thus  borne  down  from  heaven 
into  the  heart  of  every  man  ?  Where 
is  the  being  so  base  and  abandoned  but 
he  hath  some  traits  of  that  sacredness 
left  upon  him  ;  something  so  much  in 
discordance  perhaps  with  his  general 
repute  that  he  hides  it  from  all  around 
him  ;  some  sanctuary  in  his  soul  where 
no  one  may  enter  ;  some  sacred  enclos- 
ure, where  the  memory  of  a  child  is, 
or  the  image  of  a  venerated  parent,  or 
the  echo  of  some  sweet  word  of  kind- 
ness that  was  once  spoken  to  him,  —  an 
echo  that  shall  never  die  away  1 

Would  man  awake  to  the  higher  and 
better  things  that  are  in  him,  he  would 
no  longer  feel,  I  repeat,  that  life  to  him  is 
a  negative,  or  superficial,  or  worldly  ex- 
istence. Evermore  are  his  steps  haunt- 
ed with  thoughts  far  beyond  their  own 
range,  which  some  have  regarded  as 
the  reminiscences  of  a  pre-existent  state. 
As  a  man  who  passeth  a  season  in  the 
sad  and  pleasant  land  of  Italy  feels  a 
majestic  presence  of  sublime  ages  and 
histories  with  him  which  he  does  not 
always  distinctly  recognize,  but  which 
lend  an  indescribable  interest  to  every 
field,  and  mountain,  and  mouldering 
wall,  and  make  life  to  be,  all  the  while, 
more  than  mere  life,  so  it  is  with  us 
all  in  the  beaten  and  worn  track  of  this 
worldly  pilgrimage.  There  is  more 
here  than  tlie  world  we  live  in  ;  "  it  is 
not  all  of  life  to  live."  An  unseen  and 
infinite  presence  is  here  ;  a  sense  of 
something  greater  than  we  possess  ;  a 
seeking,  through  all  the  void  waste  of 
life,  for  a  good  beyond  it;  a  crying  out 
of  the  heart  for  interpretation  ;  a  mem- 
ory of  the  dead,  which  touches,  ever 
and  anon,  some  vibrating  thread  in  this 
great  tissue  of  mystery. 


40 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


I  cannot  help  thinking  that  we  all 
not  only  have  better  intimations,  but 
are  capable  of  better  things,  than  we 
know  ;  that  the  pressure  of  some  great 
emergency  would  develop  in  us  pow- 
ers beyond  the  worldly  bias  of  our 
spirits  ;  and  that  so  heaven  dealeth 
with  us,  from  time  to  time,  as  to  call 
forth  those  better  things.  Perhaps  there 
is  not  a  family  so  selfish  in  the  world, 
but  that  if  one  in  it  were  doomed  to  die  ; 
if  tyranny  demanded  a  victim,  it  would 
be  utterly  impossible  for  its  members, 
parents  and  children,  to  choose  out  that 
victim  ;  but  that  all  and  each  one  would 
say,  "  I  will  die,  but  I  cannot  choose." 
Nay,  in  how  many  families,  if  that  dire 
extremity  had  come,  would  one  and 
anotlier  step  forth,  freed  from  the  vile 
meshes  of  ordinary  selfishness,  and  say, 
like  theRoman  father  and  son,  "  Let  the 
blow  fall  on  me  ! "  There  are  greater 
and  better  things  in  us  all  than  the 
world  takes  account  of,  or  than  we  take 
note  of,  would  we  find  them  out.  And 
it  is  one  part  of  our  spiritual  culture  to 
find  these  traits  of  greatness  and  power, 
to  revive  these  faded  impressions  of 
generosity  and  goodness,  —  the  almost 
squandered  bequests  of  God's  love  and 
kindness  to  our  souls,  — and  to  yield  our- 
selves to  their  guidance  and  control. 

I  am  sensible  that  my  discoursing 
now  has  been  somewhat  desultory  and 
vague.  Perhaps,  though  I  delight  not 
in  such  discoursing  generally,  it  has 
not  been,  in  this  instance,  without  a 
purpose.  For  the  consciousness  which  I 
wish  to  address  is  doubtless  itself  some- 
thing too  shadowy  and  vague.  But  it 
is  real,  though  indistinct.  An  unsatis- 
fied asking  is  forever  in  all  human 
hearts.  We  know  that  the  material 
crust  of  this  earth  does  not  limit  our 
thoughts  ;  that  the  commonplace  of  life 
does  not  suffice  us  ;  that  there  are  things 
in  us  which  go  far  beyond  the  range  of 
our  ordinary,  earthly  pursuits.  Depraved 
as  we  may  be,  these  things  are  true. 
They  are  indeed  signs  that  we  are  fallen; 
but  they  are  signs  too  that  all  is  not 
lost.     They  are  significant  revelations, 


and  they  are  admonitions  no  less  pow- 
erful. 

But  now,  when  our  minds  go  out  be- 
yond the  range  of  their  visible  action, 
what  do  they  find  ?  We  have  spoken 
of  the  great  call  of  humanity  ;  what  is 
the  answer  .f*  , 

The  first  answer  comes  from  the 
mind  itself.  When  we  descend  into  the 
depths  of  our  own  being,  we  find  desires 
which  nothing  less  than  the  infinite  can 
satisfy,  powers  fitted  for  everlasting 
expansion  ;  powers  whose  unfolding  at 
every  step  only  awakens  new  and  vaster 
cravings  ;  and  sorrows,  which  all  the 
accumulated  wealth  and  pleasure  of  the 
world  can  never,  never  soothe.  If  a 
man's  life  consisted  in  that  which  he 
possesseth,  how  intolerable  would  it  be  ! 
To  be  confined  to  what  we  have  and 
what  we  are,  is  to  be  shut  up  in  a  dun- 
geon, where  we  cannot  breathe  !  Is  not 
this  whole  nature,  then,  itself  a  stupen- 
dous argument  for  something  greater  to 
come?  Is  not  this  very  consciousness, 
deep  in  our  souls,  itself  an  answer  ? 
When  you  look  at  the  embryo  bird  in 
the  shell,  you  know  that  it  is  made  to 
burst  that  little  prison.  You  see  feet 
that  are  made  to  run,  and  wings  to  fly. 
And  as  it  pecks  at  the  imprisoning  shell, 
you  see  in  that  very  impulse  the  pro- 
phetic certainty  that  it  is  to  come  forth 
to  light  and  air.  And  is  the  noblest  be- 
ing on  earth  alone  to  be  forever  impris- 
oned, to  perish  in  his  prison  ;  forever 
to  feel  himself  imprisoned  ;  forever  to 
press  against  the  barriers  of  his  present 
knowledge  and  existence,  and  never  to 
go  forth  ?  Are  mans  embryo  powers 
alone,  are  his  cravings  and  aspirations 
after  something  higher,  to  be  accounted 
no  revealings,  no  prophecies  of  a  loftier 
destiny  ? 

And  again ;  when  we  lift  up  our 
thoughts  to  the  vast  infinitude,  what  do 
we  find?  Order,  holding  its  sublime 
reign  among  the  countless  revolving 
suns  and  .systems  ;  and  light,  fair  and 
beautiful,  covering  all  as  with  a  garment. 
Look  up  to  the  height  of  heaven  in  some 
bright  and  smiling  summer's  day  ;    be- 


THE   CALL   OF   HUMANITY   AND   ITS   ANSWER. 


41 


hold  the  ethereal  softness,  the  meteor  of 
beauty  that  hangs  over  us  ;  and  does 
it  not  seem  as  if  it  were  an  enfolding 
gentleness,  a  silent,  hushed  breathing 
of  unutterable  love  ?  Was  ever  a  moth- 
er's eye,  bent  on  her  child,  more  sweet 
and  gentle  ?  Was  ever  a  loving  coun- 
tenance more  full  of  ineffable  meaning? 
"Oh,  you  sweet  heavens  !  "  hath  many 
a  poet  said  :  and  can  he  who  made  those 
heavens,  sublime  and  beautiful,  wish  us 
any  harm  ?  Were  you  made  lord  of 
^hose  heavens,  could  you  hurl  down  un- 
recking  sorrow  and  disaster  upon  the 
poor  tremblers  beneath  you  ?  God,  who 
hath  breathed  that  pitying  and  generous 
thought  into  your  heart,  will  not  belie  it 
in  himself.  My  heart  is  to  me  a  revela- 
tion, and  heaven  is  to  me  a  revelation  of 
God's  benignity.  And  when  the  voices 
of  human  want  and  sorrow  go  upward, 
—  as  one  has  touchingly  said,  "  like  in- 
articulate cries,  and  sobbings  of  a  dumb 
creature,  which  in  the  ear  of  heaven  are 
prayers,"  —  I  can  no  more  doubt  that 
they  find  gracious  consideration  and  pity 
above,  than  if  a  voice  of  unearthly  ten- 
derness breathed  from  the  sky,  saying, 
"  Poor  frail  beings  !  borne  on  the  bosom 
of  imperfection,  and  laid  upon  the  lap 
of  sorrow,  be  patient  and  hopeful  ;  ye 
are  not  neglected  nor  forgotten ;  the 
heaven  above  you  holds  itself  in  majes- 
tic reserve,  because  ye  cannot  bear  what 
it  has  to  tell  you,  —  holds  you  in  solemn 
suspense,  which  death  only  may  break  ; 
be  faithful  unto  death  ;  be  trustful  for  a 
while  ;  and  all  your  lofty  asking  shall 
have  answer,  and  all  your  patient  sorrow 
shall  find  issue,  in  everlasting  peace." 

But,  once  more,  there  is  more  than  a 
voice  ;  tliere  is  a  revelation  in  nature, 
and  especially  in  the  mission  of  Jesus 
Christ,  more  touching  than  words. 

I  have  said  that  there  is  no  uttered 
speech  from  all  around  us,  and  yet 
have  maintained  that  there  is  expression 
as  clear  and  emphatic  as  speech  ;  and 
I  now  say  it  is  much  more  expressive 
than  speech.  Let  me  observe,  here,  that 
we  are  liable  to  lay  quite  an  undue  stress 
upon  this  mode  of  communication,  upon 


speech  ;  simply  because  speech  is  the 
ordained  and  ordinary  vehicle  of  con- 
verse between  man  and  man.  If  men 
had  communciated  with  one  another  by 
pantomime  ;  if  forms,  and  not  utterances, 
had  been  the  grand  instrument  of  im- 
pression ;  if  human  love  had  always 
been  expressed  only  by  a  brighter  glow 
of  the  countenance,  and  pity  only  by  a 
softer  shadowing  upon  its  beauty,  then 
had  we  better  understood,  perhaps,  the 
grand  communication  of  nature.  Then 
had  the  bright  sky  in  the  daytime,  and 
the  soft  veil  of  evening,  and  all  the  shows 
of  things,  around  the  whole  dome  of 
heaven  and  amidst  the  splendor  and 
beauty  of  the  world,  —  all  these,  I  say, 
in  the  majesty  of  silence,  had  been  a 
revelation,  not  only  the  clearest,  but  the 
most  impressive,  that  was  possible.  I 
say  in  the  majesty  of  silence.  For,  ac- 
customed as  we  are  to  speech,  how 
much  more  powerful  in  some  things  is 
silence  !  How  intolerable  would  it  have 
been,  if  every  day  when  it  came  had 
audibly  said,  "  God  is  good  ;  "  and  every 
evening,  when  it  stole  upon  us,  had  said, 
"  God  is  good  ; "  and  every  cloud  when 
it  rose,  and  every  tree  as  it  blossomed, 
and  every  plant  as  it  sprung  from  the 
earth,  had  audibly  said,  "  God  is  good  "  ! 
No,  the  silence  of  nature  is  more  impres- 
sive, would  we  understand  it,  than  any 
speech  could  be  ;  it  expresses  what  no 
speech  can  utter.  No  bare  word  can 
tell  what  that  bright  sky  meaneth  ;  what 
the  wealth  of  nature  meaneth  ;  what  is 
the  heart's  own  deep  assurance,  that 
God  is  good. 

But  yet  more  ;  in  the  express  revela- 
tion that  is  given  us,  it  is  not  the  bare 
word  spoken,  that  is  most  powerful ;  it 
is  the  character  of  interposing  mercy 
that  is  spread  all  over  the  volume.  It 
is  the  miracle,  —  that  causes  nature  to 
break  the  secret  of  an  all-controlling 
power,  in  that  awful  pause  and  silence. 
It  is  the  loving  and  living  excellence  of 
Jesus ;  that  miracle  of  his  life,  more 
than  all.  The  word  is  but  an  attestation 
to  something  done.  Had  it  been  done 
in  silence,  could  all   generations    have 


42 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


seen  Jesus  living,  Jesus  suffering,  and 
heaven  opened,  it  had  been  enough. 
Words  are  but  the  testimony,  that  hath 
gone  forth  to  all  generations  and  all 
ages,  of  what  hath  been  done.  God  is 
ever  doing  for  us  what,  —  be  it  said 
reverently,  —  what  he  cannot  speak.  As 
a  dear  friend  can  look  the  love  which 
he  cannot  utter,  so  do  I  read  the  face 
of  nature  ;  so  do  I  read  the  record  of 
God's  interposing  mercy.  I  feel  myself 
embraced  with  a  kindness  too  tender 
and  strong  for  utterance.  It  cannot  iell 
me  how  dear  to  the  Infinite  Love  my 
welfare,  my  purity,  is.  Only  by  means 
and  ministrations,  by  blessings  and 
trials,  by  dealings  and  pressures  of  its 
gracious  hand  upon  me,  can  it  make  me 
know.  So  do  I  read  the  volume  of  life 
and  nature,  and  so  do  I  read  the  volume 
of  revelation.  I  see  in  Jesus  living,  in 
Jesus  suffering ;  I  see  in  the  deep  heart 
of  his  pain  and  patience,  and  love  and 
pity,  what  no  words  can  utter.  I  learn 
this  not  from  any  excellency  of  speech, 
but  from  the  excellency  of  his  living 
and  suffering.  Even  in  the  human 
breast  the  deepest  things  are  things 
which  it  can  never  utter.  So  it  was  in 
the  heart  of  Jesus.  So  it  is — I  speak 
it  reverently  —  in  the  nature  of  God; 
"  For  no  ear  hath  ever  heard  the  tilings 
which  God  hath  prepared  for  them  that 
love  him.  But  God  hath  revealed  them 
to  us  by  his  spirit ;  for  the  spirit,  and 
the  spirit  alone,  searcheth  all  things, 
yea,  the  deep  things  of  God." 


VII. 

HUMAN  NATURE  CONSIDERED  AS 
A  GROUND  FOR  TPIANKSGIV- 
ING. 

Psalm  c.  3,  4:  "  Know  ye  that  the  Lord  he  is 
God  ;  It  is  lie  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  our- 
selves ;  we  are  his  people  and  the  sheep  of  his  pasture  ; 
enter  into  his  gates  with  thanksgiving,  and  into  his 
courts  with  praise ,  be  thankful  unto  him  and  bless 
his  name." 

The  theme  of  gratitude  which  is  here 
presented    to  us   is  our  existence,  our 


nature.  "  It  is  He  that  hath  viade  us, 
and  not  we  ourselves  :  we  are  his  people 
and  the  sheep  of  his  pasture."  It  is 
not  what  we  possess  or  enjoy,  but  what 
we  are ;  or  it  is  what  we  possess  and 
enjoy  in  relation  to  what  we  are,  that  I 
would  make  the  suljject  of  grateful  com- 
memoration in  our  present  meditations. 

In  truth,  every  call  to  praise  is  but 
an  echo  of  this.  For  if  it  be  duly  con- 
sidered, will  it  not  be  found  that  all 
possible  blessings  —all  that  can  be  the 
occasions  of  thanksgiving  —  must  be 
referred  back,  when  we  trace  them,  to 
the  blessing  which  is  conferred  upon  us 
in  a  nature  capable  of  enjoying  ihem  ? 
The  bounty  and  the  beauty  of  the  world 
were  nothing,  but  for  the  seeing  eye  and 
the  sensitive  frame ;  the  wisdom  which 
all  things  teach  were  nothing,  but  for 
the  perceiving  mind  ;  the  blessed  rela- 
tions of  our  social  existence  would  be 
all  a  barren  waste,  if  we  had  not  a  heart 
to  feel  them  ;  and  all  the  tendencies  and 
conditions  of  our  life  and  being,  all  our 
labors  and  pleasures,  all  our  joys  and 
sorrows,  would  be  but  one  dark  struggle 
or  darker  despair,  if  we  had  not  a  moral 
soul  and  will  to  bring  good  out  of  evil, 
imperishable  virtue  out  of  perishable 
circumstance,  and  immortal  victory  out 
of  the  ever-pressing  strife  of  human 
existence. 

Every  blessing,  then,  hath  the  essen- 
tial condition  that  makes  it  such,  in  my 
very  humanity.  I  am  called  upoii  to  be 
thankful  for  food  and  raiment,  for  the 
bounties  and  gratuities  of  nature,  for 
green  fields  and  whitening  harvests,  for 
peace  and  freedom  and  government, 
and  for  those  blessings  that  are  beyond 
and  above  all,  — the  immeasurable  and 
eternal  blessings  of  religion.  I  am 
called  upon  to  be  thankful  for  all  these 
things,  and  I  am  so.  But  still  I  must 
say,  and  must  so  answer,  that  I  cannot 
be  thankful  for  one  of  these  blessings 
without  being  first,  and  last,  and  through-  & 
out,  thankful  that  I  am  a  man.  * 

The  advantage  of  being  a  man,  there- 
fore, is  what  I  propose  now  to  consider; 
the  blessing  bestowed   in  our  very  hu- 


AS   A    GROUND    FOR   THANKSGU'ING. 


43 


manity,  that  indeed  without  which  we 
had  not  the  power  of  gratitude. 

I  am  thankful,  then,  that  I  am  a  man. 
This  is  the  central  fact,  around  which 
ail  things  range  themselves  in  clusters 
of  blessings. 

I  am  thankful  that  I  am  human.  I 
am  thankful  that  I  am  not  a  clod,  that 
I  am  not  a  brute.  Nay,  nor  do  I  ask 
to  be  an  angel.  I  am  glad  that  I  am 
human.  My  very  humanity,  despite  of 
all  tiiat  is  said  against  it.  is  a  blessing 
and  a  gladness  to  me.  Although  it  may 
sound  strangely,  —  to  the  thoughtless 
man  on  one  account,  and  to  the  theolo- 
gian on  another,  yet  will  I  say  that  I 
accept  this  humanity  thankfully,  —  with 
all  its  imperfections,  with  all  its  weak- 
nesses, with  all  its  exposures  to  error 
and  sin.  None  but  a  high  moral  nature 
could  be  so  exposed.  Although  I  stand 
amidst  a  multitude,  where  the  infirmities 
of  this  nature  meet  me  on  every  side,  in 
many  a  shaded  brow  and  pale  cheek, 
in  many  a  countenance  where  grief  and 
gladness  are  strangely  mingled,  where 
joy  itself  is  touched  with  sadness  ;  yet 
still  I  say,  that  with  all  the  joy  and  sad- 
ness of  this  nature  included,  interwoven, 
and  making  up  one  momentous,  myste- 
rious and  touching  experience,  I  accept, 
I  embrace,  1  cherish  it  with  gratitude  :  I 
rejoice  that  it  is  mine. 

I  do  not  wish,  I  repeat,  to  be  some- 
tliing  else.  I  do  not  wish  that  I  were 
an  angel :  and  I  do  not  wish  that  I  were 
like  the  inhabitant  of  some  distant  star. 
I  do  not  know  what  he  is.  But  this 
humanity  that  throbs  in  my  bosom  —  I 
know  what  this  is  ;  it  is  near  me,  it  is 
dear  unto  me  ;  I  rejoice  that  I  am  a 
man. 

And  upon  this  I  insist,  and  am  going 
to  insist,  because  there  is,  I  fear,  a  com- 
monly prevailing  disparagement  of  our 
humanity,  which  leaves  no  proper,  no 
grateful  sense  of  what  it  is.  There  is  a 
feeling  in  many  minds,  as  if  it  were  a 
misery,  a  misfortune,  almost  a  disgrace 
to  be  a  man.  I  am  not  speaking  merely 
of  the  theological  disparagement,  —  the 
dull  fiction  of  Oriental  philosophy  and 


of  scholastic  darkness,  —  though  tliat, 
doubtless,  has  helped  to  create  the  com- 
mon impression  that  it  is  but  a  poor 
advantage,  but  a  doubtful  good,  to  be  a 
man.  1  am  not  speaking  alone  of  that 
scorn  and  desecration,  by  theology,  of 
the  very  humanity  which  it  ought  to 
have  loved  and  helped.  There  are  other 
causes  that  have  tended  to  the  same 
result :  human  pride,  misanthropy,  dis- 
content, anger  with  our  kind,  anger  with 
our  lot ;  and  the  natural  sense,  too,  of 
human  ills  and  errors.  It  is  curious  to 
see  how  almost  all  our  higher  literature 
betrays  its  trust  to  the  very  humanity 
which  it  celebrates,  —  denies  in  general 
what  it  teaches  in  detail,  —  heaps  satire 
and  scorn  upon  mankind,  and  yet  makes 
vteft  its  heroes.  It  is  wonderful  to  see 
how  not  authors  only,  but  men  gener- 
ally, can  berate  and  vilify  the  very  be- 
ing that  they  are.  Humanity  —  man  — 
these  are  not  contrasted,  but  correlative 
things  ;  you  cannot  eulogize  the  former 
and  desecrate  the  latter  ;  the  former  is 
the  ideal,  the  latter  the  real ;  the  one  is 
the  picture,  the  other  the  original.  What 
man  is,  rnust  furnish  the  elements  from 
which  we  draw  out  the  idea  of  what  man 
should  be  ;  what  you  think,  what  you 
feel,  is  human,  and  that  tells  what  hu- 
manity should  be.  There  is  doubtless 
a  struggle  between  these  conceptions 
of  the  actual  humanity  and  the  ideal 
humanity  ;  and  for  this  very  struggle, 
too,  I  admire  the  human  being.  It 
could  not  agitate  inferior  natures.  That 
man  can  separate  the  good  from  the  evil, 
and  set  it  up  as  a  model ;  that  he  can 
sigh  over  the  evil,  is  a  praise  and  a  glory 
to  him.  Ay,  and  that  he  can  satirize, 
scorn,  and  execrate  the  evil,  and  can  do 
it  with  such  uncompromising  heartiness 
that  he  goes  too  far,  seems  to  me  not 
a  disreputable  tendency  of  his  nature. 
There  is  something  right,  then,  some- 
thing respectable,  in  the  leaning  to 
darker  views.  In  this  respect  there  is 
something  right  in  theolosry,  in  litera- 
ture, and  in  common  opinion.  But  for 
the  sake  of  justice  and  of  gratitude, 
for  man's  sake,  and  for  God's  sake,  if  I 


44 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


may  reverently  say  so,  let  not  all  this  go 
too  far  ;  let  it  not  spread  the  shadow 
over  all,  lest  it  hide  from  us  both  man 
and  God.  I  must  therefore  resist  this 
tendency  :  because  it  is  wrong,  and  espe- 
cially, at  present,  because  it  hinders  a 
just  gratitude  to  the  Almighty  Creator 
for  the  nature  he  has  given  us. 

For  this  — what  we  are  —  is,  I  repeat, 
the  central  truth  around  which  all  other 
truths  that  appeal  to  gratitude  do  range 
themselves  :  it  is  the  sun  in  the  system 
of  God's  mercies,  —  their  common  bond 
and  enlightener.  It  will  not  do  to  set 
up  that  antagonism,  which  is  commonly 
taught,  between  man  and  God ;  to  say 
that  God  indeed  is  altogether  good,  but 
that  man  is  altogether  bad ;  that  God 
is  glorious,  but  that  man  is  altogether 
mean  ;  that  it  is  proper  indeed  to  cele- 
brate God's  goodness  and  glory,  but 
that  this  is  especially  to  be  done  by  dis- 
crediting all  worth  and  value  in  man. 
Who  is  it,  after  all,  that  celebrates  the 
goodness  of  God?  It  is  no  other  than 
man.  The  worshipper,  the  adorer,  the 
singer  of  praises  in  this  world,  is  none 
other  than  man.  If  his  nature  is  all 
contrast  to  the  divine,  what  is  the  value 
of  his  praise,  of  his  judgment  ?  Nay, 
how  came  the  divine  to  be  known  ? 
Man,  I  say,  is  the  worshipper.  And 
what  more  is  the  angel,  unless  that  he 
is  so  in  a  higher  measure,  or  with  a 
purer  intent.  There  must  then  be  a 
beauty  in  human  as  well  as  in  angelic 
nature,  or  all  the  beauty  of  the  creation 
and  of  its  Maker  could  avail  nothing  — 
were  nothing,  to  us.  I  know  not  what 
eyes  look  out  from  yonder  bright  orbs 
of  heaven  ;  but  I  know  that  eye  is  not, 
nor  soul  there,  that  can  see  anything 
brighter,  lovelier,  more  majestic,  more 
divine,  than  the  glory  of  Him  that  made 
us  :  that  made  the  earth  so  fair,  and  the 
heavens  so  beautiful  and  sublime.  I 
claim  kindred  with  those  dwellers  on 
high.  I  bow  with  them  in  adoration. 
I  join  my  voice  to  their  lofty  anthem. 
Shall  I  think  lightly  of  this  glorious 
affinity  ? 

No,  I  am  thankful  that  I  am  a  man. 


Boldly  do  I  say  it :  that  I  rejoice,  that  I 
delight  in  my  nature.  I  rejoice  that 
God  has  made  me,  and  made  me  such 
an  one  —  a  sensitive,  social,  religious 
being  —  one  of  the  seers,  one  of  the  wor- 
shippers, one  of  the  immortals.  Mourn 
I  well  may,  that  I  have  failed  so  lar,  so 
lamentably  far,  from  what  he  has  made 
me  for.  But  still  I  must  be  none  the 
less  thankful  for  the  wonderful  signa- 
tures that  he  has  set  upon  my  being. 

Does  any  one  critically  ask  why,  with 
such  repetition,  I  insist  upon  this  ?  I 
answer,  because  I  would  make,  on  this 
point,  a  distinct  and  decided  impression 
of  what  I  mean  to  say.  1  mean  to 
resist  that  ingratitude  which  holds  it  to 
be  a  misfortune  or  a  mischance  to  be  a 
man.  I  mean,  if  I  can,  to  roll  off  that 
burden  of  darkness  and  desolation  with 
which  our  hitmanily  is  thought  to  over- 
shadow the  world.  It  is  the  light  in  the 
world,  and  not  the  darkness.  It  is  the 
eye  that  sees,  and  not  the  cloud  that 
obscures.  Or  if  there  be  cloud  and 
dari<ness  in  it,  as  well  as  over  it,  in  it 
too,  and  in  it  alone  on  earth,  is  the  power 
of  vision  that  can,  and  does,  and  will  see 
through  all.  If  it  be  not,  then,  I  repeat, 
there  is  nothing  in  this  world  that  can 
see ;  and  all,  without  and  within,  is 
darkness,  —  darkness  as  the  shadow  of 
death,  as  the  gloom  of  the  grave.  No, 
it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  a  man,  or  else 
there  is  no  good  in  this  world.  Let  no 
one's  heart  sink  within  him,  when  that 
name,  dear  and  holy,  —  the  name  of 
MAN,  —  is  uttered.  Let  no  one  give 
himself  to  dull,  sighing,  sorrowing,  com- 
plaining, disconsolate  thoughts  of  his 
humanity.     It  is  a  high  and  glorious  gift. 

I  exist.  What  a  blessing  and  a  won- 
der is  that  !  A  few  years  ago,  and  I  was 
not;  no  spot  in  the  fair  universe  held 
jne.  From  dark  and  void  nothingness 
I  am  called  to  the  glad  precincts  of  be- 
ing ;  into  the  living  and  loving  bosom  of 
nature  ;  into  communion  with  the  things 
that  are  ;  myself  —  chiefest  blessing!  — 
myself  among  the  things  that  are.  And 
do  I  ask  to  whom  I  owe  this  blessing.'' 
Whence  came  I,  do  I  ask  1     What  one 


AS   A   GROUND    FOR   THANKSGIVING. 


45 


among  the  mysterious  powers  of  heaven 
gave  me  this  wonderful  being  ?  Reason 
answers,  and  Holy  Writ  answers,  there 
is  but  One  who  creates.  And  the 
Psalmist  teaches  us,  and  says,  "  It  is  He 
t'lat  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  our- 
selves." It  is  He,  God,  that  hath  called 
me  into  being  ;  to  stand  beneath  these 
sliining  heavens  ;  to  look  around  upon 
the  loveliness  of  earth  ;  to  breathe  the 
air  of  verdant  fields,  and  see  the  light 
of  rising  and  setting  suns  ;  to  behold 
the  moulded  beauty  of  sloping  valleys 
and  swelling  mountains,  and  the  flash- 
ing light  of  streams  and  ocean  waves. 
Everybody  says  that  this  is  the  darkest 
world  in  the  universe.  Who  knows  it  ? 
Who  knows  that  there  is  any  one  among 
all  the  spheres  of  heaven  more  beau- 
tiful than  this  ?  The  old  Greek  sages 
thought  not  thus,  who  used  the  same 
word,  KOSMOS,  for  beauty  and  for  the 
world.  Other  kind  of  beauty  there  may 
be,  but  who  shall  dare  to  say  that  any 
creation  has  proceeded  from  God  that  is 
not  all  beautiful  ?  I  do  not  like  that 
phrase,  "  this  dark  world."  Poetry  may 
use  it,  and  in  some  relations  and  in  some 
moods  there  may  be  a  propriety  in  its 
use.  But  what  I  complain  of  is,  that 
the  feeling  has  sunk  down  into  the  com- 
mon heart  ;  the  unadmiring,  unholy,  un- 
thankful feeling,  that  this  is  a  dark 
world  ;  the  darkest  of  all  worlds.  I 
complain  that  the  casual  shade  of  poetry 
has  settled  into  a  fixed,  opaque  incrus- 
tation over  tlie  general  mind  ;  that  it  is 
common  to  feel  as  if  this  were  a  coarse, 
imgenial,  ungrateful,  almost  an  ill-made 
world;  as  if  it  were  the  rough-hewn 
penitentiary  of  the  creation,  frowning 
upon  us  from  its  granite  walls  and  its 
(lark  and  dingy  arches.  And  therefore 
1  say,  who  knows  it  ?  Who  knows  that 
there  is  anything  in  the  far-lying  fields 
of  heaven  more  beautiful,  of  more  en- 
trancing loveliness,  than  the  world  we 
dwell  in?  I  say,  who  knows  it?  But 
I  might  say,  rather,  shame  on  the  su- 
perstitious weakness,  the  uncultivated 
thought,  the  unkindled  apathy,  that  finds 
nothing  here  but  a  jjrison  wall  surround- 


ing a  convict's  yard  !  Shame  on  the  eye 
that  cannot  see,  and  on  the  heart  that 
cannot  feel,  the  wonders  and  beauties  of 
this  fair  and  lovely  creation  around  us  ! 
No  poetry,  hath  it  ?     Nay,  nor  no  piety, 

—  none  at  least  that  is  a  fit  offering  to 
the  glorious  Creator  ! 

And  as  man  stands  ainidst  the  fair 
creation,  with  what  a  wonderful  appa- 
ratus is  he  provided  for  communication 
with  it;  with  a  perception  for  every  ele- 
ment ;  for  the  sweets  of  every  bounty  in 
nature,  for  the  fragrance  of  every  field, 
for  the  soft,  embracing  air,  for  the 
sounds  that  come  from  every  hill  and 
mountain  and  murmuring  stream  and 
ocean  wave,  for  the  light  that  beams 
from  the  far  distant  stars.  We  look 
upon  the  lately  invented  electro-mag- 
netic telegraph  as  a  wonder  ;  and  it  is 
so.  But  man's  whole  sensitive  frame  is 
a  more  wonderful  telegraph.  He  wakes 
from  sleep,  and  all  nature  around  be- 
comes a  living  presence  ;  life  streams 
in  through  every  pore  of  the  quick-feel- 
ing vesture  with  which  he  is  clothed. 
He  hstens  ;  and  into  the  polished  and 
waxen  chambers  of  the  ear  comes  the 
hum  of  cities,  the  bleating  of  flocks 
upon  the  hills,  the  sound  of  the  wood- 
man's axe  in  the  deep  forest,  —  comes 
the  echoing  of  the  wide  welkin  above 
him,  —  comes,  above  all,  the  music  of 
human  speech.  He  opens  his  eye,  and 
stars  that  rise  upon  the  infinite  seas  of 
space  are  telegraphed  to  his  vision. 

We  are  proverbially  insensible  to  the 
value  of  that  which  we  have  always  pos- 
sessed ;  of  which  we  cannot  go  back 
in  our  conscious  thought  to  the  origin. 
If  seeing  were  an  invention,  how  should 
we  admire  it !    We  admire  the  telescope, 

—  itself  the  product  of  a  reasoning 
power  which  God  has  given  us,  and 
which  will  doubtless  discover  yet  greater 
things. 

But  suppose  that  the  eye  had  at  first 
been  formed  to  see  only  this  world,  and 
all  beyond  had  been  a  wall  of  darkness  ; 
and  that  then,  at  some  given  era,  there 
had  been  superadded  to  that  organ  the 
telescopic  power,  and  upon  the  human 


46 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


eye  had  burst  the  wonders  of  heaven  : 
how  dark  on  the  page  of  human  history 
would  have  lain  the  ages  before  ;  and 
how  would  that  era  be  forever  celebrat- 
ed, almost  as  the  beginning  of  human 
existence  !  And  what  is  the  telescope 
compared  with  this  !  — built  at  much  ex- 
pense ;  a  cumbrous  weight  to  be  carried 
from  place  to  place,  and  constructed 
with  elaborate  mechanism  to  turn  its 
axis  one  way  and  another  ;  while  in  the 
beggar's  eye,  as  he  lifts  it  to  heaven, 
and  turns  it  unconsciously  from  point  to 
point,  is  an  instrument  which  all  the  skill 
of  science,  aided  by  the  wealth  of  em- 
pires, could  never  construct. 

Say  you  not,  then,  even  considering 
man  in  this  light,  —  only  as  endowed 
with  senses,  —  that  it  is  good  to  be  a 
man  ?  And  yet,  considering  him  thus, 
we  have  only  placed  him  upon  the  stage 
of  his  life's  great  action,  and  given  him 
the  materials  and  the  instruments  with 
which  he  is  to  work. 

Standing  on  this  theatre,  he  sees,  he 
hears,  he  observes,  indeed  ;  and  this  is 
wonderful.  But  how  much  more  won- 
derful is  that  transmutation  by  which 
observation  becomes  knowledge  ;  sight, 
perception ;  and  hearing,  oracular  wis- 
dom! The  w<?r/(/ stands  in  its  majesty 
and  beauty ;  but  it  is  transformed  into 
another  kind  of  majesty  and  beauty  by 
the  labors  of  science  and  art.  The  re- 
sult, —  the  actual  state  of  human  knowl- 
edge, —  it  seems  to  me,  is  worthy  of 
more  consideration  than  it  always  re- 
ceives. I  cannot  think  that  an  angel, 
if  he  were  to  visit  this  world,  would 
look  upon  this  structure  of  its  laboring 
wisdom  witli  disparaging  scorn.  The 
world  has  done  its  work,  — done  some 
work,  surely.  Behold  the  fabric  of 
science  it  has  raised ;  with  its  vast 
and  ranged  collections  of  objects  from 
all  nature,  from  fields  and  forests,  from 
mountains  and  mines,  from  woods  and 
waters  ;  with  its  curious  and  world-inter- 
preting laboratories  ;  with  its  million-vol- 
umed  libraries,  stored  with  the  wisdom 
of  ages  ;  with  its  illumined  chambers 
of  philosophy,  and  its  dome,  the  grand 


observatory  of  the  skies,  swelling  up  to 
heaven;  —  and  then  see  how  man  takes 
from  the  majestic  halls  of  science  the 
principles  and  results  which  he  applies 
to  the  advancement  of  his  comfort,  civ- 
ilization, and  welfare  ;  how  he  is  making 
nature  every  day  more  and  more  his 
helper  and  his  friend;  how  he  takes  the 
swift  lightning  and  makes  it  his  tele- 
graphic messenger;  how  he  chains  to 
his  fiery  car  on  the  land  and  on  the  sea 
that  elemental  power  which  he  had 
known  before  only  in  the  whirlwind  and 
the  storm.  Nay,  look  at  that  system  of 
practical  wisdom  which  he  has  wrought 
out  from  the  daily  experience  of  life,  — 
the  system  of  common  sense,  —  that 
which  instructs  him  in  the  knowledge 
of  men  and  the  uses  of  things  ;  that  ap- 
titude and  adjustment  of  his  faculties 
to  every  exigency  ;  that  which,  if  a  man 
utterly  lacks,  he  ceases  to  be  a  man, 
and  is  pronounced  a  fool.  Because  it  is 
called  common  sense,  it  is  considered 
as  something  ordinary  and  indifferent. 
We  will  never  learn  that  the  greatest 
things  are  common  ;  the  greatest  gifts, 
universal.  Not  the  philosopher  alone 
is  wise.  Nay,  every  man  is  wiser  as  a 
man  than  any  man  is  merely  as  a  learned 
man.  All  the  wisdom  there  is  in  books 
is  not  equal  to  the  wisdom  that  floats 
in  the  common  air  about  us ;  the  wis- 
dom of  life  ;  the  wisdom  from  which 
books  draw  all  their  life ;  the  wisdom 
that  is  gained,  not  in  the  study  nor  the 
cloister,  but  in  the  great  school  which 
God  has  built, — the  school  of  life. 
Consider  it,  proud  philosopher,  or  self- 
complacent  man  of  rank  or  of  wealth  ! 
Suppose  yourself  deprived  of  that  light 
of  common  sense  in  which  the  multitude 
walks  :  what,  then,  would  your  libraries, 
or  your  palaces,  or  your  thrones,  avail 
you  ?  Avail  you  ?  They  had  not  been. 
They  had  not  been  written,  nor  built, 
nor  lifted  up.  And  what  would  yo2{  be 
without  the  common  food  of  unv/ritten 
reason  ?  A  starveling,  an  idiot,  a  fool. 
Yes,  though  you  sat  upon  a  throne,  you 
would  be  sent  out,  like  Nebuchadnezzar, 
to  eat  jjrass  with  the  ox. 


AS   A   GROUND    FOR   THANKSGIVING. 


47 


When  I  think  of  all  that  man,  as  an 
intellectual  being,  has  acquired  and 
achieved,  it  amazes  me  that  anybody 
can  speak  of  this  world  as  the  abode  of 
a  poor,  toiling,  drudging,  ignorant,  con- 
temptible race.  I  would  beat  down  every 
aristocracy,  whether  of  birth  or  learning 
or  wealth,  that  says  this.  I  think  the 
world  has  done  very  well,  —  done  much, 
though  not  all  that  it  might.  I  think 
this  a  very  respectable  race  —  respec- 
table?—  why,  a  wonderful  race.  Do 
not  answer  me,  now,  with  a  satirical 
thought  of  the  poor,  dwarfed,  ignorant 
creatures  that  you  sometimes  see  around 
you.  Do  not  cast  their  faults  upon  the 
whole  family.  It  is  a  serious  matter  that 
we  are  considering.  It  is  a  serious  thing 
to  defame  and  belie  a  whole  world.  It 
is  a  thing  you  could  not  do  at  all,  but 
for  the  van;ueness  of  your  contemplation. 
Vou  could  not  so  discredit  your  fam- 
ily, your  family  circle,  your  village,  your 
city,  your  country.  Oh  no  !  this  is  too 
near  vou.  Nay,  and  let  another  speak  ill 
of  your  city  or  your  country,  not  to  sa)^ 
your  family,  and  he  will  hear  your  indig- 
nant defence.  But  when  you  speak  of  the 
great  world,  you  seem  to  think  that  its 
shoulders  are  broad  enough  to  bear  any- 
thing. It  is  as  if  you  shot  an  arrow  into 
the  great  circumambient  air  ;  it  can 
neither  hit  nor  hurt  anybody.  Or  it  is 
the  world  in  past  ages  that  you  speak 
of  ;  a  dead  world  that  cannot  answer  ; 
it  lies  before  you,  quite  a  passive  theme, 
and  you  seem  to  think  it  a  fine  thing  to 
write  cold  history  or  scornful  satire  upon 
it,  as  a  wretched  and  worthless  world. 
I  cannot  agree  with  this  unbrotherly 
scorn,  because  the  ivorld'x's,  its  object. 

Nay,  and  there  is  one  yet  more  seri- 
ous aspect  of  this  subject ;  that  in  which 
it  presents  a  providence.  It  seems  to 
me  a  poor  business  for  philosophv,  first 
to  make  the  world  as  mean  and  base  as 
it  can,  and  then  to  turn  about  and  try  to 
explain  why  it  was  made  at  all  ;  how  its 
existence  can  be,  in  any  way,  reconciled 
with  the  goodness  of  providence.  A 
hard  problem  it  is,  then,  for  the  philoso- 
pher ;   too  hard  for  him  ;  and  he  worries 


himself  with  it  in  vain.  It  gives  but 
little  satisfaction  in  the  case  to  say  tliat, 
although  men  have  been  fools,  they  might 
have  been  wiser  if  they  would.  The 
truth  is,  they  have  been  wiser  than  the 
cynical  philosopher  admits.  The  case  is 
not  so  hard  as  he  makes  it.  And  he  must 
make  it  better,  or  he  can  never  solve 
his  problem.  None  but  a  more  consid- 
erate and  fraternal  philosophy  ever  will 
solve  it.  On  the  side  of  this  fraternal 
philosophy  I  take  my  place ;  and  in  the 
spirit  of  it  I  say  again  that,  considering 
myself  as  an  intellectual  being,  and  pre- 
tending to  be  no  wiser  than  the  average 
of  men,  J  do  not  think  it  a  misfortune 
to  be  a  man ;  I  am  thankful  that  I  am 
a  man. 

And  what  think  you,  my  friends,  of 
society, —  that  living  mechanism  of  hu- 
man relationships  that  spreads  itself  over 
the  world;  that  finer  essence  within  it, 
which  as  truly  moves  it  as  any  power, 
heavy  or  expansive,  moves  your  sound- 
ing manufactories  or  swift-flying  cars  ? 
The  man-machine  hurries  to  and  fro 
upon  the  earth,  moves  this  way  and 
that,  stretches  out  its  hands  on  every 
side,  to  toil,  to  barter,  to  unnumbered 
labors  and  enterprises ;  and  almost 
ever  the  motive,  that  which  moves  it,  is 
something  that  takes  hold  of  the  com- 
forts, affections,  and  hopes  of  social  ex- 
istence. It  is  true  that  the  mechanism 
often  works  with  difficulty,  drags  heav- 
ily, grates  and  screams  with  harsh  col- 
lision. And  it  is  true  that  the  essence 
of  finer  motive,  becoming  intermixed 
with  baser,  with  coarser  ingredients,  of- 
ten clogs,  obstructs,  jars,  and  deranges 
the  free  and  noble  action  of  social  life. 
But  surely  he  is  not  wise,  and  will  not 
be  duly  grateful,  who  turns  the  eye  of 
the  cynic  upon  all  this,  and  loses  the 
blessed  sense  of  social  good  in  its  per- 
versions. That  I  can  be  a  frietid,  that 
I  can  have  a  friend,  though  it  were  but 
one  in  the  world,  that  fact,  that  blessed- 
ness, I  will  set  against  all  the  sufferings 
of  my  social  nature.  That  there  is  such 
a  place  on  earth  as  a  home ;  that  resort, 
that  sanctuarv  of  in-walled  and  shielded 


48 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE. 


I 


joy,  I  will  set  against  all  the  surround- 
ing desolations  of  life.  That  I  can  be 
a  true  social  man  ;  that  I  can  speak  my 
true  thought  amidst  all  the  janglings  of 
controversy  and  the  warring  of  opinions ; 
that  fact  iVom  within  outweighs  all  facts 
from  without. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  the  visible  aspect 
and  action  of  society,  often  repulsive 
and  annoying,  we  are  apt  to  lose  the 
due  sense  of  its  invisible  blessings.  As 
in  the  frame  of  nature  it  is  not  the  coarse 
and  palpable,  not  soils  and  rains,  not 
even  fields  and  flowers,  that  are  so  beau- 
tiful, as  the  invisible  spirit  of  wisdom 
and  beauty  that  pervades  it ;  so  in  the 
iVame  of  society  it  is  the  invisible,  and 
therefore  unobserved,  that  is  most  beau- 
tiful. And  yet  in  the  visible,  I  have 
often  thought,  there  is  more  beauty  than 
is  often  acknowledged.  The  human 
countenance,  I  am  wont  to  think,  is 
more  beautiful  than  it  is  usually  con- 
sidered. I  speak  not  here  of  what  is 
commonly  called  beauty ;  that  which 
arises  from  symmetry  of  feature  and 
delicacy  of  complexion.  There  is  a  beau- 
ty in  almost  every  countenance,  —  the 
wonderful  beauty  and  power  of  expres- 
sion, —  that  far  surpasses  all  that  these 
too  much  lauded  charms  can  bestow 
upon  any.  An  artist  once  said  to  me, 
when  I  spoke  of  the  common  faces  he 
had  to  paint :  "  No,  there  is  a  beauty  in 
the  human  countenance  that  I  can  never 
paint;  what  I  meet  with  every  day  in 
the  street,  —  the  plainest  that  I  meet, — 
I  can  never  paint  its  beauty."  I  felt  at 
once  rebuked,  and  obliged,  too,  as  one 
that  receives  a  wiser  thought  than  his 
own.  Yes,  it  is  true,  and  I  see  it  every 
day.  There  are  expressions  of  ingenu- 
ousness and  modesty,  of  love  and  pity, 
breaking  out  from  the  plainest  and  the 
roughest  features  ;  there  are  evanescent 
shadings  of  thought  and  feeling  flitting 
over  every  countenance,  that  never  were 
transferred  to  the  canvas.  Worldly  fash- 
ion may  set  up  its  laws  and  its  idols ; 
but  it  were  a  m.ore  wisely  instructed  eye 
that  should  see  loveliness  everywhere. 

Let  not  this  be  thought  too  trivial  for 


this  place ;  I  speak  of  the  outshining 
of  the  secret  soul  through  "  the  human 
face  divine."  And,  indeed,  how  much 
is  secret  and  unseen  in  the  frame  of  so- 
ciety! What  an  invisible  law  is  that  — 
an  invisible  law  of  God  it  is  —  that  reigns 
over  the  relationship  of  sex  !  The 
delicacy  of  that  relation  is  stronger  than 
any  human  government ;  a  graceful  veil, 
and  yet  a  linked  chain.  It  is  like  tlie 
at  once  attractive  and  repelling  electric 
forces,  which,  unchained,  would  explode 
with  crash  and  ruin,  and  yet  are  ever 
held  fast  by  an  invisible  hand  I  Or  will 
you  go  down  to  the  rougher  paths  of  life  ? 
What  nerves  the  arm  of  toil  .^  If  man 
minded  himself  alone,  he  would  fling 
down  the  spade  and  the  axe,  and  rush  to 
the  wilderness,  or  roam  through  the  world 
as  a  wilderness  ;  and  he  would  make 
the  world  a  desert.  His  home,  which 
he  sees  not,  perhaps,  but  once  or  twice 
in  a  day,  —  that  home  is  the  invisible 
bond  of  the  world.  And  what  is  it  that 
gives  the  loftiest  character  to  business, 
to  trade  and  commerce  .''  What  but  the 
good,  strong,  and  noble  faith  that  men 
put  in  one  another  ?  Fraud  there  is, 
but  it  is  the  exception,  in  the  goings  on 
of  business;  honesty  is  the  rule,  and  all 
the  frauds  in  the  world  cannot,  cannot 
tear  the  great  bond  of  human  confidence. 
If  they  could,  commerce  would  furl  its 
sail  on  all  seas,  and  all  the  cities  of  the 
world  would  crumble  to  ruins.  There 
stands  a  man  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  whom  you  never  saw,  whom  you 
never  will  see ;  and  yet  that  man's 
bare  character  do  you  hold  good  for  a 
bond  of  thousands.  And  what  is  the 
most  striking  feature  of  the  political 
state?  Not  governments,  not  constitu- 
tions, not  laws,  not  enactments,  not 
police,  but  the  universal  will  of  the 
people  to  be  governed  by  the  common 
weal.  Take  off"  that  restraint,  and  no 
government  on  earth  can  stand  for  an 
hour. 

We  have  now  considered  our  being 
as  sensitive,  intellectual,  and  social,  and 
as  furnishing,  in  each  one  of  these  char- 
acters, signal  occasions  for  gratitude  to 


AS   A   GROUND   FOR   THANKSGIVING. 


49 


fts  Author.  There  is  one  higher  char- 
acter presenting  still  stronger  claims, 
and  yet  demanding  still  higher  faith  for 
its  recognition  ;  I  mean,  of  course,  the 
moral,  the  spiritual,  the  divine  nature 
that  man  possesses.  For  here  it  is  pre- 
cisely—in this  region  where  the  moral 
will  puts  forth  its  power  —  that  it  en- 
counters such  difficulty  and  is  guilty  of 
such  failure,  that  it  seems,  no  doubt,  at 
times,  as  if  the  world  were  overshadowed 
with  sins  and  sorrows. 

Of  the  actual  attainments  of  this  spir- 
itual nature,  it  is  true,  we  must  entertain 
but  a  moderate  and  humbling  estimate. 
And  yet  I  must  say  that  the  nature  has 
done  more  and  better  than  it  always  has 
credit  for.  I  must  confess  that  I  am  led 
at  times  to  wonder,  not  that  the  world 
is  so  bad  as  it  is,  but  to  wonder  that  it  is 
not  worse.  Human  nature  has  been  so 
badly  treated  by  those  who  should  have 
known  it  better,  that  its  virtues  some- 
times more  surprise  me  than  its  vices. 
We  hear  indeed  of  horrible  atrocities  at 
which  society  stands  aghast  ;  but  when 
I  think  of  the  undisciplined  strength  of 
passion,  the  untamed  anger  that  boils  in 
the  human  breast,  the  unschooled  pro- 
pensities that  rage  in  the  human  frame, 
I  wonder  rather  at  the  limits  that  are  set 
to  their  range. 

"  There's  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
Rough  hew  them  how  we  will." 

How  few  men  are  as  bad  as  they  might 
be,  as  bad  as  they  are  tempted  to  be  ! 
How  many  checks  are  there  in  the  moral 
system  of  our  being  and  life  !  How  many 
painful  emotions  beset  the  evil  course ; 
how  many  admonitory  voices  are  there 
of  sin-inflicted  suffering,  disease,  and 
sorrow,  that  warn  and  almost  compel 
man  to  be  wise  !  That  which  divines 
have  called  "  restraining  grace,"  —  that 
restraint  indeed  of  the  Great  Will  that 
reigns  over  us,  —  what  a  marvellous  fea- 
ture is  it  in  the  moral  economy  ! 

And  that  I  can  suffer  when  I  sin,  that 
I  can  sorrow  for  the  wrong  that  is  in  me, 
that  I  can  sigh  and  struggle  to  be  free 
from  it,—  I  am  glad  of  that.  Were  it  not 
for  this  moral  nature,  this  conscience, 


all  were  wrecked  ;  but  it  exists,  it  is 
strong,  it  works  mightily  in  the  human 
heart.  I  know  not  luho  makes  it  suffer 
and  sorrow  and  struggle  as  it  does,  but 
God.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  institu- 
tions, all  preachings,  all  machinery  of 
human  device,  are  weak  compared  with 
this  all-pervading  power  of  God  that 
works  within  us.  And  indeed  all  other 
means  are  nothing  but  as  they  take  hold 
of  that  power. 

And  if  by  that  power  I  can  and  do 
rise  to  virtue,  if  I  gain  the  victory  over 
temptation,  if  I  attain  to  a  true  and  solid 
peace,  to  an  inward  sufficiency,  to  the 
supreme  and  absorbing  love  of  goodness 
and  of  God,  then  indeed  are  my  feet  set 
upon  a  rock,  and  a  new  song  is  put  into 
my  mouth  ;  and  it  is  a  song  of  thanks- 
giving. Nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven 
can  ever  be  such  a  cause  of  thankful- 
ness with  me  as  this. 

What  an  interest  belongs  to  the  very 
strifes  and  trials  that  may  lead  to  this  ! 
A  man  who  makes  a  fortune  on  the 
burning  soil  of  India  is  thankful  to  that 
country;  with  all  its  heat  and  dust  and 
languor  and  disease,  he  is  thankful  to 
it.  A  man  who  stands  here  at  home, 
with  energy  and  opportunity  to  repair 
his  broken  fortunes,  blesses  that  oppor- 
tunity and  that  energy.  So  do  we  stand 
in  the  field  of  the  world.  We  may  have 
failed  to  a  certain  extent,  or  we  may 
have  failed  altogether,  to  secure  the  great 
interest  of  life.  But  still  the  opportu- 
nity for  better  efforts  is  given ;  time  is 
lengthened  out ;  the  day  and  the  means 
of  grace  are  ours  ;  conscience  is  in  our 
hearts,  and  the  Bible  is  in  our  hands, 
and  prayer  may  be  on  our  lips  ;  all  is 
not  lost ;  the  time  past  may  be  redeemed, 
the  erring  steps  retrieved  ;  our  very 
errors  may  teach  us  ;  our  sad  experi- 
ence may  teach  us,  —  blessed  be  its  sad- 
ness  then!  —  and  we  may  rise  to  sanc- 
tity, to  blessedness,  and  to  heaven .  And 
if,  I  say  again,  we  can  and  do  thus 
succeed  ;  if,  from  this  often-deceiving 
and  ever-changing  and  fleeting  world 
we  may  draw  and  fix  within  us  one 
thing  which  is  sure  and  steadfast   and 


50 


ON    HUMAN    NATURE. 


immovable  and  always  abounding,  one 
feeling  that  is  assurance  and  sufficiency 
and  victory,  a  happiness  in  wisdom,  in 
love,  and  in  God,  which  is,  we  know,  in 
its  very  nature  everlasting,  which,  we 
feel,  will  never  desert  us,  will  never  let 
us  be  unhappy,  go  where  on  earth, 
go  where  in  heaven,  we  will ;  what  a 
prize,  to  bear  away  from  a  struggling 
life  and  from  the  battling  world,  is 
this  !  Who  does  not  say,  "  Thanks  be 
to  God  "  ?  And  who  that  understands 
the  great,  comforting,  and  redeeming 
ministration  of  the  Gospel  to  this  end 
does  not  say,  "  Thanks  be  to  God 
throutrh  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  "  ?  Yes, 
my  brethren,  through  Jesus  Christ, 
above  all.  We  have  not  been  left  to 
struggle  alone.  One  has  come  to  us, 
bearing  the  image  of  God,  bearing  the 
mission  of  God  ;  One,  all  compassion 
and  tenderness,  all  truth  and  loveliness, 
has  come  to  us  and  taught  us,  and  helped 
us,  and  prayed  for  us,  and  died  for  us : 
and  to  him,  under  God,  do  we  owe  the 
prize.  And  when  it  is  gained  and  borne 
away  to  heaven,  then  and  there  shall 
we  say,  "  Blessing  and  honor  and  glory 
and  power  be  unto  Him  that  sitteth  on 
the  throne,  and  to  the  Lamb  forever  and 
ever!  " 

And,  in  fine,  my  friends,  that  we  shall 
bear  aivay  this  prize  from  earth  to  heav- 
en,—  is  that  to  be  lamented  ?  Shall  that 
thought  check  and  chill  all  our  gladness 
and  thanksgiving  ? 

I  rejoice  that  I  am  a  man,  — a  sensitive, 
intellectual,  social,  moral  being:  above 
all,  that  I  am  a  moral  being.  I  rejoice 
that  I  have  a  conscience,  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  God.  I  rejoice  that  I  am  a 
being  subject  to  a  great  moral  trial.  I 
lament  that  I  have  fallen,  but  all  the 
more  am  I  thankful  that  I  can  rise.  I 
thank  God  that  I  can  spiritually  sorrow 
and  struggle,  and  spiritually  carf  gain 
the  victory.  But  now  shall  I  surprise 
you — shall  I  seem  to  say  too  much  if 
I  say,  I  thank  God  that  I  am  mortal  ?  I 
thank  God  that  he  has  put  a  limit  to 
this  earthly  probation.  Not  with  griev- 
ing, but  with  hope,  do  I   recognize  the 


1 


solemn  truth  that  one  day,  —  what  day  I 
know  not.  and  for  that  too  am  I  thankful, 

—  that  one  day,  appointed  in  God's  wis- 
dom, I  shall  die  !  — yes,  that  I  shall  die! 

—  that  I  shall  lay  aside  this  body  for 
another  form  of  being!  I  would  not  live 
always.  I  would  not  always  feel  the 
burdens  and  barriers  with  which  mor- 
tality has  surrounded  and  overlaid  me. 

Some  time  or  other  I  would  part 
hence  ;  some  time  or  other  I  would 
that  my  friends  should  part  hence.  Oli, 
could  we  go  in  families!  But  that,  too, 
I  see,  would  not  be  well.  For  then  how 
bound  up  in  our  families  should  we 
be  —  how  selfish  and  how  reserved  and 
exclusive  !  No,  I  take  the  great  dispen- 
sation as  it  is,  and  I  am  thankful  lor 
it.  All  its  strong  bonds,  all  its  urgent 
tasks,  all  its  disciplinary  trials — I  ac- 
cept all,  and  accept  all  with  gratitude. 
.Sweet,  angel  visits  of  peace  are  these 
also  ;  thrilling  pleasures  in  my  sensitive 
frame  ;  lofty  towerings  and  triumphs  of 
intellect;  blessed  bonds  and  joys  of  so- 
ciety ;  the  glorious  vision  of  tlie  infinite 
perfection;  I  am  thankful  for  them  all. 
I  am  thankful  that  every  age  of  life  has 
its  character,  task,  and  hope  ;  that  child- 
hood comes  forth  upon  the  stream  of  life, 
in  its  frail  but  fairy  and  gay  vessel,  with 
its  guardian  angel  by  its  side,  the  banks 
covered  with  flowers,  and  the  vermilion 
tints  of  morning  upon  the  hills  ;  that 
youth  stands  amidst  the  bright  landscape, 
stretching  its  ej^e  and  its  arm  to  the 
cloud-castle  of  honor  and  hope  ;  that 
manhood  struggles  amidst  the  descend- 
ing storm,  with  resignation,  with  courage, 
with  an  eye  fixed  on  heaven,  and  that 
although  shapes  of  wrath  and  terror  are 
amidst  the  elements,  the  guardian  angel 
too  is  there,  holding  its  bright  station 
in  the  clouds  ;  and  that  when  age  at  last 
comes,  life's  struggle  over,  life's  voyage 
completed,  thatlightfromheaven streams 
down  upon  the  darkness  and  desolation 
of  earth,  and  the  good  angel  is  by  its 
side,  and  pointing  upward  says, "  Thither 

—  thither  shalt  thou  go"  !  * 

*  The  allusion  here  is  to  that  admirable  series  of 
paintings,  by  Mr.  Cole,  entitled  "  The  Stream  of  Life. " 


THE   MORAL   SIGNIFICANCE   OF   LIFE. 


SI 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


VIII. 

THE   MORAL   SIGNIFICANCE   OF 
LIFE. 

Job  iv.  12-16 :  "  Now  a  thing  was  secretly  brought 
to  me,  and  mine  ear  received  a  little  thereof.  In 
thoughts  from  the  visions  of  the  night,  when  deep 
sleep  falleth  on  men,  fear  came  upon  me,  and  trem- 
bling, which  m.ide  all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a 
spirit  passed  before  my  face,  and  the  hair  of  my  flesh 
stood  up.  It  stood  still,  but  I  could  not  discern  the 
form  thereof;  an  image  was  before  mine  eyes,  there 
was  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice." 

Human  life,  to  many,  is  like  the  vis- 
ion of  Eliphaz.  Dim  and  shadowy  veils 
hang  round  its  awful  revelations.  Teach- 
ings there  are  to  man,  in  solemn  and 
silent  hours,  in  thoughts  from  the  vis- 
ions of  the  night,  in  vague  impressions 
and  unshaped  reveries  ;  but  on  this  very 
account  they  fail  to  be  interpreted  and 
understood.  There  is  much  teaching: 
but  there  is  also  much  unbelief. 

There  is  a  scepticism,  indeed,  about 
the  entire  moral  significance  of  life, 
which  I  propose,  in  this  discourse,  to 
examine.  It  is  a  scepticism,  sometimes 
taking  thefcjrm  of  philosophy,  sometimes 
of  misanthropy  and  scorn,  and  some- 
times of  heavy  and  hard-bound  worldli- 
ness,  which  denies  that  life  has  any  lofty, 
spiritual  import;  which  resolves  all  into 
a  series  of  toils  and  trifles  and  vanities, 
or  of  gross  and  palpable  pursuits  and 
acquisitions.  It  is  a  scepticism,  not 
about  creeds,  not  about  Christianity ;  it 
lies  farther  back  —  lies  far  deeper  ;  it  is 
a  scepticism  about  the  very  meaning  and 
intent  of  our  whole  existence. 

This  scepticism  I  propose  to  meet  ; 
and  for  this  purpose  I  propose  to  see 
what  argument  can  be  extracted  out  of 
the  very  grounds  on  which  it  founds 
itself. 

The  pertinency  of  my  text  to  my  pur- 
pose, as  I  have  already  intimated,  lies  in 


this ;  there  is  much  of  deep  import  in 
this  life,  like  that  which  Eliphaz  saw  in 
the  visions  of  the  night,  —  not  clear,  not 
palpable,  or  at  least  not  usually  recog- 
nized and  made  familiar :  but  it  cometh, 
as  it  were  in  the  night,  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  on  men  ;  it  cometh  in  the  still 
and  solitary  hours  ;  it  cometh  in  the  time 
of  meditation  or  of  sorrow,  or  of  some 
awful  and  overshadowing  crisis  of  life. 
It  is  secretly  brought  to  the  soul,  and 
the  ear  receiveth  a  little  thereof.  It  is 
as  a  spirit  that  passeth  before  us,  and 
vanisheth  into  the  night  shadow;  or  it 
standeth  still,  but  we  cannot  discern  the 
form  thereof ;  there  is  an  undefined  im- 
age of  truth  ;  there  is  silence  ;  and  at 
length  there  is  a  voice. 

It  is  of  these  unrecognized  reve- 
lations of  our  present  being  that  I 
would  endeavor  to  give  the  interpre- 
tation ;  1  would  attempt  to  give  them 
a  voice. 

But  let  us  spread  out  a  little,  in  the 
first  place,  the  sceptic's  argument.  It 
says :  "  \Vhat  is  there  in  human  exist- 
ence that  accords  with  your  lofty  Chris- 
tian theory  ?  You  may  talk  about  the 
grandeur  of  a  human  life,  the  sublime 
wants  and  aspirations  of  the  human  soul, 
the  solemn  consciousness,  amidst  all 
life's  cares  and  toils,  of  an  immortal  des- 
tiny ;  it  is  all  a  beautiful  dream  !  Look 
over  the  world's  history,  and  say  —  what 
intimations  does  it  furnish  of  that  majes- 
tic design,  the  world's  salvation  ?  Look 
at  any  company  of  toiling  and  plodding 
men  in  the  country  around  you,  and 
what  are  they  thinking  of  but  acres  and 
crops  of  labor  and  the  instruments  of 
labor  ?  Go  into  the  noisy  and  crowded 
manufactory,  and  what  is  there  but 
machinery  —  animate  or  inanimate;  the 
mind  as  truly  girded  and  liarnessed  to 
the   work   as    the   furning-Iathe  or  the 

/  _        -  -  -  \\ 

\:  - 


52 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


banded  wheel  ?  Gaze  upon  the  thronged 
streets,  or  upon  holiday  crowds,  mixing 
the  oaths  of  the  profane  with  the  draughts 
of  the  intemperate,  and  where  is  the 
spiritual  soul  that  you  talk  of  ?  Or  look 
at  human  life  in  a  large  view  of  it,  and 
of  what  is  it  made  up  ?  "  Trouble  and 
weariness,"  —  you  see  that  it  is  the  cyn- 
ic's complaint,  —  "trouble  and  weari- 
ness ;  the  disappointment  of  inexperience 
or  the  dulness  of  familiarity  ;  the  frivolity 
of  the  gay  or  the  unprofitable  sadness  of 
melancholy  ;  the  heavy  ennui  of  the  idle 
or  the  plodding  care  of  the  busy  ;  the 
suffering  of  disease  or  the  wasted  energy 
of  health  ;  frailty  its  lot,  and  its  doom, 
death ;  a  world  of  things  wasted,  worn 
out,  perishing  in  the  use,  tending  to 
nothing  and  accomplishing  nothing  ;  so 
complete  the  frivolity  of  life  with  many, 
that  they  actually  think  more  of  the  fine 
apparel  they  shall  wear  than  of  the  in- 
ward spirit,  which  you  say  is  to  inherit 
the  immortal  ages  !  " 

All  this,  alas  !  is  too  true ;  but  it  is  not 
true  to  the  extent,  nor  in  the  exclusive 
sense,  alleged.  That  but  few  meditate 
on  their  lot  as  they  ought,  is  perfectly 
true ;  but  there  are  impressions  and 
convictions  that  come  into  the  mind 
through  other  channels  than  those  of 
meditation.  They  come,  perhaps,  like 
the  shadowy  vision  of  Eliphaz,  in  dark- 
ness and  silence,  —  vague,  indistinct, 
mysterious,  awful ;  or  they  come  in  the 
form  of  certain  but  neglected  and  for- 
gotten truths.  And  they  come,  too,  from 
those  very  scenes  in  which  the  eye  of 
the  objector  can  see  nothing  but  ma- 
terial grossness  or  thoughtless  levity. 
This  is  what  I  shall  especially  attempt  to 
show.  I  shall  not  undertake,  in  this  dis- 
course, to  go  farther;  but  I  believe  that 
I  shall  not  perform  a  useless  service  to 
the  true  faith  of  our  being,  if  I  may  be 
able,  in  some  measure,  to  unveil  and 
bring  to  light  those  secret  intimations 
which  are  often  smothered,  indeed,  but 
which  from  time  to  time  are  flashing  out 
from  the  cloud  of  human  cares  and  pur- 
suits. 

"Man,"  it  is   said,  "is  bound    up  in 


materiaUsna,  imprisoned  by  the  senses, 
limited  to  tlie  gross  and  palpable  ;  far- 
reaching  thoughts,  soaring  aspirations, 
are  found  in  essays  and  speculations 
about  him  rather  than  in  his  own  expe- 
rience ;  they  are  in  books,  rather  than 
in  brick-yards  and  ploughed  fields  and 
tumultuous  marts." 

What  stupendous  revelations  are 
cloaked  and  almost  hidden  by  familiar- 
ity! This  very  category  of  scepticism, 
what  is  it  but  the  blind  admission  of  the  ) 
sublimest  truth  ?  A  man  is  recognized  i 
as  standing  amidst  this  palpable  cloud  \ 
of  care  and  labor;  enclosed,  it  is  said,  ' 
shut  up  in  sense  and  matter,  but  still  a 
tnan!  A  dungeon  is  this  world,  if  you 
please  so  to  represent  it;  but  in  this 
dungeon  is  a  prisoner,  moaning,  sor- 
rowing, sighing  to  be  free.  A  wilder- 
ness world,  it  is,  in  the  thought  of  many  ; 
but  one  is  struggling  through  this  wilder- 
ness, who  imparts  to  it  a  loftier  grandeur 
than  its  own  ;  his  articulate  voice,  his 
breathed  prayer,  or  his  shout  amidst  the 
dim  solitudes — nay,  the  very  sound  of 
his  axe  in  the  forest  depths  —  is  sub- 
limer  than  all  the  solemn  symphonies  of 
antumn  winds  sweeping  through  its  ma- 
jestic aisles. 

Grant  that  matter  and  sense  are  man's 
teachers  ;  and  consider  these  teachings 
in  their  very  humblest  form,  in  their  very 
lowestgrade,  —  what  they  \.^,c\\ perforce^ 
and  in  spite  of  man's  will.  What  are 
they  ?  Materialism  itself  suggests  to  man 
the  thought  of  an  immaterial  principle. 
The  senses  awaken  within  him  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  soul.  Of  a  soul,  I  say  ; 
and  what  is  that  ?  Oh  !  the  very  word 
"  soul  "  is  itself  soiled  by  a  common  use, 
till  we  know  not  what  it  means.  So 
that  this  universal  endowment  of  human- 
ity, this  dread  endowment,  by  which  infin- 
ity, eternity,  nay,  and  divinity,  belong  to 
its  innate  and  inmost  conceptions,  can 
be  at  once  admitted  and  almost  over- 
looked, in  the  account  of  human  exist- 
ence. 

In  man  the  humblest  instruments  re- 
veal the  loftiest  energies.  This  is  not; 
enthusiasm,    but    philosophy.      Modern; 


THE   MORAL   SIGNIFICANCE   OF  LIFE. 


53 


pliilosophy  has  distinctly  unfolded  this 
principle  ;  that  all  our  mental  concep- 
tions suggest  their  opposites,—  the  finite, 
the  infinite;  the  seen,  the  unseen;  time, 
eternity  ;  creation,  a  God.  The  child 
that  has  tried  his  eye  upon  surrounding 
objects  soon  learns  to  send  his  thought 
through  the  boundless  air,  and  to  em- 
brace the  idea  of  infinite  space.  The 
being  that  is  conscious  of  having  lived 
a  certain  time  comes  to  entertain,  as 
correlative  to  that  consciousness,  the 
conception  of  eternity.  These  are 
among  the  fundamental  facts  of  all  hu- 
man experience.  Such,  to  a  man  in 
distinction  from  an  animal,  is  the  in- 
strumentality of  his  very  senses.  As 
with  a  small  telescope,  a  few  feet  in 
length  and  breadth,  man  learns  to  sur- 
vey heavens  beyond  heavens,  almost 
infinite,  so  with  the  aid  of  limited 
senses  and  faculties  does  he  rise  to  the 
conception  of  what  is  beyond  all  visible 
heavens,  beyond  all  conceivable  time, 
beyond  all  imagined  power,  beauty,  and 
glory.  Such  is  a  hviman  life  Man 
stands  before  us  visibly  confined  within 
the  narrowest  compass  ;  and  yet  from 
this  humble  frame  stream  out  on  every 
side  the  rays  of  thouglit,  to  infinity,  to 
eternity,  to  omnipotence,  to  boundless 
grandeur  and  goodness.  Let  him  who 
will,  account  this  existence  to  be  noth- 
ing but  vanity  and  dust.  I  must  be 
allowed,  on  better  grounds,  to  look  upon 
it  as  that  in  whose  presence  all  the 
visible  majesty  of  worlds  and  suns  and 
systems  sink  to  nothing.  Systems  and 
suns  and  worlds  are  all  comprehended 
in  a  single  thought  of  this  being  whom 
we  do  not  yet  know. 

But  let  us  pass  from  these  primary 
convictions,  which  are  suggested  by 
matter  and  sense,  to  those  spheres  of 
human  life  where  many  can  see  nothing 
but  weary  labor,  or  trifling  pleasure,  or 
heavy  ennui. 

Labor,  then  —  what  is  it,  and  what 
doth  it  mean  ?  Its  fervid  brow,  its 
toiling  hand,  its  weary  step, —  what  do 
they  mean  .''  It  was  in  the  power  of 
God  to  provide  for  us,  as  he  h.as  pro- 


vided for  the  beasts  of  the  field  and 
the  fowls  of  heaven,  so  that  human 
hands  should  neither  toil  nor  spin.  He 
who  appointed  the  high  hills  as  a  refuge 
for  the  wild  goats,  and  the  rocks  for  the 
conies,  might  as  easily  have  caused 
marble  cities  and  hamlets  of  enduring 
granite  to  have  been  productions  of  na- 
ture's grand  masonry.  In  secret  forges 
and  by  eternal  fires  might  every  instru- 
ment of  convenience  and  elegance  have 
been  fashioned  :  the  winds  might  have 
woven  soft  fabrics  upon  every  tree,  and 
a  table  of  abundance  might  have  been 
spread  in  every  wilderness  and  by  every 
sea-shore.  For  the  animal  races  it  is 
spread.  Why  is  it  not  for  man  ?  Why 
is  it  especially  ordained  as  the  lot  of 
man,  that  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow  he 
shall  eat  his  bread  .''  Be  ye  sure  that  it 
hath  a  meaning.  The  curse,  so  much 
dreaded  in  the  primeval  of  innocence 
and  freedom  of  nature,  falls  not  cause- 
less on  the  earth.  Labor  is  a  more  be- 
neficent ministration  than  man's  igno- 
rance comprehends  or  his  complainings 
will  admit.  It  is  not  mere  blind  drudg- 
ery, even  when  its  end  is  hidden  from 
him.  It  is  all  a  training,  it  is  all  a  dis- 
cipline ;  a  development  of  energies,  a 
nurse  of  virtues,  a  school  of  improve- 
ment. From  the  poor  boy  that  gathers 
a  few  sticks  for  his  mother's  hearth,  to 
the  strong  man  who  fells  the  forest  oak, 
every  human  toiler,  with  every  weary 
step  and  every  urgent  task,  is  obeying 
a  wisdom  far  above  his  own  wisdom, 
and  is  fulfilling  a  design  far  beyond  his 
own  design,  — his  own  supply  and  sup- 
port, or  another's  wealth,  luxury,  or 
splendor. 

But  now  let  us  turn  to  an  opposite 
scene  of  life.  I  mean  that  of  pleasure 
and  dissipation.  Is  this  all  mere  fri- 
volity, a  scene  that  suggests  no  meaning 
beyond  its  superficial  aspects  ?  Nay, 
my  friends,  what  significance  is  there 
in  unsatisfying  pleasure  ?  What  a  se- 
rious thing  is  the  reckless  gayety  of  a 
bad  man  !  What  a  picture,  almost  to 
move  our  awe,  does  vice  present  to  us  ! 
The  desperate  attempt  to  escipe  from 


54 


ON   HUMAN    LIFE. 


\ 


the  ennui  of  an  unfurnished  and  unsat- 
isfied mind  ;  the  blind  and  headlong 
impulse  of  the  soul  to  quench  its  mad- 
dening thirst  for  happiness  in  the  burn- 
ing draughts  of  pleasure ;  the  deep 
consciousness  which  soon  arises  of  guilt 
and  infamy  ;  the  sad  adieu  to  honor  and 
good  fame  ;  the  shedding  of  silent  and 
bitter  tears ;  the  flush  of  the  heart's 
agony  over  the  pale  and  haggard  brow  ; 
the  last  determined  and  dread  sacrifice 
of  the  soul  and  of  heaven  to  one  de- 
moniac passion,  —  what  serious  things 
are  these  !  What  signatures  upon  the 
soul,  to  show  its  higher  nature  !  What 
a  fearful  handwriting  upon  the  walls 
that  surround  the  deeds  of  darkness, 
duplicity,  and  sensual  crime  !  The  holy 
altar  of  religion  hath  no  seriousness 
about  it,  deeper,  or,  I  had  almost  said, 
more  awful,  than  that  which  settles 
down  upon  the  gaming-table,  or  broods 
oftentimes  over  the  haunts  of  corrupt- 
ing indulgence.  At  that  altar,  indeed, 
is  teaching;  words,  words  are  uttered 
/lere;  instruction,  cold  instruction,  alas  ! 
it  may  be,  is  delivered  in  consecrated 
walls  ;  but  if  the  haunts'  of  evil  could  be 
unveiled,  if  the  covering  could  be  taken 
off  from  guilty  hearts,  if  every  sharp 
pang  and  every  lingering  regret  of  the 
vitiated  mind  could  send  forth  its 
moanings  and  sighs  into  the  great  hear- 
ing of  the  world,  the  world  would 
stand  aghast  at  that  dread  teaching. 

But  besides  the  weariness  of  toil  and 
the  frivolity  of  pleasure,  there  is  another 
state  of  life  that  is  thought  to  teach 
nothing  ;  and  that  is  ennui,  — a  state  of 
leisure  attended  with  moody  reveries. 
The  hurry  of  pursuit  is  over,  for  the 
time  ;  the  illusions  of  pleasure  have 
vanished  ;  and  the  man  sits  down  in  the 
solitariness  of  meditation,  and  "weary, 
flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  appear  to 
him  all  the  uses  of  this  life."  It  seems 
to  him,  as  I  once  heard  it  touchingly 
expressed  even  by  a  child,  "as  if  every- 
thing was  nothing."  This  has  been  the 
occasional  mood  of  many  lofty  minds, 
and  has  often  been  expressed  in  our 
literature.     Says  one,  — 


"  Life's  little  stage  is  a  small  eminence, 
Inch  high  above  the  grave  ;  that  home  of  man, 
Where  dwells  the  multitude  ;  we  gaze  around  ; 
We  read  their  monuments  ;  we  sigh  ;  and  while 
We  sigh,  we  sink,  and  are  what  we  deplored ; 
Lamenting,  or  lamented,  all  our  lot !  " 

And  our  great  dramatist  says,  — 

"To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time, 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death 

Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  •.  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing. 

But  bound  up  with  this  poor,  frailj 
life  is  the  mighty  thought  that  spurnsj 
the  narrow  span  of  all  visible  existence. 
Out  of  this  nothing  springs  a  some-i 
thing,  —  a  significant  intimation,  a  dread 
revelation  of  the  awful  powers  that  lie 
wrapped  up  in  human  existence.  Noth- 
ing more  reveals  the  majestic  import  of 
life  than  this  ennui,  this  heart-sinking 
sense  of  the  vanity  of  all  present  acqui- 
sitions and  attainments.  "Man's  mis- 
ery," it  has  been  well  said,  "comes  of 
his  greatness."  The  sphere  of  life  ap- 
pears small,  the  ordinary  circle  of  its 
avocations  narrow  and  confined,  the 
common  routine  of  its  cares  insipid  and 
unsatisfactory;  why?  Because  he  who 
walks  therein  demands  a  boundless  range 
of  objects.  Why  does  the  body  seem 
to  imprison  the  soul  ?  Because  tlie 
soul  asks  for  freedom  ;  because  it  looks 
forth  from  the  narrow  and  grated  win- 
dows of  sense  upon  the  wide  and  im- 
measurable creation  ;  because  it  knows 
that  around  and  beyond  it  lie  out- 
stretched the  infinite  and  the  everlast- 
ing paths. 

I  have  now  considered  some  of  those 
views  of  life  which  are  brought  forward 
as  objections  against  our  Christian  the- 
ory of  its  greatness.  My  purpose  in 
this  discourse  is  not  to  penetrate  into 
the  wisdom  of  its  deeper  relations,  but 
to  confine  myself  to  its  humblest  as- 
pects, and  to  things  tliat  are  known  and 
acknowledged  to  be  matters  of  fact. 


THE   MORAL   SIGNIFICANCE   OF   LIFE. 


55 


With  this  view,  I  proceed  to  observe, 
i    in  the  last  place,  that  everything  in  this 
!    life  bears  traits  that  may  well  stir  our 
minds  to  admiration  and  wonder. 

How  mysterious  is  the  connection  of 
mind  with  matter :  of  the  act  of  my  will 
with  the  motion  of  my  hand ;  this  won- 
derful telegraphic  communication  be- 
tween the  brain  and  every  part  of  the 
body  !  We  talk  of  nerves  ;  but  how 
knoweth  the  nerve  in  my  finger  of  the 
will  that  moves  it  ?  We  talk  of  the  will  ; 
but  what  is  it,  and  how  does  its  com- 
manding act  originate  ?  It  is  all  mys- 
tery. Within  this  folding  veil  of  flesh, 
within  these  dark  channels,  every  in- 
stant's action  is  a  history  of  miracles. 
Every  famihar  step  is  more  than  a  story 
in  a  land  of  enchantment.  Were  the 
marble  statue  before  us  suddenly  en- 
dowed with  that  self-moving  power,  it 
would  not  be  intrinsically  more  won- 
derful than  is  the  action  of  every  being 
around  us. 

The  human  face  is  itself  a  wonder. 
I  do  not  mean  in  its  beauty,  nor  in  its 
power  of  expression,  but  in  its  variety 
and  its  individuality.  What  is  the  prob- 
lem that  is  here  solved  ?  Suppose  it 
were  stated  thus  :  given,  a  space  nine 
inches  long  and  six  inches  broad;  the 
form  essentially  the  same,  the  features 
the  same,  the  colors  the  same  ;  re- 
quired, unnumbered  hundreds  of  millions 
of  countenances  so  entirely  different, 
as,  with  some  rare  exceptions,  to  be 
completely  and  easily  distinguishable. 
Would  not  the  whole  mechanical  inge- 
nuity of  the  world  be  tlirown  into  utter 
despair  of  approaching  any  way  towards 
such  a  result  ?  And  yet  it  is  complete- 
ly acheived  in  the  liuman  countenance. 
Yes,  the  familiar  faces  that  are  around 
us  bear  mysteries  and  marvels  in  every 
look. 

Again,  the  house  thou  dwellest  in, 
that  familiar  abode,  what  holds  it  to- 
gether, and  secures  it  on  its  firm  foun- 
dadon  ?  Joint  to  joint,  beam  to  beam, 
every  post  to  its  socket,  is  swathed  and 
fastened  by  the  mighty  bands  that  hold 
ten   thousand    worlds    in    their    orbits. 


This  is  no  phantasm  of  the  imagina- 
tion ;  it  is  the  philosophical  fact.  All 
actual  motion  and  all  seeming  rest  are 
determined  by  unnumbered,  most  nicely 
balanced,  and  at  the  same  time  immeas- 
urable influences  and  attractfons.  Uni- 
versal harmony  springs  from  infinite 
complication.  And  therefore  every  step 
thou  takest  in  thy  dwelhng,  —  still  I  only 
repeat  what  philosophers  have  proved,  — 
the  momentum  of  every  step,  I  say,  con- 
tributes its  part  to  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

What,  then,  is  a  life,  conscious  of 
these  stupendous  relations,  and  what 
are  its  humblest  dwellings  ?  If  you 
lived  in  a  palace  that  covered  a  hundred 
miles  of  territory,  and  if  the  stamping 
of  your  foot  could  convey  an  order  to 
its  farthest  limits,  you  would  feel  that 
that,  indeed,  was  power  and  grandeur. 
But  you  live  in  a  system  of  things,  you 
dwell  in  a  palace,  whose  dome  is  spread 
out  in  the  boundless  skies  ;  whose  lights 
are  hung  in  the  wide  arches  of  heaven  ; 
whose  foundations  are  longer  far  than 
the  earth  and  broader  far  than  the  sea; 
and  you  are  connected  by  ties  of 
thought,  and  even  of  matter,  with  its 
whole  boundless  extent.  If  your  earth- 
ly dwelling,  your  house  of  life,  were 
lifted  up  and  borne  visibly  among  the 
stars,  guarded  with  power  and  clothed 
with  light,  you  would  feel  that  that 
was  a  sublime  fortune  for  any  being  to 
enjoy.  To  ride  in  a  royal  chariot  would 
be  a  small  thing  compared  with  that. 
But  you  are  borne  onward  among  the 
celestial  spheres ;  rolling  worlds  are 
around  you ;  bright,  starry  abodes  fill 
all  the  coasts  and  skies  of  heaven  ;  you 
are  borne  and  kept  by  powers,  silent 
and  unperceived,  indeed,  but  real  and 
boundless  as  the  immeasurable  uni- 
verse. 

The  infinite,  we  allow,  is  mA'sterious ; 
but  not  less  so,  in  truth,  is  the  finite 
and  the  small.  It  is  said  that  man 
cannot  comprehend  infinity.  It  is  true, 
and  yet  it  is  falsely  said  in  one  respect. 
The  declaration  that  we  cannot  under- 
stand infinity    usually   conveys  the  im- 


56 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


plication  that  we  can  comprehend  that 
which  is  the  opposite  of  infinity  ;  that 
is,  the  Uttle  scene  around  us.  But  the 
humblest  object  beneath  our  eye  as 
completely  defies  our  scrutiny  as  the 
economy  of  the  most  distant  world. 
Every  spire  of  grass,  of  which  the 
scythe  mows  down  millions  in  an  hour, 
holds  within  it  secrets  which  no  human 
penetration  ever  fathomed.  Examine  it 
with  the  microscope,  and  you  shall  find 
a  beautiful  organization  ;  channels  for 
the  vital  juices  to  flow  in  ;  some  to 
nourish  the  stalk  ;  others  .to  provide  for 
the  flower  and  prepare  the  seed  ;  other 
instruments  still  to  secrete  the  nutri- 
ment that  flows  up  from  the  soil,  and 
to  deposit  and  incorporate  it  with  the 
plant  ;  and,  altogether,  a  mechanism 
more  curious  than  any,  perhaps,  ever 
formed  by  the  ingenuity  of  man.  And 
yet  there  are  questions  here  which 
the  profoundest  philosopher  cannot  an- 
swer. What  is  the  principle  of  life, 
without  which,  though  the  whole  organi- 
zation remains,  the  plant  dies  ?  And 
what  is  that  wonderful  power  of  secre- 
tion ?  No  man  can  tell.  There  are  in- 
scrutable mysteries,  wrapped  up  in  the 
foldings  of  that  humble  spire  of  grass. 
Sit  down  now,  and  take  thy  pen,  and 
spread  out  thine  account,  as  some  writ- 
ers have  done,  of  the  insignificance  of 
human  life.  But  wilt  thou  pause  a  little, 
and  tell  me  first  how  that  pen  was 
formed  wherewith  thou  art  writing, 
and  that  table  whereon  thy  tablets  are 
laid  ?  Thou  canst  tell  neither.  Wilt 
thou  not  pause  then,  when  the  very  in- 
struments thou  art  using  should  startle 
thee  into  astonishment  ?  Lay  thine  hand 
where  thou  wilt,  and  thou  layest  it  on  the 
hiding  bosom  of  mystery.  Step  where 
thou  wilt,  and  thou  dost  tread  upon  a 
land  of  wonder.  No  fabled  land  of  en- 
chantment ever  was  filled  with  such 
startling  tokens.  So  fraught  are  all 
things  with  this  moral  significance, 
that  nothing  can  refuse  its  behest.  The 
furrows  of  the  field,  the  clods  of  the 
valley,  the  dull  beaten  path,  the  insensi- 
ble rock,  are  traced  over  and  ^n  every 


direction  with  this  handwriting,  mor? 
significant  and  sublime  than  all  the 
beetling  ruins  and  all  the  buried  cities 
that  past  generations  have  left  upon 
the  earth.  It  is  the  handwriting  of  the 
Almighty  ! 

In  fine,  the  history  of  the  humblest 
human  life  is  a  tale  of  marvels.  There 
is  no  dull  or  unmeaning  thing  in  exist- 
ence, did  we  but  understand  it ;  there  is 
not  one  of  our  employments,  no,  nor  one 
of  our  states  of  mind,  but  is,  could  we 
interpret  it,  as  significant  —  not  as  in- 
structive, but  as  significant  —  as  Holy 
Writ.  Experience,  sensation,  feeling, 
suffering,  rejoicing ;  what  a  world  of 
meaning  and  of  wonder  lies  in  the  modes 
and  changes  and  strugglings  and  soar- 
ings of  the  life  in  which  these  are  bound 
up  !  If  it  were  but  new,  if  we  had  been 
cast  upon  "this  shore  of  being"  without 
those  intervening  steps  of  childhood  that 
have  now  made  it  familiar  ground,  how 
had  we  been  rapt  in  astonishment  at 
everything  around,  and  everything  with- 
in us  ! 

I  have  endeavored  in  the  present  dis- 
course—  perhaps  in  vain  —  to  touch  this 
sense  of  wonder:  to  arouse  attention 
to  the  starthng  and  awful  intimations, 
to  the  striking  and  monitory  lessons  and 
warnings,  of  our  present  existence.  And 
if  some  of  the  topics  and  suggestions  of 
my  discourse  have  been  vague  and  shad- 
owy, yet  I  am  ready  to  say,  better  to  be 
startled  by  the  shadows  of  truth,  than 
to  sleep  beneath  its  noontide  ray ;  bet- 
ter to  be  aroused  by  the  visions  of  a 
dream,  than  to  slumber  on  in  profound 
unconsciousness  of  all  the  signs  and 
wonders  of  our  being.  Oh  !  that  I  could 
tear  off  this  dreadful  commonplace  of 
life,  and  show  you  what  it  is.  There 
would  be  no  want,  then,  of  entertain- 
ment or  excitement ;  no  need  of  jour- 
neys or  shows  or  tales  to  interest  us  ; 
the  every-day  world  would  be  more  than 
theatres  or  spectacles  ;  and  life,  all-pierc- 
ing, all-spiritual,  would  be  more  than 
the  most  vivid  dream  of  romance  ;  how 
much  more  than  the  most  eager  pursuit 
of  pleasure  or  profit ! 


EVERYTHING   IN   LIFE   IS   MORAL. 


57 


My  brethren,  there  is  a  vision  like 
that  of  Eliphaz,  stealing  upon  us,  if  we 
would  mark  it,  througii  tlie  veils  of  every 
evening's  shadows,  or  coming  in  the 
morning  with  the  mysterious  revival  of 
thought  and  consciousness  ;  there  is  a 
message  wliispering  in  the  stirred  leaves, 
or  starting  beneath  the  clods  of  the  field, 
in  the  life  that  is  everywhere  bursting 
from  its  bosom.  Everything  around  us 
images  a  spiritual  life;  all  forms,  modes, 
processes,  changes,  though  we  discern 
them  not.  Our  great  business  with  life 
is  so  to  read  the  book  of  its  teaching  ; 
to  find  that  life  is  not  the  doing  of 
drudgeries,  but  the  hearing  of  oracles  ! 
The  old  mythology  is  but  a  leaf  in  that 
book,  for  it  peopled  the  world  with  spir- 
itual natures.  Many-leaved  science  still 
spreads  before  us  the  same  tale  of  won- 
der. Spiritual  meditation,  interpreting 
experience,  and  above  all,  the  life  of 
Jesus,  will  lead  us  still  farther  into  the 
heart  and  soul  and  the  innermost  life 
of  all  things.  It  is  but  a  child's  life,  to 
pause  and  rest  upon  outward  things, 
though  we  call  them  wealth  and  splen- 
dor. It  is  to  feed  ourselves  with  husks, 
instead  of  sustaining  food.  It  is  to 
grasp  the  semblance,  and  to  lose  the 
secret  and  soul  of  existence.  It  is  as 
if  a  pupil  should  gaze  all  day  upon  the 
covers  of  his  book,  and  open  it  not,  and 
learn  nothing.  It  is  indeed  that  awful 
alternative  which  is  put  by  Jesus  him- 
self; to  gain  the  world  — though  it  be 
the  whole  world — and  to  lose  our  own 
soul. 


IX. 


THAT    EVERYTHING   IN    LIFE   IS 
MORAL. 

Job  vil.  17,  18  :  "What  is  man,  that  thou  shoiildst 
magnify  him,  and  set  thine  heart  upon  him ;  and 
that  thou  shouldst  visit  him  every  morning,  and  try 
him  every  moment?" 

That  we  are  "tried  every  moment," 
IS  the  clause  of  the  text  to  which  I 
wish,  in  this  discourse,  to  direct  your 
meditation.     By  which,  in  the  sense  of 


the  passage  before  us,  is  not  meant  that 
we  are  continually  afflicted,  but  that  we 
are  constantly  proved  and  put  to  the 
test;  that  everything  which  befalls  us, 
in  the  course  of  life  and  of  every  day, 
bears  upon  us,  in  the  character  of  a 
spiritual  discipline,  a  trial  of  our  temper 
and  disposition  ;  that  everything  devel- 
ops in  us  feelings  that  are  either  right  or 
wrong.  I  have  spoken  in  my  last  dis- 
course of  the  moral  significance  of  life. 
I  propose  to  speak  in  this  of  the  possible 
moral  use  and  of  the  inevitable  moral 
effect  of  everything  in  life.  My  theme, 
in  short,  is  this  ;  that  everything  in  life 
is  moral,  or  spiritual. 

There  is  no  conviction  which  is  at 
once  more  rare,  and  more  needful  for 
our  improvement,  than  this.  If  the  lan- 
guage of  Job's  discontent  and  despair  in 
the  chapter  from  which  our  text  is  taken 
is  not  familiar  to  many,  yet  to  very  many 
life  appears  at  least  mechanical  and  dull. 
It  is  not  such  in  fact,  but  it  appears  such. 
It  appears  to  be  mere  labor,  mere  busi- 
ness, mere  activity.  Or  it  is  mere  pain 
or  pleasure,  mere  gain  or  loss,  mere  suc- 
cess or  disappointment.  These  things, 
if  not  mechanical,  have  at  least,  to  many 
minds,  nothing  spiritual  in  them.  And 
not  a  fev/  pass  through  the  most  impor- 
tant transactions,  through  the  most  mo- 
mentous eras  of  their  lives,  and  never 
think  of  them  in  their  highest  and  most 
interesting  character.  The  pervading 
morality,  the  grand  spiritual  import,  of 
this  earthly  scene,  seldom  strikes  their 
minds  or  touches  their  hearts.  And  if 
they  think  of  ever  becoming  religious, 
they  expect  to  be  so  only  through  retire- 
ment from  this  scene,  or,  at  least,  through 
teachings  and  influences  and  processes 
far  removed  from  the  course  of  their 
daily  lives. 

But  now  I  say,  in  contradiction  to 
this,  that  everything  in  life  is  spiritual. 
What  is  man,  says  Job,  that  thou  visit- 
est  him  every  morning .''  This  question 
presents  us,  at  the  opening  of  every  day, 
with  that  view  of  life  which  I  propose 
to  illustrate.  Tliat  conscious  existence 
which,  in  the  morning,  you  recover  from 


58 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


the  embraces  of  sleep,  —  what  a  testi- 
mony is  it  to  the  power  and  beneficence 
otGod  !  What  a  teacher  is  it  of  all  de- 
vout and  reverent  thoughts  !  You  laid 
yourself  down  and  slept.  You  lay,  un- 
conscious, helpless,  dead  to  all  the  pur- 
poses of  life,  and  unable  by  any  power 
of  your  own  ever  to  awake.  From  that 
sleep,  from  that  unconsciousness,  from 
that  image  of  death,  God  has  called  you 
to  a  new  life  ;  he  has  restored  to  you  the 
gift  of  existence.  And  now  what  meets 
you  on  this  threshold  of  renewed  life  ? 
Not  bright  sunbeams  alone,  but  God's 
mercies  visit  you  in  every  beaming  ray 
and  every  beaming  thought,  and  call  for 
gratitude  ;  and  you  can  neither  acknowl- 
edge nor  resist  the  call  without  a  moral 
result.  That  result  may  come  upon  you 
sooner  than  you  expect.  If  you  rise 
from  your  bed  with  a  mind  undevout, 
ungrateful,  self-indulgent,  selfish,  some- 
thing in  your  very  preparations  for  the 
clay,  something  that  may  happen  in  a 
matter  slight  as  that  of  the  toilet,  may 
disturb  your  serenity  and  cloud  your  day 
at  the  beginning.  You  may  have  thought 
that  it  was  only  the prajeroi  tlie  morning 
that  had  any  religion,  anything  spiritual 
in  it.  But  I  say  that  there  is  not  an  article 
in  your  wardrobe,  there  is  not  an  instru- 
ment of  daily  convenience  to  you,  how- 
ever minute  or  otherwise  indifferent,  but 
it  has  a  power  so  far  moral  that  a  little 
disarray  or  disorder  in  it  may  produce 
in  you  a  temper  of  mind,  ay,  a  moral 
state,  of  the  most  serious  character. 
You  may  not  be  conscious  of  this  ;  that 
is,  you  may  not  be  distinctly  sensible  of 
it,  and  yet  it  may  be  none  the  less  true. 
We  are  told  that  the  earth,  and  every 
substance  around  us,  is  full  of  the  elec- 
tric fluid  ;  but  we  do  not  constantly  per- 
ceive it.  A  little  friction,  however,  de- 
velops it,  and  it  sends  out  a  hasty  spark. 
And  so  in  the  moral  world, —  a  slight 
chafing,  a  single  turn  of  some  wheel  in 
the  social  machinery,  and  there  comes, 
like  the  electric  spark,  a  flashing  glance 
of  the  eye,  a  hasty  word,  perhaps  a  mut- 
tered oath,  that  sounds  ominous  and 
awful  as  the  tone   of  distant   thunder ! 


What  is  it  that  the  little  machinery  of  the 
electrical  operator  develops  ?  It  is  the 
same  power  that,  gathering  its  tremen- 
dous forces,  rolls  through  the  firmament 
and  rends  the  mountains  in  its  might. 
And  just  as  true  is  it  that  the  little  round 
of  our  daily  cares  and  occupations,  the 
humble  mechanism  of  daily  life,  bears 
witness  to  that  moral  power  which,  only 
extended,  exalted,  enthroned  above,  is 
the  dread  and  awful  Majesty  of  the 
heavens. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  proposition. 
Everything  is  moral,  and  therefore,  as 
we  have  said,  great  and  majestic  ;  but 
let  us  for  a  few  moments  confine  our- 
selves to  the  simple  consideration  that 
everything  in  its  bearings  and  influences 
is  moral. 

All  times  and  seasons  are  moral ;  the 
serene  and  bright  morning,  we  have 
said  ;  that  wakening  of  all  nature  to  life  ; 
that  silence  of  the  early  dawn,  as  it  were 
the  silence  of  expectation  ;  that  fresh- 
ening glow,  that  new  inspiration  of  life, 
as  if  it  came  from  the  breath  of  heaven  ; 
but  the  holy  eventide  also,  its  cooling- 
breeze,  its  falling  shade,  its  hushed  and 
sober  hour  ;  the  sultry  noontide,  too, 
and  the  solemn  midnight  ;  and  spring- 
time and  chastening  autumn  ;  and  sum- 
mer, that  unbars  our  gates  and  carries  us 
forth  amidst  the  ever-renewed  wonders 
of  the  world  ;  and  winter,  that  gathers  us 
around  the  evening  hearth,  —  all  these,  as 
they  pass,  touch  by  turns  the  springs  of 
the  spiritual  life  in  us,  and  are  conduct- 
ing that  life  to  good  or  evil.  The  very 
passing  of  time,  without  any  reference 
now  to  its  seasons,  develops  in  us  mucli 
that  is  moral.  For  what  is  the  passing  ot 
time,  swifter  or  slower;  what  are  its  lin- 
gering and  its  hasting,  but  indications, 
but  expressions  often,  of  the  state  of 
our  own  minds  .''  It  hastes  often,  because 
we  are  wisely  and  well  employed ;  it  lin- 
gers, it  hangs  heavily  upon  us,  because 
our  minds  are  unfurnished,  unenlight- 
ened, unoccupied  with  good  thoughts,. 
with  the  fruitful  themes  of  virtue  ;  or 
because  we  have  lost  almost  all  virtue 
in  unreasonable   and  outrageous  impa- 


EVERYTHING   IN    LIFE    IS   MORAL. 


59 


tience.  Yes,  the  idle  watch-hand  often 
points  to  something  within  us;  the  very 
dial-shadow  falls  upon  the  conscience  ! 

Tlie  course  of  time  on  earth  is  marked 
bv  changes  of  heat  and  cold,  storm  and 
sunshine  :  all  this,  too,  is  moral.  The 
weather,  dull  theme  of  comment  as  it 
is  often  found,  is  to  be  regarded  with 
no  indifference  as  a  moral  cause.  For 
does  it  not  produce  unreasonable  anx- 
ieties, or  absolutely  sinful  complainings  ? 
Have  none  who  hear  me  ever  had  reason 
to  be  shocked  to  find  themselves  anory 
with  the  elements  ;  vexed  with  chafing 
heat,  or  piercing  cold,  or  the  buffeting 
storm  ;  and  ready,  when  encountering 
nature's  resistance,  almost  to  return 
bufTet  for  buffet.? 

But  let  us  turn  from  the  course  of  in- 
animate nature  to  matters  in  which  our 
own  agency  is  more  distinct  and  visible. 
Go  with  me  to  any  farm-house  in  the 
land,  and  let  us  see  what  is  passing  there, 
and  what  is  the  lofty  and  spiritual  im- 
port of  its  humble  history.  It  is  the 
theatre  of  strenuous  toils  and  besetting 
cares.  Within  doors  is  work  to  be 
done  ;  that  work  which  is  proverbially 
"  never  done j  "  and  without,  the  soil  is 
to  be  tilled,  the  weeds  and  brambles  are 
to  be  rooted  up,  fences  are  to  builded  — 
of  wood  or  stone  —  and  to  be  kept  in  re- 
pair: and  all  this  is  to  be  done  with  tools 
and  instruments  that  are  not  perfect, 
but  must  be  continually  mended  ;  the 
axe  and  the  scythe  grow  dull  with  use  ; 
the  plough  and  the  harrow  are  some- 
times broken  ;  the  animals  which  man 
brings  in  to  assist  his  labors  have  no 
instincts  to  make  them  do  the  very 
thing  he  wishes  ;  they  must  be  trained 
to  the  yoke  and  the  collar,  with  much 
pains  and  some  danger. 

Now  the  evil  in  all  this  is  not  the 
task  that  is  to  be  performed,  but  the 
grand  mistake  that  is  made  about  the 
spiritual  purpose  and  character  of  that 
task.  Most  men  look  upon  such  a 
state  of  life  as  mere  labor,  if  not  vexa- 
tion ;  and  many  regard  it  as  a  state  of 
inferiority  and  almost  of  degradation. 
They  ?mi!,t  work,   in   order   to   obtain 


sustenance,   and    that 's   all  they    know 
about  this  great  dispensation  of  labor. 
But    why   did    not    the    Almighty   cast 
man's  lot  beneath  the  quiet  shades  and 
amid  embosoming  groves  and  hills,  with 
no  such  task  to  perform  ;  with  nothing 
to  do  but  to  rise  up  and  eat,  and  to  lie 
down  and  rest  ?     Why    did   he    ordain 
that  work   should   be   done    in    all  the 
dwellings  of  life,  and  upon  every  produc- 
tive field,  and  in  every  busy  city  and  on 
every  ocean   wave  ?     Because  —  to   go 
back  to  the  original  reason  —  it  pleased 
God  to  give  man  a  nature  destined  to 
higher   ends  than  indolent   repose  and 
irresponsible  indulgence.     And  because, 
in  the  next  place,  for  developing  the  en- 
ergies of  such  a  nature   work  was  the 
proper   element.     I    am    but  repeating, 
perhaps,  what  I  have  said  before  to  you, 
but  I  feel  that  in  taking   this   position 
I  am  standing   upon  one   of  the   great 
moral  landmarks  which  ought  to  guide 
the  course  of  all  mankind,  but  on  which, 
seen  through  a  mist  or  not  seen  at  all, 
the  moral  fortunes  of  millions  are  fatally 
wrecked.     Could  the  toiling  world  but 
see  that  the  scene  of  their  daily  life  is 
all  spiritual,  that   the  very  implements 
of  their  toil,  or  the  fabrics  they  weave, 
or  the    merchandise   they   barter,  were 
al-    designed   for   spiritual   ends,    v.hat 
a  sphere  for  the    noblest   improvement 
might  their  daily  lot   then  be  ?     What 
a    revolution    might    this    single    truth 
produce  in  the  condition  and  character 
of  the   whole   world  ?     But  now,    for  a 
man  to  gird   himself   for   spiritual    im- 
provement,   what    is    it  ?     Why,    with 
iBost   men,  it   is  to  cast  off  the   soiled 
and  dusty  garments  of  toil,  the  slough 
of  mere  worldly  drudgery,  as  they   are 
called ;  and  to  put  on  the  Sunday  suit 
and   go  to  church,  or  to  sit  down  and 
read  a   book.     Good   employments   are 
these,  but  one  special  design  of  them  is, 
to  jarepare  the  mind  for  the    action   of 
life.     We  are  to  hear  and  read,  we  aro 
to  meditate  and  pray,  partly,  at  least,  for 
this  end.  —  that  we  may  act  well.     The 
action  of  life  is  the  great  field  for  spirit- 
ual improvement      There  is  not  one  task 


6o 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


of  industry  or  business,  whether  in  field 
or  forest,  on  the  wharf  or  the  exchange, 
but  it  has  spiritual  ends.  There  is  not 
one  of  the  cares  or  crosses  of  our  daily 
labor,  but  it  was  especially  ordained 
to  nurture  in  us  patience,  calmness, 
gentleness,  disinterestedness,  magna- 
nimity. Nor  is  there  one  tool  or  im- 
plement of  toil,  but  it  is  a  part  of  the 
great  spiritual  instrumentality. 

Everything  in  life,  then,  I  repeat,  is 
essentially  spiritual.  Every  relation  in 
life  is  so.  The  relations  of  parent, 
child,  brother,  sister,  friend,  associate, 
husband,  wife,  are  throughout  every 
living  tie  and  thrilling  nerve  that  binds 
them  together,  jnoral.  They  cannot 
subsist  a  day  nor  an  hour  without  put- 
ting the  mind  to  a  trial  of  its  truth, 
fidelity,  forbearance,  disinterestedness. 

But  let  us  take  the  case  of  the  parent ; 
of  the  young  mother  for  instance.  She 
may  have  passed  her  youth  in  much 
thoughtlessness  ;  in  a  round  of  fashion- 
able engagements  that  have  left  her 
little  time  to  think,  even  when  approach- 
inof  the  most  solemn  relationships  of 
life ;  and  she  may  have  become  a  wife 
and  mother  before  she  has  settled,  or 
even  meditated,  any  reasonable  plan  or 
principle  of  life  and  of  duty.  Now,  I 
am  not  about  to  say  that  the  new  charge 
committed  to  her  hands  brings  with  it 
many  obvious  duties  and  strong  obliga- 
tions ;  but  I  desire  you  to  observe  how 
what  is  moral  in  the  case  is  thrust 
upon  her  ;  as  if  a  hand  were  suddenly 
stretched  forth  into  her  path,  with 
movement  and  gesture  that  bade  her 
pause  and  consider.  For  what  is  in 
that  path  ?  It  is  a  being,  though  but  a 
little  child,  in  whom  is  suddenly  revealed 
that  awful  attribute,  the  indomitable  will. 
That  will,  perhaps,  utters  itself  in  a 
scream  of  passion  ;  it  stamps  upon  the 
ground  in  a  fury  of  anger;  it  vents 
itself  in  tears,  or  flashes  in  lightning 
from  the  eye.  Yes,  the  being  that 
a  few  days  before  was  an  unconscious 
and  helpless  infant  in  her  arms  has  all 
at  once  put  on  the  terrific  attribute  of 
will ;  and  its  astonished  guardian  stands 


aghast,  as  if  an  uncaged  lion  had  bro 
ken  upon  her  path.  What,  then,  is  in 
that  path.''  I  answer,  it  is  what  noth- 
ing but  moral  firmness  can  fairly  meet, 
and  nothing  but  the  gentleness  and 
patience  of  piety  and  j^rayer  can  ever 
successfully  and  wisely  manage,  control, 
and  subdue  !  And  I  say  again,  that  if 
moral  action,  if  religious  consideration, 
was  never  before  awakened,  that  very 
epoch,  that  very  hour,  might  reasonably 
be  the  commencement  with  her  of  a 
complete  and  spiritual  regeneration  ! 
For  nothing  less  than  actual  regeneration 
from  a  thoughtless,  self-indulgent  life 
ever  did,  or  ever  can,  prepare  any  one 
thoroughly  and  faithfully  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  a  parent. 

Again,  everything  in  the  condition  of 
life  is  moral;  wealth,  the  means  of  lav- 
ish expense,  or  the  argument  for  avari- 
cious hoarding ;  poverty,  the  task-master 
that  exacts  labor  or  inflicts  self-denial ; 
mediocrity  of  means,  the  necessity,  the 
vexatious  necessity,  as  some  will  con- 
sider it,  of  attending  to  the  little  items 
of  expense,  or  the  mortifying  inferiority 
to  others  in  the  splendor  of  equipages 
and  establishments  ;  trade,  the  splendid 
success,  the  fortunate  speculation,  the 
disappointed  hope,  the  satisfactory  in- 
dorsement, the  dishonored  note,  the 
sharp  bargain,  —  all  moral ;  the  profes- 
sions and  callings  of  life,  some  making 
their  incumbents  unreasonably  proud, 
others  making  their  equally  useful  agents 
unreasonably  humble.  When  we  look 
upon  things  in  this  light,  how  moral  is 
everything  around  us  !  This  great  city 
is  one  extended  scene  of  moral  action. 
There  is  not  a  blow  struck  in  it,  but  has 
a  purpose,  and  a  purpose  ultimately 
good  or  bad,  and  therefore  moral.  There 
is  not  an  action  performed  but  it  has  a 
motive  ;  and  motives  are  the  very  sphere 
of  morality.  These  equipages  in  our 
streets,  these  houses  and  their  furniture, 
what  symbols  are  they  of  what  is  moral, 
and  how  are  they,  in  a  thousand  ways, 
ministering  to  right  or  wrong  feeling  ? 
You  may  have  thought  that  you  were  to 
receive  the  teachings  of  morality  and 


EVERYTHING    IN    LIFE   IS   MORAL. 


6l 


religion  only  by  resorting  to  church  ; 
hut  take  your  seat  in  your  well-fur- 
nished, perhaps  splendid  apartment, 
and  there  is  not  an  object  around  you 
hut  may  minister  to  the  good  or  bad 
slate  of  your  mind.  It  is  a  little  empire 
of  which  your  mind  is  the  creator. 
From  many  a  trade  and  occupation  and 
art  in  life  you  have  gathered  contribu- 
tions to  its  comfort  or  splendor.  The 
forest,  the  field,  the  ore-bed,  the  ocean  ; 
all  elements,  fire,  water,  earth,  air,  have 
yielded  their  supplies  to  form  this  dwell- 
ing-place, this  palace  of  your  thoughts. 
Furniture,  whose  materials  came  from 
beyond  the  sea  ;  polished  marl:)les, 
wrought  from  the  quarries  of  Italy  ; 
carpets  from  the  looms  of  England  ;  the 
luxurious  couch,  and  the  shaded  even- 
ing lamp  ;  of  what  are  all  these  the  sym- 
bols ?  What  emotions  do  they  awaken 
in  you  ?  Be  they  emotions  of  pride,  or 
be  they  emotions  of  gratitude  ;  be  they 
thoughts  of  self-indulgence  only,  or 
thoughts,  merciful  thoughts,  of  the  thou- 
sands who  are  destitute  of  all  the  com- 
forts of  life,  what  a  moral  complexion 
do  they  bear  ? 

Nay,  and  this  spiritual  dispensation  of 
life  may  press  down  upon  a  man  in  a 
way  he  little  thinks  of.  For  how  possi- 
ble is  it,  that  amidst  boundless  wealth, 
in  its  most  gorgeous  mansion,  and  sur- 
rounded by  everything  that  can  minister 
to  pleasure,  a  family  may  be  more  miser- 
able than  the  poorest  family  in  the  land ! 
—  the  children,  spoiled  by  indulgence, 
made  vain  and  proud  by  their  over-esti- 
mated advantages,  made  peevish,  impa- 
tient, and. imbecile  by  perpetual  depend- 
ence on  others,  and  not  half  so  happy, 
even,  as  thousands  of  children  who  are 
lialf  clad  and  unshod,  and  who  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  give  a  command  ;  their 
elders,  injured  or  ruined  in  constitution 
by  luxuries,  enfeebled  and  dulled  in  mind 
by  the  hard  tasks  that  are  imposed  on 
the  functions  of  the  body  and  yet  ab- 
surdly puffed  up  with  pride  that  they  can 
live  splendidly  and  fare  sumptuously 
every  day  ;  how  possible  is  it,  I  repeat, 
that  coarse  fare  and  a  pallet  of   straw 


may  turn  out  to  be  better  than  the  bed 
of  down,  and  the  loaded  table,  and  the 
cellar  of  choice  wines  !  Ay,  the  loaded 
table,  what  a  long  moral  account,  accu- 
mulating day  by  day,  through  years, 
may  have  been  written  upon  that  table  ; 
and  payment,  perchance,  must  be  made 
on  the  couch  of  agony  ! 

Again,  society  is,  throughout,  a  moral 
scene.  I  cannot  enlarge  upon  this  point 
as  it  would  be  easy  to  do,  but  must 
content  myself  with  one  or  two  obser- 
vations. Conversation,  for  instance, 
is  full  of  inward  trials  and  exigencies. 
It  is  impossible  that  imperfect  minds 
should  commune  together  without  a  con- 
stant trial  of  their  tempers  and  virtues. 
Though  of  the  most  friendly  and  kindred 
spirit,  they  will  have  different  opinions 
or  varying  moods  ;  one  will  be  quicker 
or  slower  of  apprehension  than  the  other 
on  some  point;  one  will  think  the  other 
wrong,  and  the  other  will  feel  as  if 
it  were  unkindly  or  uncharitably  con- 
strued ;  and  there  will  be  dispute,  and 
pertinacity,  and  implication,  and  retort, 
and  defence,  and  complaint;  and  well, 
if  there  are  not  sarcasm  and  anger. 
And  well,  if  these  harsh  sounds  do  not 
invade  the  sanctuary  of  home  !  Well,  if 
they  do  not  bring  disturbance  to  the 
social  board,  and  discord  amidst  the 
voices  of  music  and  sono^  ! 

Is  not  everything,  then,  in  social  life, 
moral,  —  really  a  matter  of  religion,  a 
trial  of  conscience?  You  enter  your 
dwelling.  The  first  thing  that  you' see, 
and  it  may  be  a  very  slight  thing,  may 
call  upon  you  for  an  act  of  self-command. 
The  thing  may  not  be  as  it  should  be  ; 
but  that  is  not  the  most  material  consid- 
eration :  that  is  not  what  most  concerns 
you.  The  material  consideration  is, 
that  your  mind  may  be  put  out  of  its 
proper  place,  that  you  may  not  be  as 
you  should  be.  You  go  from  your 
door.  The  sight  of  the  first  man  you 
behold  may  call  for  a  trial  of  all  your 
virtues.  You  enter  into  the  throng  of  so- 
ciety. Every  turn  of  your  eye  may  pre- 
sent an  occasion  for  the  exercise  of  your 
self-respect,  your  calmness,  your  mod- 


62 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


esty,  your  candor,  your  forgetfulness  of 
self,  your  love  of  others.  You  visit  the 
sick  or  necessitous.  Every  step  may 
be  one  of  ostentation,  or  at  least  of  self- 
applause  ;  or  it  may  be  one  of  true  gen- 
erosity and  goodness.  You  stand  amidst 
the  throng  of  men  ;  and  your  position 
has  many  relations  ;  you  are  higher  or 
lower  than  others,  or  you  are  "an  equal 
and  a  competitor  ;  and  none  of  these 
relation^  can  be  wisely  sustained  without 
the  aid  of  'strong  religious  considera- 
tions. Or  your  position  is  fixed  and 
unalterable.  You  are  a  parent ;  and  you 
give  a  command  or  make  a  request. 
A  thoughtful  observer  will  perceive  the 
very  tone  of  it  to  be  moral  :  and  a  friend 
may  know  that  it  has  cost  twenty  years 
of  self- discipline  to  form  that  gentle 
tone  !  Or  you  are  a  child  ;  and  you 
obey  or  disobey ;  and  let  me  tell  you 
that  the  act,  nay,  the  very  manner  of 
your  act,  is  so  vitally  good  or  bad,  that 
it  may  send  a  thrill  of  gladness,  or  a 
pang,  sharp  as  a  sword,  to  the  heart  of 
your  parent.  Or  you  are  a  pupil ;  and 
can  any  actor  look  be  indifferent,  which 
by  its  levity,  or  negligence,  or  ill-humor, 
adds  to  the  already  trying  task  of  those 
who  spend  anxious  days  and  nights 
for  you  ? 

But  I  must  leave  those  specifications 
which  I  find  indeed  cannot  well  be  car- 
ried into  the  requisite  detail  in  the  pul- 
pit ;  but  I  must  leave  them  also  for  the 
sake  of  presenting,  in  close,  one  or  two 
general  reflections  on  the  whole  subject. 

I  observe,  then,  that  the  consideration 
of  everything  in  our  life  as  moral,  as 
spiritual,  would  impart  an  unequalled  in- 
terest and  dignity  to  life. 

First,  an  unequalled  interest. 

It  is  often  said  tliat  the  poet  or  the 
man  of  genius  is  alive  to  a  world  around 
him,  to  aspects  of  nature  and  life,  which 
others  do  not  perceive.  This  is  not 
strictly  true;  for  when  he  describes  his 
impressions  he  finds  a  responsive  feeling 
in  the  breasts  of  his  readers.  The  truth 
is,  and  herein  lies  much  of  his  power  and 
greatness,  that  he  is  vividly  and  distinctly 
conscious  of  those  things  which  other 


men  feel,  indeed,  but  feel  so  vaguely 
that  they  are  scarcely  aware,  till  told  of 
them.  So  it  is  in  spiritual  things.  A 
world  of  spiritual  objects  and  influences 
and  relations  lies  around  us  all.  We 
all  vaguely  deem  it  to  be  so  ;  but  what  a 
charmed  life,  how  like  to  that  of  genius 
or  poetic  inspiration,  is  his,  who  com- 
munes with  the  spiritual  scene  around 
him;  who  hears  the  voice  of  the  spirit 
in  every  sound;  who  sees  its  signs  in 
every  passing  form  of  things,  and  feels 
its  impulse,  in  all  action,  passion,  being  ! 

"  The  kingdom  of  heaven,"  says  our 
Saviour,  "  is  like  a  treasure  hid  in  afield." 
There  is  a  treasure  in  the  field  of  life 
richer  than  all  its  visible  wealth  ;  which 
whoso  finds,  shall  be  happier  than  if 
he  had  discovered  a  mine  of  gold.  It  is 
related  that  the  mine  of  Potosi  was  un- 
veiled simply  b}'  tearing  a  bush  from 
the  mountain  side.  Thus  near  to  us  lie 
the  mines  of  wisdom  ;  thus  unsuspected 
they  lie  all  around  us.  "The  word," 
saith  Moses,  speaking  of  this  very  v/is- 
dom,"is  very  nigh  thee."  There  is  a 
secret  in  the  simplest  things,  a  wonder 
in  the  plainest,  a  charm  in  the  dullest. 
The  veil  that  hides  all  this  requires  but  a 
hand  stretched  out  to  draw  it  aside. 

We  are  all  naturally  seekers  of  won- 
ders ;  we  travel  far  to  see  sights,  to  look 
upon  the  mountain  height  or  the  rush  of 
waters,  to  gaze  upon  galleries  of  art  or 
the  majesty  of  old  ruins  ;  and  yet  a  great- 
er than  all  these  is  here.  The  vvorld- 
wonder  is  all  around  us ;  the  wondei 
of  setting  suns  and  evening  stars  ;  the 
wonderof  tlie  magic  spring-time,  of  tufted 
bank  and  blossoming  tree ;  the  wondei 
of  the  Infinite  Divinity,  and  of  his 
boundless  revelation.  As  I  stood  yes- 
terday and  looked  upon  a  tree,  I  observed 
little  jets,  as  of  smoke,  darting  from  one 
and  another  of  its  bursting  buds.  Oh 
that  the  secrets  of  nature  might  thus 
burst  forth  before  us  ;  that  the  secret 
wisdom  of  the  world  might  thus  be  re- 
vealed to  us !  Is  there  any  splendor  to 
be  found  in  distant  travels,  beyond  that 
which  sets  its  morning  throne  in  the 
golden   east;  anv  dome   sublimer   than 


EVERYTHING   IN   LIFE   IS    MORAL. 


63 


that  of  heaven  ;  any  be-.uty  fairer  than 
that  of  the  verdant  and  blossoming  earth  ; 
any  place,  though  invested  wilh  all  the 
sanctities  of  old  time,  like  that  home 
which  is  hushed  and  folded  within  the 
embrace  of  the  humblest  wall  and  roof? 
And  yet  all  these,  —  this  is  the  point  at 
which  I  aim,  — all  these  are  but  the  sym- 
bols of  things  far  greater  and  higher. 
All  this  is  but  the  spirit's  clothing.  In 
this  vesture  of  lime  is  wrapped  the  im- 
mortal nature ;  in  this  brave  show  of 
circumstance  and  form  stands  revealed 
the  stupendous  reality.  Break  forth, 
earth-bound  spirit !  and  be  that  thou  art, 
a  living  soul  \  communing  with  thyself, 
communing  with  God  ;  and  thou  shalt 
find  thy  vision,  eternity  ;  thine  abode, 
infinity;  thy  home,  in  the  bosoin  of  all- 
embracing  love  ! 

"  So  build  we  up  the  being  that  we  are; 
Thus  depply  drinking  in  the  soul  of  things, 
We  shall  be  wise  perforce. 

Whate'er  we  see, 
Whate'er  we  feel,  by  agency  direct 
Or  indirect,  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse 
Our  faculties,  shall  Hx  in  calmer  seats 
Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 
Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul." 

And  thus,  in  the  next  place,  shall  we 
find  that  all  the  real  dignity  and  impor- 
tance that  belong  to  human  life  belong 
to  every  human  lite  ;  i.  e.  to  life  in  every 
condition.  It  is  the  right  mind,  the  right 
apprehension  of  things  only,  that  is  want- 
ing, to  make  the  peasant's  cottage  as 
interesting,  as  intrinsically  glorious,  as 
the  prince's  palace.  I  wish  that  this 
view  of  life  might  be  taken  by  us  ;  not 
only  because  it  is  the  right  view,  but 
because  it  would  tend  effectually  to  pro- 
mote human  h;ippiness,  and  especially 
contentment.  Most  men  look  upon  their 
employments  and  abodes  as  common- 
place ;ind  almost  as  mean.  The  familiar 
objects  around  them  appear  to  them 
almost  as  vulgar-  They  feel  as  if  there 
could  be  no  dignity  nor  charm  in  acting 
and  living  as  they  are  compelled  to  do. 
The  plastered  wall  and  the  plain  deal 
boards,  the  humble  table  spread  with 
eartiien  or  wooden  dishes,  — how  poor 


does  it  all  seem  to  them  !  Oh,  could 
they  live  in  palaces  of  marble,  clothed 
with  silken  tapestries,  and  filled  with 
gorgeous  furniture,  and  canopies  of  state 
—  it  were  something!  But  now,  to  the 
spiritual  vision,  what  is  it  all  ?  The 
great  problem  of  humanity  is  wrought 
out  in  the  humblest  abodes ;  no  more 
than  this  is  done  in  the  highest.  A 
human  heart  throbs  beneath  the  beggar's 
gabardine;  it  is  no  more  than  this  that 
stirs  with  its  beating  the  prince's  mantle. 
What  is  it,  I  say,  that  makes  life  to  be 
life  indeed,  —  makes  all  its  grandeur  and 
power  ?  The  beauty  of  love,  the  charm 
of  friendship,  the  sacredness  of  sorrow, 
the  heroism  of  patience,  the  soul-exalting 
prayer,  the  noble  self-sacrifice,  —  these 
are  the  priceless  treasures  and  glories  of 
humanity  ;  and  are  these  things  of  con- 
dition ?  On  the  contary,  are  not  all 
places,  all  scenes,  alike  clothed  with  the 
grandeur  and  charm  of  virtues  like  these  ? 
And  compared  with  these,  what  are  the 
gildings,  the  gauds  and  shows  of  wealth 
and  splendor?  Nay,  coiripared  with 
every  man's  abode — his  sky-dome  and 
earth-dwelling  —  what  can  any  man's 
abode  be  ?  Thou  livest  in  a  world  of 
beauty  and  grandeur.  Who  liveth  in  a 
fairer,  a  more  magnificent  world  than 
thou  ?  It  is  a  dwelling  which  God  hath 
made  for  thee ;  does  that  consideration 
deprive  it  of  all  its  goodliness?  And 
suppose  thou  wast  rich,  and  wast  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  gayety  and  grandeur 
of  wealth  :  how  might  they  hide  from 
thee,  alas  !  all  the  spiritual  meanings  of 
thy  condition  !  How  might  the  stately 
wall  and  the  rich  ceiling  hide  heaven 
from  thy  sight !  Let  thine  eye  be  opened 
to  the  vision  of  life  ;  and  what  state  then, 
what  mere  visible  grandeur,  can  be  com- 
pared to  thine?  It  is  all  but  a  child  s 
bawble,  to  the  divine  uses  of  things,  the 
glorious  associations,  the  beatific  visions 
that  are  opened  to  thee  !  God  hath  thus 
"magnified,"  and  to  use  the  strong  and 
figurative  language  of  our  text,  "  set  his 
heart,"  upon  the  humblest  fortunes  of 
humanity. 

There  are  those  who,  with  a  kind  of 


64 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


noble  but  mistaken  aspiration,  are  ask- 
ing for  a  life  which  shall  in  its  form  and 
outward  course  be  more  spiritual  and 
divine  than  that  which  they  are  obliged 
to  live.  They  think  that  if  they  could 
devote  themselves  entirely  to  what  are 
called  labors  of  philanthropy,  to  visit- 
ing the  poor  and  sick,  thai  would  be 
well  and  worthy  ;  and  so  it  would  be. 
They  think  that  if  it  could  be  inscribed 
on  their  tomb-stone  that  they  had  vis- 
ited a  million  of  couches  of  disease,  and 
carried  balm  and  soothing  to  them,  that 
would  be  a  glorious  record  ;  and  so  it 
would  be.  But  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  million  occasions  will  come,  ay,  and 
in  the  ordinary  paths  of  life,  in  your 
homes  and  by  your  firesides,  —  wherein 
you  may  act  as  nobly  as  if  all  your  life 
long  you  visited  beds  of  sickness  and 
pain.  Yes,  I  say,  the  million  occasions 
will  come,  varying  every  hour,  in  which 
you  may  restrain  your  passions,  subdue 
your  hearts  to  gentleness  and  patience, 
resign  your  own  interest  for  anoJier's 
advantage,  speak  words  of  kindness  and 
wisdom,  raise  the  fallen  and  cheer  the 
fainting  and  sick  in  spirit,  and  soften 
and  assuage  the  weariness  and  bitter- 
ness of  the  mortal  lot.  These  cannot 
indeed  be  written  on  your  tombs,  for 
they  are  not  one  series  of  specific  ac- 
tions, like  those  of  what  is  technically 
denominated  philanthropy.  But  in 
them,  I  say,  you  may  discharge  offices 
not  less  gracious  to  others,  nor  less  glo- 
rious for  yourselves,  than  the  self-denials 
of  the  far-famed  sisters  of  charity,  than 
the  labors  of  Howard  or  Oberlin,  or 
than  the  suflferings  of  the  martyred  host 
of  God's  elect.  They  shall  not  be  writ- 
ten on  your  tombs  ;  but  they  are  written 
deep  in  the  hearts  of  men,  —  of  friends, 
of  children,  of  kindred  all  around  you  : 
they  are  written  in  the  book  of  the  great 
account ! 

How  divine  a  life  would  this  be  ! 
For  want  of  this  spiritual  insight,  the 
earth  is  desolate,  and  the  heavens  are 
but  a  sparkling  vault  or  celestial  mech- 
anism. Nothing  but  this  spirit  of  God 
in   us    can    "create    that   new   heavens 


and  new  earth,  wherein  dwelleth  righ| 
eousness."  For  want  of  this,  life 
to  many  dull  and  barren,  or  trifling, 
uninteresting,  unsatisfactory,  —  without 
sentiment,  without  poetry  and  philoso- 
phy alike,  without  interpretation  or 
meaning  or  lofty  motive.  Whirled 
about  by  incessant  change,  making  an 
oracle  of  circumstance  and  an  end  of 
vanity,  such  persons  know  not  wliy 
they  live.  For  want  of  this  spiritual  in- 
sight, man  degrades  himself  to  the  wor- 
ship of  condition,  and  loses  the  sense 
of  what  he  is.  He  passes  by  a  grand 
house,  or  a  blazoned  equipage,  and  bows 
his  whole  lofty  being  before  them,  —  for- 
getting that  he  himself  is  greater  than  a 
house,  greater  than  an  equipage,  greater 
than  the  world.  Oh  !  to  think  that  this 
walking  majesty  of  earth  should  so  forget 
itself;  that  this  spiritual  power  in  man 
should  be  frittered  away,  and  dissipated 
upon  trifles  and  vanities  ,  how  lamenta- 
ble is  it  !  There  is  no  Gospel  for  such 
a  being  ;  for  the  Gospel  lays  its  founda- 
tions in  the  spiritual  nature.  There  is 
nothing  for  man  but  what  lies  in  his 
spirit,  in  spiritual  insight,  in  spiritual 
interpretation.  Without  this,  not  only 
is  heaven  nothing,  but  the  world  is 
nothing.  The  great  Apostle  has  re- 
solved it  all  in  few  words  :  "  There  is 
no  condemnation  to  them  who  are  in 
Christ  Jesus,  who  walk  not  after  the 
flesh,  but  after  the  spirit ;  but  to  all 
others  there  is  condemnation, — sorrow, 
pain,  vanity,  death.  For  to  be  carnally 
minded  is  death  ;  but  to  be  spiritually 
minded  is  Hfe  and  peace." 


LIFE   CONSIDERED   AS   AN   ARGU- 
MENT FOR  FAITH  AND  VIRTUE. 

Matthew  iv.  4:  '  But  he  answered  ard  said,  it 
is  written  that  man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but 
by  every  word  that  proceedeth  out  of  the  mouth  of 
God." 

The  necessity  to  man  of  something 
above  all  the  resources  of  physical  life 


ARGUMENT    FOR    FAITH    AND    VIRTUE. 


65 


IS  the  subject  to  which,  in  this  discourse, 
I  shall  invite  your  attention. 

In  two  previous  discourses  on  human 
life  which  I  have  addressed  to  you,  I 
have  endeavored  to  show,  in  the  first 
place  and  in  general,  that  this  life  pos- 
sesses a  deep  moral  significance,  not- 
withstanding all  that  is  said  of  it,  as  a 
series  of  toils,  trifles,  and  vanities  ;  and 
in  the  next  place,  and  in  pursuance  of 
the  same  thought,  that  everything  in 
life  is  positively  moral;  not  merely  that 
it  is  morally  significant,  but  that  it  has 
a  positive  moral  efficiency  for  good  or 
for  evil.  And  now  I  say,  in  the  third 
place,  that  the  argument  for  the  moral 
purpose  is  clenched  by  the  necessity  of 
that  purpose  to  the  well-being  of  life 
itself.  "  Man,"  says  our  Saviour,  with 
solemn  authority,  "  shall  not  live  by 
bread  alone,  but  "  —  by  what  ?  how  few 
seem  to  believe  in  it !  —  "  by  every 
word  that  proceedeth  out  of  the  mouth 
of  God." 

How  few  seem  to  believe  in  it ;  how 
few  do  believe  this,  in  the  highest 
sense  ;  and  yet  how  true  is  it !  Into  how 
large  a  part  even  of  the  most  ordinary 
life  enters  a  certain  kind  and  degree  of 
spirituality !  You  cannot  do  business 
without  some  faith  in  man  ;  that  is,  in 
the  spiritual  part  of  man.  You  cannot 
dig  in  the  earth  without  a  reliance  on 
the  unseen  result.  You  cannot  step,  or 
think,  or  reason,  without  confiding  in 
the  inward,  the  spiritual  principles  of 
your  nature.  All  the  affections  and 
bonds,  and  hopes  and  interests  of  life, 
centre  in  the  spiritual.  Break  that  cen- 
tral bond,  and  you  know  that  the  world 
would  rush  to  chaos. 

But  something  higher  than  this  in- 
direct recognition  is  demanded  in  our 
argument.  Let  us  proceed  to  take  it  up 
in  form. 

There  are  two  principles,  then,  in- 
volved in  the  moral  aim  and  embracing 
its  whole  scope,  whose  necessity  I  pro- 
pose now  to  consider.  They  are  faith 
and  virtue ;  the  convictions,  that  is  to 
say,  on  which  virtue  reposes,  and  the 
virtue  itself.     Something  above  a  man's 


physical  life  must  there  be  to  help  it, — 
something  above  it  in  its  faith,  some- 
thing beyond  it  in  its  attainment. 

In  speaking  of  faith  as  necessary  to 
human  life,  I  need  not  here  undertake 
to  define  its  nature  !  This  will  suffi- 
ciently appear  as  we  proceed.  What  I 
wish  to  speak  of  is,  in  general,  a  faith 
in  religion,  in  (}od,  in  spiritual  truth 
and  hopes.  What  1  maintain,  in  gen- 
eral, is  the  indispensableness  to  human 
life  of  this  religious  faith.  My  present 
purpose  is  to  offer  .some  distinct  and 
independent  considerations  in  support 
of  this  faith  ;  and  these  considerations 
I  find  based,  imbedded,  deep-founded, 
in  human  life.  To  illustrate  the  general 
character  of  tlie  view  which  I  wish  to 
present,  let  us  make  a  comparison.  Let 
it  be  admitted,  then,  and  believed,  on 
the  one  hand,  that  there  is  a  God  ;  let 
the  teachings  of  Jesus  also  be  received  ; 
that  this  God  is.  our  father  ;  that  he  has 
a  paternal  interest  in  our  welfare  and 
improvement;  that  he  has  provided  the 
way  and  the  means  of  our  salvation 
from  sin  and  ruin  ;  that  he  hears  our 
prayers  and  will  help  our  endeavors ; 
that  he  has  destined  us,  if  faithful,  to  a 
future  and  blessed  and  endless  life  ;  and 
then,  how  evident  is  it  that  upon  this 
system  of  faith  we  can  live  calmly,  en- 
dure patiently,  labor  resolutely,  deny 
ourselves  cheerfully,  hope  steadfastly, 
and  "be  conquerors,"  in  the  great  strug- 
gle of  life,  "yea,  and  more  thah  con- 
querors, through  Christ  who  has  loved 
us  I  "  But  take  away  any  one  of  these 
principles,  and  where  are  we  ?  Say 
that  there  is  no  God,  or  that  there  is  no 
way  opened  for  hope  and  prayer,  and 
pardon  and  triumph,  or  that  there  is  no 
heaven  to  come,  no  rest  tor  the  weary, 
no  blessed  land  for  the  sojourner  and 
the  pilgrim  ;  and  where  are  we  ?  And 
what  are  we  ?  What  are  we,  indeed, 
but  the  sport  of  chance,  and  the  victims 
of  despair  ?  What  are  we  but  hapless 
wanderers  upon  the  face  of  the  deso- 
late and  forsaken  earth  ;  surrounded  by 
darkness,  struggling  with  obstacles,  dis- 
tracted  with    doubts,    misled    by   false 


66 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


lights  ;  not  merely  wanderers  who  have 
lost  their  way,  but  wanderers,  alas  !  who 
have  no  way,  no  prospect,  no  home  ? 
What  are  we  but  doomed,  deserted  voy- 
agers upon  the  dark  and  stormy  sea, 
thrown  amidst  the  baffling  waves  with- 
out a  compass,  without  a  course,  with 
no  blessed  haven  in  the  distance  to 
invite  us  to  its  welcome  rest  ? 

What,  now,  is  the  conclusion  from 
this  comparison  ?  It  is,  that  religious 
faith  is  indispensable  to  the  attainment 
of  the  great  ends  of  life.  But  that 
which  is  necessary  to  life  must  have 
been  designed  to  be  a  part  of  it.  When 
you  study  the  structure  of  an  animal, 
when  you  examine  its  parts,  you  say, 
"  This  was  designed  for  food ;  there 
must  be  food  for  this  being  somewhere  ; 
neither  growth  nor  life  is  possible  with- 
out it."  And  when  you  examine  the 
structure  of  a  human  mind  and  under- 
stand its  powers  and  wants,  you  say  with 
equal  confidence,  "  This  being  was  made 
for  faith ;  there  must  be  something, 
somewhere,  for  him  to  believe  in  ;  he 
cannot  healthfully  grow,  he  cannot  hap- 
pily live,  without  it." 

The  argument  which  I  now  urge  for 
faith,  let  me  distinctly  say,  is  not  that 
which  is  suggested  by  worldly  pru- 
dence ;  that  religion  is  a  good  thing  for 
the  state,  useful  to  society,  necessary 
for  the  security  of  property,  and  there- 
fore to  be  received  and  supported.  The 
concession  that  the  great  interests  of 
the  world  cannot  be  sustained  without 
religion,  and  therefore  that  religion  is 
necessary,  is  considered  by  many,  I 
fear,  as  yielding  not  to  reasoning  fairly, 
but  to  policy.  This  was  the  view  of 
religion,  doubtless,  which  pervaded  the 
ancient  systems  of  polytheism.  It  was 
a  powerful  state  engine,  a  useful  social 
economy,  and  hence,  with  multitudes,  it 
was  little  more  than  a  splendid  ritual. 
It  was  not  a  personal  thing.  It  was  not 
received  as  true,  but  only  as  expedient. 
Now  that  which  I  maintain  is  this  :  not 
that  religion  is  necessary,  and  therefore 
respectable ;  not  that  religion  is  neces- 
sary, and  therefore  to  be  supported  in 


order  that  the  people  may  be  restrained 
and  managed,  and  held  in  check  ;  but 
my  argument  is,  that  religion  is  neces- 
sary, and  therefore  true.  The  indis- 
pensableness  of  religion,  I  hold,  is  not 
merely  a  reason  for  its  being  supported, 
but  a  reason  for  its  being  believed  in. 

The  point  maintained,  let  me  now 
more  distinctly  observe,  is  this  :  that  in. 
every  kind  of  existence,  in  every  system 
of  things,  there  are  certain  primary  ele-- 
ments  or  powers  which  are  essential  to 
its  just  order  and  true  well-being;  and 
that,  under  a  wise  Providence,  these 
elements  must  be  regarded  as  bearing 
the  stamp  of  divine  appointment  and 
authority.  Find  that  which  is  necessary 
to  any  being  or  thing,  and  you  find  that 
which  was  designed  to  be  a  part  of  that 
being  or  thing.  Find  that  which,  in] 
the  long  run,  injures,  hurts,  or  hinders. 
Find  that  which  is  fatal  to  the  growth,] 
progress,  or  perfection  of  any  being  or 
thing,  and  you  find  that  which  does  not 
properly  belong  to  it.  He  who  would 
cultivate  a  tree,  knows  that  a  soil,  and 
a  certain  internal  structure,  are  neces- 
sary to  that  end.  And  if  he  should, 
with  that  end  in  view,  set  himself  to 
deprive  it  of  those  essential  elements 
of  growth,  his  act  would  be  one  of  per- 
fect fatuity. 

Let  us  dwell  upon  this  point,  and  the 
illustration  of  it,  a  little  longer. 

In  the  human  body,  we  say,  food  is 
necessary.  Stint  it,  and  the  body  lan- 
guishes ;  cut  off  the  supply,  and  it 
ceases  to  exist.  So,  in  the  human 
body,  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is 
necessary.  Interrupt  it,  and  the  body 
is  diseased;  stop  it,  and  the  body  dies. 
How  truly  has  our  Saviour  denominated 
his  doctrine  the  very  food  and  life-blood 
of  the  soul !  "  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto 
you,  except  ye  eat  the  flesh  and  drink 
the  blood  of  the  Son  of  Man,  ye  have 
no  life  in  you  ;  whoso  eateth  my  flesh 
and  drinketh  my  blood  hath  eternal 
life;"  meaning,  according  to  a  figura- 
tive   and    well-known  use  of  language 

I  at   that    time,  his    spirit    and    doctrine. 

1  And  how  manifestly  true  is  it !     Cut  off" 


ARGUMENT   FOR   FAITH    AND   VIRTUE. 


^7 


from  any  soul  all  the  principles  that 
Jesus  taught,  the  faith  in  a  God,  in  im- 
mortality, in  virtue,  in  essential  recti- 
tude, and  how  inevitably  will  it  sink 
into  sin,  misery,  darkness,  and  ruin  ! 
Nay,  cut  off  all  sense  of  these  truths, 
and  the  man  sinks  at  once  to  the  grade 
of  the  animal. 

Again,  in  the  system  of  the  universe 
there  is  one  principle  tliat  is  essential 
to  its  order  ;  the  principle  of  gravitation. 
Sever  this  bond  that  holds  all  worlds 
and  systems  together,  and  they  would 
instantly  fly  into  wild  and  boundless 
chaos.  But  society,  in  its  great  rela- 
tions, is  as  much  the  creation  of  heaven 
as  the  system  of  the  universe.  Sever, 
then,  all  the  moral  bonds  that  hold  it 
together;  cut  off  from  it  every  convic- 
tion of  truth  and  integrity,  of  an  author- 
ity above  it  and  of  a  conscience  within 
it,  and  society  would  immediately  rush 
to  disorder,  anarchy,  and  ruin.  If,  then, 
to  hold  society  together,  and  to  bind  it 
in  happy  order,  religion  be  as  necessary 
as  gravitation  is  to  hold  together  the 
frame  of  nature,  it  follows  that*religion 
is  as  really  a  principle  of  things  as 
gravitation  ;   it  is   as  certain  and  true. 

Once  more;  animal  life  has  its  law,  in- 
stinct. And  when  we  look  at  the  races 
of  animals,  and  see  how  indispensable 
this  law  is  to  their  welfare  ;  when  we  see 
that  without  this  principle  they  would 
inevitably  fall  into  misery  and  destruc- 
tion, we  have  no  doubt  that  instinct  is 
a  heaven-ordained  law.  Equally  neces- 
sary to  vinn  is  some  law.  What  is  it? 
He  has  appetities,  propensities,  passions, 
like  the  animal  ;  but  he  has  no  instincts 
to  control  them  and  keep  them  safe. 
What  law  then  must  he  have  ?  Will 
it  be  said  that  prudence,  the  love  of 
himself,  the  love  of  happiness,  is  suffi- 
cient to  guide  him  ?  That  will  depend 
upon  his  idea  of  happiness.  If  it  is 
purely  sensual,  then  he  is  left  to  the  im- 
pulses of  sense  ;  and  that  too  without 
the  guardianship  of  instinct,  and  with  all 
tlie  additional  peril,  in  which  the  infinite 
cravings  of  his  soul  put  him,  and  against 
which,  indeed,  no  barrier  of  instinct  or 


prudence  could  ever  defend  him.  But 
if  his  idea  of  happiness  includes  a  spirit- 
ual good,  that  implies  a  faith  in  the 
spiritual  ;  and  this  is  the  very  faith  for 
which  I  contend.  And  I  contend,  too, 
that  this  faith,  faith  in  moral  principles, 
faith  in  virtue  and  in  God,  is  as  neces- 
sary for  the  guidance  of  a  man  as  instinct 
is  for  the  guidance  of  an  animal.  This, 
1  believe,  will  not  be  denied.  I  believe 
that  every  man  must  be  conscious  that 
to  be  given  up  to  his  sensual  impulses, 
witiiout  any  faith  in  virtue  or  in  God, 
would  be  as  certain  ruin  to  liim  as  it  would 
be  to  an  animal  to  be  sent  into  the  world 
without  the  control  of  instinct.  And  if 
it  be  so,  then  has  the  one  principle  a 
place  as  truly  appointed,  a  mission  as 
truly  authentic  in  God's  providence,  as 
the  other. 

But  further ;  man  and  animal,  too, 
need  more  than  safety.  They  need  some 
positive  good,  something  that  satisfies. 
The  animal  has  it  in  the  pleasures  of 
sensation.  But  will  these  suffice  for  a 
man  }  It  would  be  an  insult  to  any  one, 
feeling  as  a  man,  formally  to  answer 
the  question.  But  if  higher  pleasures 
are  demanded,  these  must  be  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  soul.  And  these  pleasures 
must  depend  on  certain  principles  ;  they 
must  recognize  a  soul ;  that  is,  they  must 
recognize  the  properties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  a  soul  ;  they  must  recognize 
a  conscience  and  the  sense  of  an  author- 
ity above  us  ;  and  these  are  the  princi- 
ples of  faith. 

Moreover,  the  soul  on  earth  is  placed 
in  fearful  straits  of  affliction  and  tempta- 
tion. This,  too,  it  would  be  but  an  in- 
sult to  human  feeling  formallv  to  prove. 
And  in  this  view,  I  maintain,  and  I 
only  maintain  what  every  reflecting  man 
must  feel  to  be  true,  that  no  tolerable 
scheme  of  life,  no  tolerable  scheme  of  a 
rational,  tried,  suffering,  and  yet  improv- 
ing and  happy  existence,  can  be  formed 
which  leaves  out  the  religious  principle, 
the  principle  of  faith.  I  do  not  ask  you 
to  receive  this  as  what  is  said  in  the  pulpit, 
or  is  wont  to  be  laid  down  in  religious 
discourse  ;  but  I  desire  you  to  see  that 


68 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


it  stands,  and  stands  eternally,  in  the 
very  truth  of  things.  A  man  cati- 
not  suffer  and  he  patient  ;  he  cannot 
struggle  and  conquer ;  he  cannot  im- 
prove and  be  happy,  without  conscience, 
without  hope,  without  God  in  the  world. 
Necessity  is  laid  upon  us  to  embrace 
tlie  great  truths  of  religion  and  to 
live  by  them,  to  live  happily  ;  and  can 
the  language  of  this  necessity  be  mis- 
taken? Can  it  be,  that  while  there  is 
one  thing,  above  all  others,  necessary  to 
support,  strengthen,  guide,  and  comfort 
us  ;  that  one  thing —  upon  which,  more- 
over, the  hearts  of  the  wise  and  good 
have  ever  rested  —  shouldbe,of  all  things 
in  the  world,  the  thing  most  false,  treach- 
erous, and  delusive  ? 

It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  it  were 
so  ;  and  strange  would  be  the  asser- 
tion, even  to  the  point  of  incredibility. 
What  !  —  we  should  say  —  has  every- 
thing in  the  universe  certain  laws  and 
principles  for  its  action,  —  the  star  in 
its  orbit,  the  animal  in  its  activity,  the 
human  body  in  its  functions,  —  and  has 
the  human  soul  nothing  to  guide  it  ? 
Nay,  man  as  a  physical  being  has 
strong  and  sure  supports.  Has  he  none 
as  a  spiritual  being  .-'  He  knows  how 
to  feed  and  nourish  his  body  ;  there  are 
laws  for  that.  Must  his  soul  die  for 
want  of  aliment,  for  want  of  guidance  ? 
For  his  physical  action,  too,  he  has  laws 
of  art.  The  builder,  the  sower,  the 
toiler  at  the  oar  and  the  anvil,  has  cer- 
tain principles  to  go  by.  Has  the  man 
none  at  all  ?  Nay  more,  the  wants  of 
animal  sense  are  regarded.  In  every 
hedge,  and  water-pool,  and  mountain 
top  there  is  supply.  For  the  rational 
soul  is  there  no  provision  ?  From  the 
lofty  pine,  rocked  in  the  darkening 
tempest,  the  cry  of  the  young  raven  is 
heard.  And  for  the  cry  and  the  call  of 
all  that  want  and  sorrow  and  agony 
that  overshadow  and  rive  the  human 
heart,  is  there  no  answer .'' 

But  I  cannot  argue  the  point  any 
farther  ;  and  I  need  not  ;  it  is  too  plain. 
The  total  rejection  of  all  moral  and  re- 
ligious belief  strikes  out  a  principle  from 


human  nature  as  essential  to  it  as  grav- 
itation is  to  inanimate  nature,  as  instinct 
is  to  animal  life,  or  as  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  to  the  human  body. 

It  is  on  this  principle  that  it  is  said, 
"  He  that  believeth  not,  shall  be 
damned."  This  is  apt  to  be  regarded  as 
a  harsh  declaration  ;  but  the  truth  is,  it 
is  only  the  assertion  of  a  simple  fact, 
and  of  a  fact  which  every  thoughtful  and 
feeling  mind  knows  to  be  true.  The 
Bible  speaks,  as  we  should  speak  to  the 
famished  man,  saying,  "  Eat  —  drink  ;  or 
die  !  "  Its  words,  "  death  "  and  "  dam- 
nation," mean  nothing  else  but  that  un- 
avoidable misery  whicli  must  spring  from 
boundless  wants  unsatisfied ;  boundless 
wants  which  nothing  but  boundless  ob- 
jects, the  objects  of  faith,  can  satisfy. 

I  have  now  considered  life  as  an  ar- 
gument, and  an  independent  argument, 
for  faith.  It  would  be  easy  to  spread 
this  view  of  life  over  the  whole  ground 
of  that  preliminary  discussion  which 
introduces  the  evidences  of  Christianity  ; 
and  to  show  that  the  presumption  of 
reason  and  experience,  and  the  whole 
weight  of  that  presumption,  instead  of 
being,  as  is  commonly  supposed,  against 
the  believer,  is,  in  fact,  in  his  favor. 
But  the  space  which  I  designed  to  give 
to  this  topic  is  already  taken  up  by  the 
few  hints  which  I  have  laid  before  you  ; 
and  I  must  now  pass  to  the  other  branch 
of  my  discourse,  and  occupy  the  time 
that  remains  to  me  with  the  considera- 
tion of  life  as  an  argument  for  accom- 
plishing its  moral  design  ;  in  other 
words,  as  a  motive  to  virtue.  This,  too, 
as  well  as  the  former,  I  propose  to  con- 
sider as  an  independent  topic. 

Thus,  then,  I  state  it.  Let  what  will 
be  true,  or  be  false  ;  admit  ever  so  little 
into  your  creed,  reject  ever  so  much  ; 
nay,  go  to  the  uttermost  limits  of 
scepticism  ;  deny  revelation  ;  deny  the 
"  elder  Scripture  "  written  in  the  heart ; 
deny  the  very  being  of  a  God  !  — what 
then  ?  I  will  now  express  no  horror 
nor  wonder,  though  I  might  do  so;  1 
will  speak  to  you  as  a  calm  reasoner  : 
and  I  say,  what  then  ?     Why,  here  you 


ARGUMENT   FOR   FAITH   AND   VIRTUE. 


6q 


are,  a  living  being;  there  can  be  no 
scepticism  about  that ;  here  you  are,  a 
living  being,  alive  to  happiness,  alive  to 
misery;  here  you  are  in  vicissitude,  in 
uncertainty,  in  all  the  accidents  of  a 
mingled  lot,  in  conditions  and  relations 
that  touch  all  the  secret  springs  of  the 
soul  ;  here  you  are,  amidst  a  frail  life, 
and  daily  approaching  to  certain  deatli ; 
and  if  you  say  you  have  no  concern  nor 
care  for  the  end  of  all  this,  then  have 
you  forfeited  all  claim  to  the  attributes 
of  a  reasonable  nature,  and  are  not  to  be 
addressed  as  a  reasonable  creature. 

But  no  one  says  this.  No  one  refuses 
to  come  within  the  range  of  those  con- 
siderations that  bind  him  to  fulfil  his 
destiny,  to  accomplish  the  legitimate 
objects  of  his  being,  to  be  upright,  vir- 
tuous, and  pure.  No  one  rejects  this 
bond  in  theory,  however  he  may  resist 
it  in  practice. 

Let  us  see,  then,  how  strong  this  bond 
is.  Let  us  look  at  life  as  a  .'^ocial  and 
as  an  individual  lot. 

God  has  ordained  that  life  shall  be  a 
social  condition.  We  are  members  of 
a  civil  community.  The  life,  the  more 
than  life,  of  that  community  depends 
upon  its  moral  condition.  Public  spirit, 
intelligence,  uprightness,  temperance, 
kindness,  domestic  purity,  will  make  it 
a  happy  community.  Prevailing  selfish- 
ness, dishonesty,  intemperance,  libertin- 
ism, crime,  will  make  it  a  miserable 
community.  Look  then  at  this  life 
which  a  whole  people  is  living.  Look 
at  the  heavings  of  its  mighty  heart,  at 
the  throbbings  of  the  universal  pulse  of 
existence.  Look  at  the  stream  of  life,  as 
it  flows,  with  ten  thousand  intermingled 
branches  and  channels,  through  all  the 
homes  of  human  love.  Listen  to  that 
sound  as  of  many  waters,  that  rapturous 
jubilee,  or  that  mournful  sighing,  that 
comes  up  from  the  congregated  dwell- 
ings of  a  whole  nation. 

1  know  that  to  many  the  Public  is  a 
kind  of  vague  abstraction  ;  and  that 
what  is  done  against  the  Public,  the 
public  interest,  law,  or  virtue,  presses 
lightly  on  the  conscience.     Yet  what  is 


this  Public,  but  a  vast  expansion  of  indi- 
vidual life?  —  an  ocean  of  tears,  an 
atmosphere  of  sighs,  or  a  surrounding 
world  of  joy  and  gladness  ?  It  suffers 
with  the  suffering  of  millions.  It  re- 
joices with  the  joy  of  millions.  Who 
then  art  thou,  —  private  man  or  public 
man,  agent  or  contractor,  senator  or 
magistrate,  cabinet  secretary  or  lofty 
president,  —  who  art  thou  that  darest, 
with  indignity  and  wrong,  to  strike  the 
bosom  of  the  public  welfare  ?  Who  art 
thou,  that  with  vices,  like  the  daggers 
of  a  parricide,  darest  to  pierce  that 
mighty  heart  in  which  the  ocean  of 
existence  is  flowing? 

But  have  we,  in  this  general  view, 
presented  all  that  belongs  to  social  life? 
No  ;  there  are  other  relations.  You  are 
a  parent  or  a  child,  a  brother  or  a  sister, 
a  husband,  wife,  friend,  or  associate. 
What  an  unequalled  interest  lies  in  the 
virtue  of  every  one  whom  thou  lovest  ? 
Ay,  in  his  virtue,  nowhere  but  in  his 
virtue,  is  garnered  up  the  incomparable 
treasure.  Thy  brother,  thy  husband, 
thy  friend  ;  what  carest  thou  for,  com- 
pared with  what  thou  carest  for  his 
honor,  his  fidelity,  his  kindness  ?  Thy 
parent ;  how  venerable  is  his  rectitude  ! 
how  sacred  his  reputation !  and  what 
blight  is  there,  to  thee,  like  his  dishonor  ! 
Thy  child  —  ay,  thy  child!  —  be  thou 
heathen  or  Christian,  thou  wouldst  have 
him  do  well  :  thou  hast  poured  out  all 
the  fulness  of  parental  love  in  the  one 
desire  tliat  he  may  do  well ;  that  he 
may  be  worthy  of  thy  cares  and  thy 
freely  bestowed  gains  ;  that  he  may 
walk  in  the  way  of  honor  and  happiness. 
And  yet  he  cannot  walk  one  step  in 
that  way  without  virtue.  Such,  yes, 
such  is  life  in  its  relationships.  A  thou- 
sand clasping  ties  embrace  it ;  each  one 
sensitive  and  thrilling  to  the  touch  ;  each 
one,  like  the  strings  of  a  delicate  instru- 
ment, capable  of  sweet  melodies  and 
pleasures  ;  but  each  one,  wounded, 
lacerated,  broken,  by  rudeness,  by  an- 
ger, and  by  guilty  indulgence. 

But     that     life,    my     friends,    whose 
springs  of   j^owerful  action  are  felt   in 


^o 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


every  department  and  relationship  of 
society,  whose  impulses  are  abroad 
everywhere,  like  waves  upon  the  bound- 
less sea,  —  that  life  gathers  up  and 
concentrates  all  its  energies  upon  the 
individual  mind  and  heart.  To  that 
individual  experience,  —  to  mine,  to 
yours,  —  I  would  last  appeal. 

The  personal  experience  of  life,  I 
say  ;  by  what  strange  fatality  is  it  that 
it  can  escape  the  calls  which  religion 
and  virtue  make  upon  upon  it  ?  Oh,  if 
it  were  something  else  ;  if  it  were  some- 
thing duller  than  it  is  ;  if  it  could,  by 
any  process,  be  made  insensible  to  pain 
and  pleasure  ;  if  the  human  heart  were 
but  made  a  thing  as  hard  as  adamant, 
then  were  tlie  case  a  different  one; 
then  might  avarice,  ambition,  sensuality, 
channel  out  their  paths  in  it,  and  make 
it  their  beaten  way,  and  none  might 
wonder  at  it,  or  protest  against  it.  If 
we  conld  but  be  patient  under  the  load 
of  a  worldly  life  ;  if  we  could,  —  Oh 
Heaven  !  how  impossible  !  — if  we  could 
bear  the  burden,  as  beasts  of  burden 
bear  it,  then  as  beasts  might  we  bend 
all  our  thoughts  to  the  earth  ;  and  no 
call  from  the  great  heavens  above  us 
might  startle  us  from  our  plodding  and 
earthly  course. 

But  to  what  a  being,  to  what  a  nature, 
am  I  permitted,  in  the  name  of  truth 
and  religion,  to  speak  !  If  I  might  use 
the  freedom  with  which  one  would  speak 
to  a  son  who  was  casting  off  all  holy 
bonds,  I  should  say,  "  You  are  not  a 
stone  ;  you  are  not  an  earth-clod  \  you 
are  not  an  insensible  brute ;  yet  you 
ought  to  be  such,  to  refuse  the  call 
of  reason  and  conscience.  Your  body 
should  be  incapable  of  pain  and  your 
soul  of  remorse.  But  such  you  are  not, 
and  cannot  make  yourself."  When  the 
great  dispensation  of  life  presses  down 
upon  you,  my  friend,  how  is  it  with  you  ? 
You  weep ;  you  suffer  and  sorrow.  I 
hold  every  human  being  to  that.  Think 
what  we  will,  speculate  as  wildly,  doubt 
as  rashly,  as  we  can ;  yet  here  is  a  mat- 
ter of  fact.  Cold,  dead,  earthly,  or 
philosophic  as  we  may  be,  yet  we  are 


beings  that  weep,  that  suffer  and  sor- 
row. What!  sorrow  and  agony,  —  can 
they  dwell  in  the  same  heart  with  world- 
liness  and  irreligion,  and  desire  no  other 
companionship .''  Tell  me  not  of  the 
recklessness  of  melancholy  and  disap- 
pointment, or  the  desperation  of  vice. 
Say  not,  joufig  man,  that  you  care  noth- 
ing what  befalls  in  this  miserable  and 
worthless  life.  Recklessness,  with  its 
scornful  lip  and  its  smothered  anger, 
desperation,  with  its  knitted  brow  and 
its  glaring  eye,  I  have  seen  it ;  and 
what  is  it?  What  is  it,  but  agony, — 
agony,  which  almost  chokes  the  voice 
that  is  all  the  while  striving  to  tell  us 
how  calm  and  indifferent  it  is  ? 

But  let  us  look  at  the  matter  coolly, — 
coolly,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  the  most 
deliberate  calculation.  You  are  a  toiler 
in  the  field  of  life.  You  would  not 
consent  to  labor  for  a  week,  nor  for  a 
day ;  no,  and  you  will  not  lift  one  bur- 
den from  the  earth  without  a  recom- 
pense. Are  you  willing  to  bear  those 
burdens  of  the  heart,  fear,  anxiety,  dis- 
appointment, trouble,  —  compared  with 
which  the  severest  toil  is  a  pleasure  and 
a  pastime,  and  all  this  without  any  object 
or  use  ?  You  are  a  lover  of  pleasure. 
And  you  would  not  voluntarily  forego 
an  hour's  pleasure  without  some  object 
to  be  gained  by  it,  the  preservation  of 
health,  or  the  prospect  of  future  com- 
pensatory enjoyments.  Are  you  willing, 
then,  to  suffer,  to  be  sick  or  afflicted,  — 
for  so,  from  time  to  time,  does  the  dis- 
pensation of  life  press  upon  you,  —  are 
you  willing  to  have  days  and  months 
lost  to  comfort  and  joy,  overshadowed 
with  calamity  and  grief,  without  any 
advantage,  any  compensation  .''  You  are 
a  dealer  in  the  merchandise  of  this 
world.  And  you  would  not,  without  a 
return,  barter  away  the  most  trifling 
article  of  that  merchandise.  Will  you 
thus  barter  away  the  dearest  treasures 
of  your  heart,  the  very  sufferings  of 
your  heart?  Will  you  sell  the  very  life- 
blood  from  your  failing  frame  and  fading 
cheek,  will  you  sell  tears  of  bitterness 
and   croans    of    anguish,   for   nothing  ? 


LIFE   IS    WHAT   WE   MAKE   IT. 


71 


Can  human  nature,  frail,  feeling,  sensi- 
tive, sorrowinec  liuman  nature,  afford  to 
suffer  for  nothing;  ? 

I  have  touched  now  upon  the  darker 
coloring  of  human  experience  ;  but 
that  experience,  whether  bright  or  dark, 
is  all  vivid  ;  it  is  all,  according  to  the 
measure  of  every  one's  power,  earnest 
and  affecting;  it  is  all,  in  its  indications, 
solemn  and  sublime ;  it  is  all  moving 
and  monitory.  In  youth,  in  age,  it  is 
so  ;  in  mature  vigor,  in  failing  and  de- 
clining strength  ;  in  health  and  in  sick- 
ness ;  in  joy  and  in  sorrow  ;  in  the 
musings  of  solitude  and  amidst  the 
throng  of  men  ;  in  privacy  and  amidst 
the  anxieties  and  intrigues  of  public 
station  ;  in  the  bosom  of  domestic 
quietude,  and  alike  in  the  press  and 
shock  of  battle, — everywhere,  human 
life  is  a  great  and  solemn  dispensation. 
Man,  suffering,  enjoying,  loving,  hating, 
hoping,  fearing  ;  now  soaring  to  heaven, 
and  now  sinking  to  the  grave,  —  man  is 
ever  the  creature  of  a  high  and  stupen- 
dous destiny.  In  his  bosom  is  wrapped 
up  a  momentous,  an  all-comprehending 
experience,  whose  unfolding  is  to  be  in 
ages  and  worlds  unknown.  Around  this 
great  action  of  existence  the  curtains  of 
time  are  drawn,  but  there  are  openings 
through  them  to  the  visions  of  eternity. 
God  from  on  high  looks  down  upon  this 
scene  of  human  probation ;  Jesus  hath 
interposed  for  it,  with  his  teachings  and 
his  blood;  heaven  above  waits  with  ex- 
pectation ;  hell  from  beneath  is  moved 
at  the  fearful  crisis  ;  everything,  every- 
thing that  exists  around  us,  every  move- 
ment in  nature,  every  counsel  of  provi- 
dence, every  interposition  of  heavenly 
grace,  centres  upon  one  point,  —  upon 
one  point,  —  the  fidelity  oj  man  ! 

Will  he  not  be  faithful .?  Will  he  not 
be  thoughtful .?  Will  he  not  do  the 
work  that  is  given  him  to  do  t  To  his 
lot,  —  such  a  lot;  to  his  wants,  weigh- 
ing upon  him  like  mountains  ;  to  his 
sufferings,  lacerating  his  bosom  with 
agony;  to  his  joys,  offering  foretastes 
of  heaven  ;  to  all  this  tried  and  teach- 
ing life  will  he  not  be  faithful  t     Will 


not  you  ?  Shall  not  I,  my  brother  ?  If 
not,  what  remains  —  what  can  remain  — 
to  be  done  for  us?  If  we  will  not  hear 
these  things,  neither  should  we  believe 
though  one  rose  from  the  dead.  No  ; 
though  the  ghosts  of  the  departed  and 
the  remembered  should  come  at  mid- 
night through  the  barred  doors  of  our 
dwellings ;  though  the  sheeted  de:  d 
should  stalk  through  the  very  aisles  of 
our  churches,  they  could  not  more 
powerfully  teach  us  than  the  dread  re- 
alities of  life  ;  nay  more,  and  those 
memories  of  misspent  years,  too,  those 
ghosts  of  departed  opportunities,  that 
point  to  our  consciences  and  point  to 
eternity,  saying,  "  Work  while  the  day 
lasts,  for  the  night  of  death  cometh 
in  which  no  man  can  work ! " 


XI. 


LIFE   IS    WHAT   WE   MAKE   IT. 

Epistle  of  Paul  to  Titus,  i.  15  :  "  Unto  the 
pure  are  all  things  pure." 

And  to  expand  the  same  sentiment  a 
little;  all  things  bear  to  us  a  character 
corresponding  with  the  state  of  our  own 
minds.  Life  is  what  we  make  it;  and 
the  world  is  what  we  make  it. 

I  can  conceive  that  to  some  who  hear 
me,  this  may  appear  to  be  a  very  singu- 
lar, if  not  extravagant  statement.  You 
look  upon  this  life  and  upon  this  world, 
and  you  derive  from  them,  it  maybe,  a 
very  different  impression.  You  see  the 
earth,  perhaps,  only  as  a  collection  of 
blind,  obdurate,  inexorable  elements  and 
powers.  You  look  upon  the  mountains 
that  stand  fast  forever ;  you  look  upon 
the  seas,  that  roll  upon  every  shore  their 
ceaseless  tides  ;  you  walk  through  the 
annual  round  of  the  seasons  ;  all  things 
seem  to  be  fixed,  summer  and  winter, 
seed-time  and  harvest,  growth  and  de- 
cay ;  and  so  they  are.  But  does  not 
the  mind,  after  all,  spread  its  own  hue 
over  all  these  scenes  ?  Does  not  the 
cheerful  man  make  a  cheerful  world  'i 
Does    not   the   sorrowinji  man  make  a 


^2 


ON  HUMAN    LIFE. 


gloomy  world  ?  Does  not  every  mind 
make  its  own  world  ?  Does  it  not,  as 
if  indeed  a  portion  of  the  Divinity  were 
imparted  to  it,  —  does  it  not  almost  create 
the  scene  around  it  ?  Its  power,  in  fact, 
scarcely  falls  short  of  the  theory  of  those 
philosophers  who  have  supposed  that 
the  world  had  no  existence  at  all  but  in 
our  own  minds.  So  again  with  regard 
to  human  life  ;  it  seems  to  many,  prob- 
ably, unconscious  as  they  are  of  the 
mental  and  moral  powers  which  control 
it,  as  if  it  were  made  up  of  fixed  condi- 
tions, and  of  immense  and  impassable 
distinctions.  But  upon  all  conditions 
presses  down  one  impartial  law.  To  all 
situations,  to  all  fortunes  high  or  low, 
the  mind  gives  their  cliaracter.  They 
are  in  effect,  not  what  they  are  in  them- 
selves, but  what  they  are  to  the  feeling 
of  their  possessors.  The  king  upon  his 
throne  and  amidst  his  court  may  be  a 
mean,  degraded,  miserable  man  ;  a  slave 
to  ambition,  to  voluptuousness,  to  fear, 
to  every  low  passion.  The  peasant  in 
his  cottage  may  be  the  real  monarch  ; 
tlie  moral  master  of  his  fate  ;  the  free 
and  lofty  being,  more  than  a  prince  in 
happiness,  more  than  a  king  in  honor. 
And  shall  the  mere  names  which  these 
men  bear,  blind  us  to  the  actual  posi- 
tions which  they  occupy  amidst  God's 
creation  ?  No  ;  beneath  the  all-power- 
ful law  of  the  heart  the  master  is  often 
a  slave,  and  the  slave  —  is  master. 

It  has  been  maintained,  I  know,  in 
opposition  to  the  view  which  we  take  of 
life,  that  man  is  the  creature  of  circum- 
stances. But  what  is  there  in  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  slave  to  make  him 
free  in  spirit,  or  of  the  monarch  to  make 
him  timid  and  time-serving  ?  Tliis  doc- 
trine of  fate  —  that  man  is  but  a  bubble 
upon  the  sea  of  his  fortunes,  that  he  is 
borne  a  helpless  and  irresponsible  being 
upon  the  tide  of  events  —  is  no  new 
doctrine,  as  some  of  its  modern  advo- 
cates seem  to  suppose  ;  it  has  always 
formed  a  leading  part  of  the  creed  of 
Atheism.  But  I  ask  if  the  reverse  of 
this  doctrine  is  not  obviously  true  ?  Do 
not  different  men  brins:  out  of  the  same 


circumstances  totally  different  results] 
Does  not  that  very   difiiculty,  distress,^ 
poverty,    or    misfortune,    which    breaks    \ 
down    one    man,  build  up  another   and 
make  him  strong  .''     It  is  the  very  attri- 
bute,   the    glory,   of  a  man  ;    it    is   the 
very   power   and    mastery   of   that   will 
which  constitutes  one  of  his  chief  dis- 
tinctions  from    the    brute,  that    he  can 
bend  the  circumstances  of  his  condition    4 
to  the   intellectual  and  moral  purposes     ■ 
of  his  nature. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  the  mind 
itself  is  the  offspring  of  culture  ;  that  is 
to  say,  the  creature  of  circumstances. 
This  is  true,  indeed,  of  early  childhood. 
But  the  moment  that  the  faculty  of 
moral  will  is  developed,  a  new  element 
is  introduced,  which  changes  the  whole 
complexion  of  the  argument.  Then  a 
new  power  is  brought  upon  the  scene, 
and  it  is  a  ruling  power.  It  is  dele- 
gated power  from  heaven.  There  never 
was  a  being  sunk  so  low  but  God  has 
thus  given  him  the  power  to  rise.  God 
commands  him  to  rise,  and  therefore  it 
is  certain  that  he  can  rise.  Every  man 
has  the  power  and  every  man  should 
use  it,  to  make  all  situation,  all  trials 
and  temptations,  conspire  to  the  pro- 
motion of  his  virtue  and  happiness.  In 
this,  then,  the  only  intelligible  sense, 
man,  so  far  from  being  the  creature  of 
circumstances,  creates  them,  controls 
them,  makes  them,  that  is  to  say,  to  be 
all  they  are  of  evil  or  good  to  him  as  a 
moral  being. 

Life,  then,  is  what  we  make  it,  and 
the  world  is  what  we  make  it.  Even 
our  temporary  moods  of  mind,  and 
much  more  our  permanent  character, 
whether  social  or  religious,  may  be  ap- 
pealed to  in  illustration  of  this  truth. 

I.  Observe,  in  the  first  place,  the  ef- 
fect of  our  most  casunl  moods  of  mind. 

It  is  the  same  creation  upon  which 
the  eyes  of  the  cheerful  and  the  melan- 
choly man  are  fixed  ;  yet  how  different 
are  the  aspects  which  it  bears  to  them  ! 
To  the  one  it  is  all  beauty  and  gladness  ; 
"  the  waves  of  ocean  roll  in  light,  and 
the  mountains  are  covered  with  day." 


LIFE   IS   WHAT   WE   MAKE   IT. 


73 


It  seems  to  him  as  if  life  went  forth 
rejoicing  upon  every  bright  wave,  and 
every  shining  bough  shaken  in  the 
breeze.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  more 
than  the  eye  seeth ;  a  presence,  a  pres- 
ence of  deep  joy,  among  the  hills  and 
the  valleys,  and  upon  the  briglit  waters. 
But  now  the  gloomy  man,  stricken  and 
sad  at  heart,  stands  idly  or  mournfully 
gazing  at  the  same  scene,  and  what  is 
it .''  What  is  it  to  him  ?  The  very  light, 
—  "Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence 
increate,"  —  yet  the  very  light  seems  to 
him  as  a  leaden  pall  thrown  over  the 
face  of  nature  All  things  wear  to  his 
eye  a  dull,  dim,  and  sickly  aspect.  The 
great  train  of  the  seasons  is  passing  be- 
fore him,  but  he  sighs  and  turns  away, 
as  if  it  were  the  train  of  a  funeral  pro- 
cession ;  and  he  wonders  within  himself 
at  the  poetic  representations  and  sen- 
timental rhapsodies  that  are  lavished 
upon  a  world  so  utterly  miserable. 
Here,  then,  are  two  different  worlds  in 
which  these  two  classes  of  beings  live  ; 
and  they  are  formed  and  made  what 
they  are  out  of  the  very  same  scene, 
only  by  different  states  of  mind  in  the 
^eholders.  The  eye  maketh  that  which 
it  looks  upon.  The  ear  maketh  its  own 
melodies  or  discords.  The  world  with- 
out reflects  the  world  within. 

1 1.  Again,  this  life,  this  world,  is  what 
we  mrike  it  by  our  social  character  ;  by 
our  adaptation,  or  want  of  adaptation,  to 
its  social  conditions,  relationships,  and 
pursuits.  To  the  selfish,  to  the  cold  and 
insensible,  to  the  haughty  and  presum- 
ing, to  the  proud,  who  demand  more 
than  they  are  likely  to  receive,  to  the 
jealous,  who  are  always  afraid  they  shall 
not  receive  enough,  to  the  unreasonably 
sensitive  about  others'  good  ot  ill  opin- 
ion, and,  in  fine,  to  the  violators  of 
social  laws  of  all  sorts,  the  rude,  the 
violent,  the  dishonest,  and  the  sensual,  — 
to  all  these  the  social  condition,  from 
its  very  nature,  will  present  annoyances, 
disappointments,  and  pains,  appropriate 
to  their  several  characters.  Every  dis- 
position and  behavior  has  a  kind  of  mag- 
netic   attraction,  by  which   it  draws  to 


it  its  like.  Selfishness  will  hardly  be  a 
central  point  around  which  the  benevo- 
lent affections  will  revolve  ;  the  cold- 
hearted  may  expect  to  be  treated  with 
coldness,  and  the  proud  with  haughti- 
ness ;  the  passionate  with  anger,  and 
the  violent  with  rudeness ;  and  those 
who  forget  the  rights  of  others  must 
not  be  surprised  if  their  own  are  forgot- 
ten ;  and  those  who  forget  their  dignity, 
who  stoop  to  the  lowest  embraces  of 
sense,  must  not  wonder  if  others  are  not 
concerned  to  find  their  prostrate  honor, 
and  to  lift  it  up  to  the  remembrance  and 
respect  of  the  world.  Thus,  the  bad 
make  the  social  world  they  live  in.  So, 
also,  do  the  good.  To  the  gentle,  how 
many  will  be  gentle  ;  to  the  kind,  how 
many  will  be  kind  !  How  many  does  a 
lovely  example  win  to  goodness  !  How 
many  does  meekness  subdue  to  a  like 
temper,  when  they  come  into  its  pres- 
ence !  How  many  does  sanctity  purify  ! 
How  many  does  it  command  to  put 
away  all  earthly  defilements,  when  they 
step  upon  its  holy  ground  !  Yes,  a  good 
man,  a  really  good  man,  will  find  that 
there  is  goodness  in  the  world  ;  and  an 
honest  man  will  find  that  there  is  hon- 
esty in  the  world  ;  a  man  of  principle 
will  find  principle,  yes,  a  principle  of 
religious  integrity,  in  the  hearts  of 
others.  I,  know  that  this  is  sometimes 
denied,  and  denied  with  much  scorn  and 
self-complacency.  But  when  a  man 
says  that  true  religious  virtue  is  all  a 
pretence,  though  the  charge  is  put  for- 
ward in  quite  another  guise,  I  confess 
that  I  most  of  all  suspect  the  heart  of 
the  complainant.  I  suspect  that  it  is 
a  heart,  itself  estranged  from  truth  and 
sanctity,  that  can  find  no  truth  nor  sin- 
cerity in  all  the  religious  virtue  that  is 
around  it.  True,  most  true,  most  lament- 
ably true  it  is  ;  nothing  is  so  lamentably 
true  as  that  there  is  too  little  religious 
fervor  in  the  world  ;  but  still  there  is  a 
feeling  ;  there  is  some  religious  sensi- 
bility, the  most  precious  deposit  in  the 
heart  of  society  ;  there  is  some  anxiety 
on  this  great  theme,  holy  and  dear  to 
him  whose  mind  is  touched   with  that 


74 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


inexpressible  emotion  ;  and  he  whose 
mind  is  so  touched,  will  as  certainly  find 
those  deep  tokens  of  the  soul's  life,  as 
the  kindling  eye  will  find  beauty  amidst 
the  creation,  or  as  the  attuned  ear  will 
find  the  sweet  tone  of  music  amidst  the 
discords  of  nature.  Thus  it  is  that  the 
mind  discovers  social  virtue  and  de- 
velops the  social  world  around  it.  The 
corrupt  mind  -elicits  what  is  bad,  and 
the  pure  mind  brings  out  what  is  good. 
But  the  pure  mind  makes  its  own 
social  world  in  another  sense.  It  not 
only  unfolds  that  world  to  itself,  but  all 
its  relations  to  society  are  sanctified ; 
the  otherwise  rough  contacts  of  life  are 
softened  to  it,  and  its  way  is  graciously 
made  smooth  and  easy.  The  general 
complaint  is,  that  society  is  full  of  mis- 
trust and  embarrassment,  of  competi- 
tions, and  misunderstandings,  and  unkind 
criticisms,  and  unworthy  jealousies.  But 
let  any  one  bear  within  him  a  humble 
mind  ;  let  him  be  too  modest  to  make  any 
unreasonable  demands  upon  others,  too 
mistrustful  and  tenderly  solicitous  about 
the  keeping  of  his  own  heart  to  be 
severe  or  censorious  ;  let  him  simply  be 
a  good  man,  full  of  true  and  pure  love 
to  those  around  him,  full  of  love  to  God, 
full  of  holy  indifference  to  earthly  van- 
ities, full  of  the  heavenward  thought 
that  soars  far  beyond  them  ;  and  what, 
now,  has  this  man  to  do  with  worldly 
strifes  and  intrigues,  with  poor  ques- 
tions of  precedence,  and  the  small  items 
of  unsettled  disputes  and  unsatisfied 
suspicions  ?  An  excellent  simplicity 
that  cannot  understand  them,  a  high 
aim  that  cannot  bend  its  eye  upon  them, 
a  generous  feeling  that  cannot  enter 
into  them,  a  goodness  that  melts  all 
difference  into  harmony,  —  this  is  the 
wise  man's  protection  and  blessing. 

III.  I  have  spoken  of  the  world  of 
nature,  and  of  the  world  of  society. 
There  is  also  a  world  of  events,  of 
temptations  and  trials  and  blessings ; 
and  this,  too,  is  what  we  make  it.  It  is 
what  we  make  it  by  our  religious  char- 
acter. 

There  are  no  blessings,  —  and  it  is  a 


stupendous  truth  that  I  utter,  —  then 
are  no  blessings  which  the  mind  ma 
not  convert  into  the  bitterest  of  evils 
and  there  are  no  trials  which  it  may  noi 
transform  into  the  most  noble  and  divine 
of  blessings.  There  are  no  temptations 
from  which  the  virtue  they  assail  may 
not  gain  strength,  instead  of  falling  a 
sacrifice  to  them.  I  know  that  the  vir- 
tue often  falls.  I  know  that  the  temp- 
tations have  great  power.  But  what  is 
their  power  ?  It  lies  in  the  weakness 
of  our  virtue.  Their  power  lies  not  in 
them,  but  in  us,  in  the  treason  of  our 
own  hearts.  To  the  pure,  all  things  are 
pure.  The  proffer  of  dishonest  gain,  of 
guilty  pleasure,  makes  them  more  pure  ; 
raises  their  virtue  to  the  height  of  tow- 
ering indignation.  The  fair  occasion, 
the  safe  opportunity,  the  goodly  chance 
of  victory  with  which  sin  approaches 
the  heart  to  ensnare  and  conquer  it,  all 
are  turned  into  defeat  and  disgrace  for 
the  tempter,  and  into  the  triumph  and 
confirmation  of  virtue.  But  to  the  im- 
pure, to  the  dishonest,  false-hearted, ; 
corrupt,  and  sensual,  occasions  come 
every  day,  and  in  every  scene,  and 
through  every  avenue  of  thought  and 
imagination.  To  the  impure,  occasions 
come,  did  I  say?  rather  do  they  make 
occasions;  or  if  opportunities  come  not, 
evil  thoughts  comt;  no  hallowed  shrine,, 
no  holy  temple,  no  sphere  of  life,  though; 
consecrated  to  purity  and  innocence, 
can  keep  them  out.  So  speaketh  the 
sacred  text,  and  in  this  very  striking 
language:  "To  the  pure  all  things  are 
pure  ;  but  to  them  that  are  defiled  and 
unbelieving,  nothing  is  pure  ;  for  even 
their  mind  and  conscience  is  defiled." 

Thus  might  we  pass  in  survey  all  the 
circumstances  of  man's  earthly 'con- 
dition, and  bring  from  every  state  and 
pursuit  of  human  life  the  same  conclu- 
sion. Upon  the  irreligious  man  the 
material  world  has  the  effect  to  occupy 
him  and  estrange  him  from  God  ;  but  to 
the  devout  man,  the  same  scene  is  a 
constant  ministration  of  high  and  holy 
thoughts.  Thus,  also,  the  business  of 
this    world,   while    it   absorbs,  corrupts 


LIFE   IS    WHAT  WE   MAKE   IT. 


75 


and  degrades  one  mind,  builds  up  an- 
other in  the  most  noble  independence, 
integrity,  and  generosity.  So,  too,  pleas- 
ure, which  to  some  is  a  noxious  poison, 
is  to  others  a  healthful  refreshment. 
The  scene  is  the  same.  The  same  event 
liappeneth  to  all.  Life  is  substantially 
the  same  thing  to  all  who  partake  of  its 
lot.  Vet  some  rise  to  virtue  and  glory, 
and  others  shrink  from  the  same  disci- 
pline, from  the  same  privileges,  to  shame 
and  perdition. 

Life,  then,  I  repeat,  is  what  we  make 
it,  and  the  world  is  what  we  make  it. 
Life,  that  is  to  say,  takes  its  coloring 
from  our  own  minds  ;  the  world,  as  the 
scene  of  our  welfare  or  woe,  is,  so  to 
speak,  moulded  in  the  bosom  of  human 
experience.  The  archetypes,  the  ideal 
forms  of  things  without,  —  if  not,  as 
some  philosophers  have  said,  in  a  meta- 
physical sense,  yet  in  a  moral  sense, 
—  they  exist  within  us.  The  world  is 
the  mirror  of  the  soul.  Life  is  the  his- 
tory, not  of  outward  events,  not  of  out- 
ward events  chiefly ;  but  life,  human 
life,  is  the  history  of  a  mind.  To  the 
pure,  all  things  are  pure.  To  the  joy- 
ous, all  things  are  joyous.  To  the 
gloomy,  all  things  are  gloomy.  To  the- 
good,  all  things  are  good.  To  the  bad, 
all  things  are  bad.  The  world  is  noth- 
ing but  a  mass  of  materials,  subject  to 
a  great  moral  experiment.  The  human 
breast  is  the  laboratory.  We  work  up 
those  materials  into  what  forms  we 
please.  This  illustration,  too,  if  any 
one  should  take  me  too  literally,  will 
furnisli  the  proper  qualification.  The 
materials,  indeed,  are  not  absolutelv 
under  our  control.  They  obey  the  laws 
of  a  higher  power.  Those  laws,  too, 
are  fixed  laws.  Yet  the  chemist  in 
his  laboratory  accomplishes  all  that 
he  rationally  desires  to  accomplish. 
The  elements  are  enough  under  his 
command  to  answer  all  his  purposes. 
Nay,  if  they  did  not  furnish  difificulties 
and  require  experiments,  his  science 
would  not  exist  ;  his  knowledge  would 
be  intuition.  So  with  the  moral  experi- 
menter.    Ke  has  to  overcome  difficul- 


ties, to  solve  questions  ;  still,  within  the 
range  of  rational  wishes,  and  in  sub- 
mission to  the  power  of  God,  he  can 
work  out  what  results  he  pleases  ;  and 
if  there  were  no  difificulties,  there  would 
be  no  virtue,  no  moral  science  of  life. 

I  am  sensible  that  I  have  dwelt  at 
considerable  length  upon  the  proofs  of 
my  doctrine  ;  but  I  must  beg  your  in- 
dulgence to  some  farther  consideration 
of  it,  in  application  to  two  states  of 
mind :  I  mean  to  complaint  and  dis- 
couragement. These  states  of  mind 
have,  indeed,  the  same  leaning,  but  still 
they  are  very  different.  Complaint  is 
bold  and  open-mouthed,  and  speaks  like 
one  injured  and  wronged.  Discourage- 
ment is  timid  and  silent  :  it  does  not 
consider  whether  it  is  wronged,  but  it 
knows  that  it  is  depressed,  and  at  times 
almost  crushed  to  the  earth.  There  are 
many  minds  to  be  found  in  one  or  other 
of  these  conditions.  Indeed,  I  think 
that  the  largest  amount  of  human  suf- 
fering may  be  found  in  the  form  either 
of  complaint  or  of  discouragement ;  and 
if  there  be  anything  in  the  doctrine  of 
this  discourse  to  disarm  the  one  or  to 
relieve  the  other,  it  well  deserves  a  place 
in  our  meditations. 

Our  complaints  of  life  mainly  proceed 
upon  the  ground  that  for  our  unhappi- 
ness  something  is  in  fault  besides  our- 
selves ;  and  1  maintain  that  this  ground 
is  not  fairly  taken.  We  complain  of  the 
world  ;  we  complain  of  our  situation  in 
the  world. 

Let  us  look  a  moment  at  this  last 
point  ;  what  is  called  a  situation  in  the 
world  ?  In  the  first  place,  it  is  com- 
monly what  we  make  it,  in  a  literal 
sense.  We  are  high  or  low,  rich  or 
poor,  honored  or  disgraced,  usually,  just 
in  proportion  as  we  have  been  indus- 
trious or  idle,  studious  or  negligent, 
virtuous  or  vicious.  But  in  the  next 
place,  suppose  that,  without  any  fault  of 
our  own.  our  situation  is  a  trying  one. 
Doubtless  it  is  so,  in  many  instances. 
But  then  I  say  that  the  main  point 
affecting  our  happiness  in  this  case  is 
not   our   situation,  but   the  spirit   with 


76 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


which  we  meet  it.  In  the  humblest 
conditions  are  found  happy  men  ;  in  the 
highest,  unhappy  men.  And  so  little 
has  mere  condition  to  do  with  happi- 
ness, that  a  just  observation,  I  am 
persuaded,  will  find  about  an  equal  pro- 
Dortion  of  it  among  the  poor  and  the 
rich,  the  high  and  the  low.  "But  my 
relation  to  the  persons  or  things  around 
me,"  one  may  say,  "  is  peculiarly  try- 
ing; neither  did  I  choose  the  relation; 
I  would  gladly  escape  from  it."  Still,  I 
answer,  a  right  spirit  may  bring  from 
this  very  relation  the  noblest  virtue  and 
the  noblest  enjoyment.  "  Ah  !  the  right 
spirit !  "  —  it  may  be  said,  —  "  to  obtain 
that  is  my  greatest  difficulty.  Doubt- 
less, if  I  had  the  spirit  of  an  angel  or  of 
an  apostle,  I  might  get  along  very  well. 
Then  I  should  not  be  vexed,  nor 
angered,  nor  depressed.  But  the  very 
effort  to  gain  that  serene  and  patient 
mind  is  painful,  and  often  unsuccess- 
ful." Yes,  and  the  ill  success  is  the 
pain.  It  is  not  true  that  thorough, 
faithful  endeavor  to  improve  is  un- 
happy ;  that  honest  endeavor,  I  mean, 
which  is  always  successful.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is,  this  side  heaven,  the  high- 
est happiness.  The  misery  of  the  effort 
is  owing  to  its  insufficiency.  The  mis 
ery,  then,  is  mainly  our  own  fault. 

On  every  account,  therefore,  I  must 
confess  that  I  am  disposed  to  entertain 
a  very  ill  opinion  of  misery.  Whether 
regarded  as  proceeding  from  a  man's 
condition  or  from  his  own  mind,  I  can- 
not think  well  of  it.  I  cannot  look  upon 
it  with  the  favor  which  is  accorded  to  it 
by  much  modern  poetry  and  sentiment. 
These  sentimental  sighings  over  human 
misfortune,  which  we  hear,  are  fit  only 
for  children,  or  at  least  for  the  mind's 
childhood.  You  may  say,  if  you  will, 
that  the  preacher's  heart  is  hard  when 
he  avers  this,  or  that  he  knows  not  trial 
or  grief;  but  if  you  do,  it  will  be  because 
you  do  not  understand  the  preacher's 
argument  ;  no,  nor  his  mind  neither. 
What  I  say  to  you  I  say  to  myself;  the 
mind's  misery  is  chiefly  its  own  fault. 
Sentimental  sighings   there  may  be  in 


early  3-outh,  and  in  a  youthful  and 
immature  poetry  ;  but  he  who  has  come 
to  the  manhood  of  reason  and  experi- 
ence, should  know,  what  is  true,  that  the 
mind's  misery  is  chiefly  its  own  fault  ; 
nay  more,  and  is  appointed,  under  the 
good  providence  of  God,  as  the  punisher 
and  corrector  of  its  fault.  Trial  is  in- 
deed a  part  of  our  lot  ;  but  suffering  is 
not  to  be  confounded  with  trial.  Nay, 
amidst  the  severest  trials,  the  mind's 
happiness  may  be  the  greatest  that  it 
ever  knew.  It  has  been  so,  in  a  body 
racked  with  pain  ;  nay,  and  in  a  body 
consumed  by  the  fire  of  the  martyr's 
sacrifice.  I  am  willing,  however,  to 
allow  that  some  exceptions  are  to  be 
made ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  first  burst 
of  grief  or  in  the  pains  of  lingering 
disease.  The  mind  must  have  time  for 
reflection,  and  it  must  have  strength  left 
to  do  its  work.  But  its  very  work,  its 
very  office  of  reflection,  is  to  bring  good 
out  of  evil,  happiness  out  of  trial.  And 
when  it  is  rigidly  guided,  this  work  it 
will  do  ;  to  this  result  it  will  come.  In 
the  long  run,  it  will  be  happy,  just  in 
proportion  to  its  fidelity  and  wisdom. 
Life  will  be  what  it  makes  life  to  be,  and 
the  world  will  be  what  the  mind  makes  it. 
With  artificial  wants,  with  ill-regulated 
desires,  with  selfish  and  sensitive  feel- 
ings of  its  own  cherishing,  the  mind  must 
be  miserable.  And  what,  then,  is  its 
misery  ?  Hath  it  not  planted  in  its  own 
path  the  thorns  that  annoy  it?  And 
doth  not  the  hand  that  planted  grasp 
them  ?  Is  not  the  very  loudness  of  the 
complaint  but  the  louder  confession  on 
the  part  of  him  who  makes  it .'' 

The  complaint  nevertheless  with  some 
is  verv  loud.  "  It  is  not  3.  happy  world," 
a  man  says,  "  but  a  ve''y  miserable  world  ; 
those  who  consider  themselves  saints 
may  talk  about  a  kind  Providence  ;  he 
cannot  see  much  of  it;  those  who  have 
all  their  wishes  gratified  may  think  it  is 
very  well  ;  but  he  never  had  his  wishes 
gratified;  and  nobody  cares  whether  he 
is  gratified  or  not ;  everybody  is  proud 
and  selfish,"  he  says;  "if  there  is  so 
much  goodness  in  the  world,  he  wishes 


LIFE   IS   WHAT   WE   MAKE   IT. 


77 


he  could  see  some  of  it.  This  beautiful 
world  !  as  some  people  call  it :  for  his 
part  he  never  saw  anything  beautiful  in  it ; 
but  he  has  seen  troubles  and  vexations, 
clouds  and  storms  enough  ;  and  he  has 
had  long,  tedious,  weary  days,  and  dark 
and  dull  nights  ;  if  he  could  sleep  through 
his  whole  life,  and  never  want  anything, 
it  would  be  a  comfort."  Mistaken  man  ! 
doubly  mistaken ;  mistaken  about  the 
world,  mistaken  in  thyself ;  the  world 
thou  complainest  of  is  not  God's  world, 
but  thy  world  ;  it  is  not  the  world  which 
God  made,  but  it  is  the  world  which  thou 
hast  made  for  thyself.  The  fatal  blight, 
the  dreary  dulness,  the  scene  so  dis- 
tasteful and  dismal,  is  all  in  thyself. 
The  void,  the  blank,  amidst  the  whole 
rich  and  full  universe,  is  in  thy  heart. 
Fill  thy  heart  with  goodness,  and  thou 
wilt  find  that  the  world  is  full  of  good. 
Kindle  a  light  within,  and  then  the  world 
will  shine  brightly  around  thee.  But 
till  then,  though  all  the  luminaries  of 
heaven  shed  down  their  entire  and  con- 
centrated radiance  upon  this  world,  it 
would  be  dark  to  thee.  "  The  light  that 
should  be  in  thee  is  darkness;  and  how 
great  is  that  darkness  !  " 

But  I  must  turn,  in  close,  to  address 
myself  for  a  moment  to  a  very  different 
state  of  mind,  and  that  is  discourage- 
ment. Complaint  is  to  be  blamed  ;  but 
there  is  a  heavy  and  uncomplaining  dis- 
couragement pressing  upon  many  minds, 
which  demands  a  kinder  consideration. 
They  have  tried  and  not  succeeded ; 
they  have  tried  again,  and  failed  —  of  the 
ends,  the  objects,  which  they  sought ; 
and  they  say,  at  length,  "  We  give  over  ; 
we  can  never  do  anything  in  this  world  ; 
ill  fortune  has  taken  the  field  against  us, 
and  we  will  battle  with  it  no  longer." 
Yet  more  to  be  pitied  are  those  who  have 
never  had  even  the  courage  to  strive  ; 
who,  from  their  very  cradle,  have  felt 
themselves  depressed  by  untoward  cir- 
cumstances, by  humble  state  or  humble 
talents.  Oftentimes  the  mind  in  such 
a  case  is,  in  culture  and  power,  far  be- 
yond its  own  estimate  ;  but  it  has  no 
aptitude  for  worldly  success  ;  it  has  no 


power  to  cause  itself  to  be  appreciated 
by  others  ;  it  has  no  charm  of  person 
or  speech  ;  it  is  neglected  by  society, 
where  almost  every  one  is  too  much 
occupied  with  his  own  advancement  to 
think  of  pining  merit ;  it  is  left  to  silent 
and  solitary  hours  of  discouragement 
and  despondency.  And  in  such  hours 
—  perhaps  there  are  some  here  present 
who  can  bear  me  witness  —  the  thoughts 
that  sink  deeply  into  the  heart,  though 
never,  it  may  be,  breathed  in  words,  are 
such  as  these  :  "  J/y  chance  in  this 
world  is  a  poor  one  ;  I  have  neither 
wealth,  nor  talents,  nor  family  ;  I  have 
nothing  to.  give  me  importance  ;  I  have 
no  friends  to  help  me  forward,  or  to  in- 
troduce me  favorably  to  the  Avorld ;  I 
have  no  path  open  to  me  ;  my  success 
is  poor,  even  my  expectation  is  poor. 
Let  the  fortunate  be  thankful,  but  I  am 
not  fortunate ;  the  great  prizes  are  not 
for  me  ;  despond  I  needs  must,  for 
hope  I  have  none  :  I  will  sit  down  in 
silence,  and  eat  the  bread  of  a  neglected 
lot ;  I  will  weep  ;  but  even  that  is  use- 
less ;  away  then,  hope  !  away  tears  I  — 
I  will  bear  my  heart  calmly,  though 
sadly,  in  its  way  through  a  cold,  un- 
genial,  unkind  world." 

And  yet  above  this  man  is  spread  the 
sublimity  of  heaven,  around  him  the 
beauty  of  earth  ;  to  this  man  is  unfolded 
the  vision  of  God;  for  this  man  Christ 
hath  died,  and  to  him  heaven  is  un- 
veiled; before  this  man  lies  the  page 
of  wisdom  and  inspiration  ;  and  wisdom 
and  sanctity  it  is  still  given  him  to  learn 
and  gain  ;  wisdom  and  sanctity,  inward, 
all-sufficing,  and  eternal.  The  universe 
is  full  and  rich  for  him.  The  heaven 
of  heavens  invites  him  to  its  abode  ! 

Oh,  the  intolerable  worldliness  of  the 
world  !  —  the  worldliness  of  fashion  and 
fashionable  opinion  !  the  worldliness 
of  our  eager  throngs,  and  our  gay 
watering-places,  and  our  crowded  cities, 
and  our  aspiring  literature,  and  our  busy 
commerce  .'  Distinction  !  to  be  raised 
a  little  above  the  rest  :  to  be  talked  of 
and  pointed  at  more  than  others  ;  this 
hath    blinded    us   to   the   infinite  good 


7^ 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


that  is  offered  to  all  men.  And  this  dis- 
tinction ;  what  is  it,  after  all .''  Suppose 
that  you  were  the  greatest  of  the  great ; 
one  raised  above  kings  ;  one  to  whom 
courts  and  powers  and  principalities 
paid  homage,  and  around  whom  admir- 
ing crowds  gathered  at  every  step.  I  tell 
you  that  I  would  rather  have  arrived  at 
one  profound  conclusion  of  the  sage's 
meditation  in  his  dim  study,  than  to  win 
that  gaze  of  the  multitude.  I  tell  you 
that  I  had  rather  gain  the  friendship 
and  love  of  one  pure  and  lofty  mind, 
than  to  gain  that  empty  applause  of  a 
court  or  a  kingdom.  What,  then,  must 
it  be  to  gain  the  approval,  the  friend- 
ship, the  love  of  that  ONE,  infinitely 
great  —  infinitely  dear  to  the  whole  pure 
and  happy  creation  ? 

Before  these  awful  and  sublime  re- 
alities of  truth  and  sanctity,  sink,  all 
worldly  distinction  and  worldly  imagi- 
nations !  Discouragement  and  despon- 
dency !  —  for  a  creature  to  whom  God 
hath  offered  the  loftiest  opportunity  and 
hope  in  the  universe.'*  A  humble,  de- 
pressed, unfortunate  lot!  —  for  him 
before  whom  are  spread  the  boundless 
regions  of  truth,  and  wisdom,  and  joy  1 
A  poor  chance  !  —  for  him  who  may 
gain  heaven  ?  Ah  !  sir,  thy  poverty, 
thy  misfortune,  is  all  in  thyself.  In  the 
realm  of  God's  beneficence  is  an  infinite 
fulness,  and  it  all  may  be  yours.  Even 
to  the  despised  and  persecuted  Chris- 
tians of  old  the  Apostle  said  this  ;  and 
it  is  still,  and  forever,  true  to  all  who 
can  receive  it.  "  Therefore,"  says  he, 
in  his  lofty  reasoning,  "let  no  man  glory 
in  men ;  for  all  things  are  yours ;  whether 
the  world,  or  life,  or  death,  or  things 
present,  or  things  to  come ;  all  are 
yours,  and  ye  are  Christ's,  and  Christ 
is  God's !  " 


XII. 


ON   INEQUALITY   IN   THE   LOT 
OF   LIFE. 

PsAi.M  cxlv.  9  :    "Tlie  Lord  is  good  to  all,  and  his 
tender  mercies  are  over  all  his  works." 

What    I   wish  to   suggest   for  your 
consideration  from  these  words,  is  not 


the  goodness  of  God  only,  but  his  good- 
ness to  all.  I  wish,  in  other  words,  to 
examine  the  prevailing  opinion,  that 
there  is  a  great  inequality  in  the  distri- 
bution of  the  blessings  of  life.  In  oppo- 
sition to  this  opinion,  1  take  up  the  words 
of  the  text. 

The  Lord  is  good  io  all.  It  is  not 
said  merely  that  his  tender  mercies  are 
over  his  works,  but  that  they  are  over 
all  his  works.  His  providence  is  not 
only  kind,  but  its  kindness  extends  to 
every  human  being. 

There  is  no  general  view  of  life,  per- 
haps, with  which  the  minds  of  men  are 
more  strongly  impressed  than  with  the 
apparent  inequalities  of  the  human  lot. 
It  is  probably  the  most  prolific  source  of 
all  secret  repining  and  open  complaint. 
Afifliction  of  a  severe  kind  comes  but 
seldom  ;  but  this  inequality  in  the  state 
of  life  is  permanent.  It  is  perfectly 
obvious,  too.  Every  one  can  see  the 
difference  between  his  situation  in  life, 
his  dwelling,  his  equipage,  and  the  ob- 
servance which  is  paid  to  him,  and  those 
which  belong  to  his  more  prosperous, 
wealthy,  or  honored  neighbor  The  dis- 
tinctions of  life,  indeed,  chiefly  consist 
of  the  glare  of  outward  things,  and 
therefore  more  powerfully  impress  the 
senses. 

Now,  if  it  can  be  made  to  appear  that 
there  is,  in  fact,  considerable  deception 
in  these  estimates  ;  that  things  are  far 
more  impartially  balanced  in  the  system 
of  providence  at  large  than  is  com- 
monly imagined  ;  that  inequality  is  not 
the  rule  of  its  operations,  but  only  the 
exception  to  the  rule  ;  it  would  serve 
the  important  purpose  of  making  us 
more  contented  with  our  lot  ;  more 
happy  in  the  opportunities  and  means 
of  happiness  that  are  given  to  us  all ; 
and  more  submissive  and  grateful,  I 
would  hope,  to  that  Being  who  has  so 
equally  and  so  bountifully  distributed 
them. 

To  this  subject,  then,  let  me  direct 
your  thoughts  this  morning. 

I.  And  in  the  first  place  you  see,  at 
once,  an  mstance  and  an  illustration  of 


INEQUALITY    IN   THE   LOT   OF   LIFE. 


79 


tliis  impartiality  of  Divine  Providence, 
in  the  inequalities  caused  by  nature;  in 
the  allotments  of  climate,  temperature, 
soil,  and  scenery. 

Tliere  is  no  one  of  us,  perhaps,  whose 
thoughts  have  not  sometimes  wandered 
to  fairer  climes  than  our  own,  to  lands 
of  richer  productions  and  more  luxuriant 
beauty ;  to  those  isles  and  shores  of  the 
classic  East,  where  all  the  glory  of  man 
has  faded,  indeed,  where  all  the  monu- 
ments of  iiis  power  and  art  have  fallen 
to  decay,  but  where  nature  lives  forever, 
and  forever  spreads  its  unfading  charm  ; 
to  the  verdant  and  sunny  vales  of  the 
South,  regions  of  eternal  spring,  where 
the  circling  seasons,  as  they  pass,  let 
fall  no  chill  nor  blight  upon  the  fresh 
and  fragrant  bosom  of  the  earth.  But 
is  there  no  counterpart  to  this  scene  .'' 
Where  does  tiie  volcano  lift  up  its  sub- 
terraneous thunders,  and  pour  forth  its 
flaming  delUge  .''  It  is  in  these  very 
regions  of  eternal  spring.  It  is  on  the 
green  and  flowery  mount,  on  the  vine- 
clad  hills  ;  fast  by  the  quiet  fold  of  the 
shepherd,  and  amidst  the  rejoicings  of 
the  vintage.  Whence  comes  the  fear- 
ful rumor  of  the  earthquake,  that  has 
whelmed  a  city  in  ruins  .''  It  comes 
from  the  land  of  the  diamond  and  the 
cane  ;  from  the  hills  of  Ophir  ;  from 
groves  of  the  palm  and  the  olive  ;  from 
valleys  loaded  with  fruits,  and  fanned 
with  aromatic  gales  ;  where  if  nature  is 
more  energetic  to  produce,  she  is  also 
more  energetic  to  destroy.  Where  does 
the  dire  pestilence  walk  in  darkness,  and 
the  fell  destruction  waste  at  noonday  ? 
Amidst  groves  of  spices,  and  beneath 
bowers  of  luxuriance  ;  and  the  beam 
that  ligiits  its  victims  to  their  tomb  is  the 
brightest  beam  of  heaven,  and  the  scenes 
of  which  they  take  their  last  hasty  leave 
are  the  fairest  that  nature  displays  ;  as 
it  life  and  death  were  intended  to  be 
set  in  the  most  visible  and  vivid  con- 
trast. And  where,  but  there  also,  is 
that  worse  than  plague  and  pestilence 
and  earthquake,  that  degradation  of  the 
mind,  that  wide-spreading  pestilence  of 
the  soul,  that  -listless  indolence,  which 


only  arouses  to  deeds  of  passion  !  Let 
the  millions  of  Southern  Asia  tell.  Let 
Turkey,  so  often  drenched  witii  blood, 
answer.  Let  the  wandering  Arab,  let 
the  stupid  Hottentot,  let  the  slothful 
and  sensual  inhabitants  of  the  fair  isles 
of  the  Pacific,  teach  us.  Who  would 
not  rather  struggle  with  fiercer  elements, 
than  to  sink  an  ignoble  prey  to  the  soft 
languors  of  pleasure  and  the  besotting 
indulgences  of  passion  .''  Who  would 
not  far  prefer  our  wintry  storm  and 
'•the  hoarse  sighings  of  the  east 
wind,"  as  it  sweeps  around  us,  if  they 
will  brace  the  mind  to  nobler  attain- 
ments, and  the  heart  to  better  duties  .'' 

There  is  one  class  of  virtues  that  is 
fostered  by  the  rigors  of  our  climate, 
which  deserves  to  be  particularly  no- 
ticed. I  mean  the  domestic  virtues. 
We  are  compelled,  by  the  inclemency 
of  our  seasons,  not  only  to  have  some 
permanent  place  of  abode,  but  to  re- 
sort to  it.  In  milder  regions  men  live 
abroad ;  they  are  scarcely  obliged  to 
have  any  domicile.  We  are  compelled  to 
live  at  home  ;  and  we  attach  a  meaning 
to  the  term,  and  we  hallow  it  with  feel- 
ings that  were  unknown  to  the  polished 
Greek  and  the  voluptuous  Asiatic.  It 
is  the  angry  and  lowering  sky  of  winter 
that  lights  up  the  cheerful  fire  in  our 
dwellings,  and  draws  around  the  friendly 
circle,  It  is  the  cheerlessness  of  every- 
thing abroad,  that  leads  us  to  find  or 
make  pleasures  within  ;  to  resort  to 
books  and  the  interchange  of  thought  ; 
to  multiply  the  sources  of  knowledge 
and  strengthen  the  ties  of  affection.  It 
is  the  frowning  face  of  nature,  like  the 
dark  cloud  of  adversity,  that  lends  at- 
traction to  all  the  sympathies  and  joys 
of  home. 

II.  But  I  come  now  in  the  second 
place  to  consider  the  impartiality  of 
Divine  Providence  in  the  condition  of 
human  life.  Life, —  to  borrow  a  compar- 
ison from  the  science  of  political  econ- 
omy,— life,  like  nature,  is  a  system  of 
checks  and  balances.  Every  power  of 
conferring  happiness  is  limited,  or  else 
counteracted,  by  some  other  power  either 


8o 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


of  good  or  evil.  There  is  no  blessing 
or  benefit,  but  it  has  some  drawback  upon 
it ;  and  there  is  no  inconvenience  nor 
calamity,  but  it  enjoys  some  compen- 
sation. This  resultsiroin  the  very  nature 
of  things.  You  cannot  enjoy  things  in- 
compatible. You  cannot  at  once  enjoy, 
for  instance,  the  pleasures  of  the  country 
and  the  town.  You  cannot  mingle  the 
quietude  of  obscurity  with  the  emolu- 
ments and  honors  of  office.  You  cannot 
have  at  the  same  time  the  benefits  of 
affliction  and  the  joys  of  prosperity.  If 
you  would  reach  the  loftiest  virtue,  you 
must  sometimes  endure  sickness  and 
pain,  and  you  must  sometimes  be  bowed 
down  with  sorrow.  If  you  would  have 
perpetual  ease  and  indulgence,  you  must 
resign  something  of  noble  fortitude,  holy 
patience,  and  of  the  blessed  triumphs 
of  faith. 

The  inequalites  which  appear  in  the 
condition  of  human  life  relate  chiefly  to 
the  possessions,  the  employments,  or  the 
distinctions  of  society.  If  we  should 
exatnine  these,  we  should  probably  find 
that  they  are  of  less  importance  to  our 
happiness  than  is  commonly  imagined. 
Indeed,  we  know  that  they  all  depend 
chiefly  on  the  use  that  is  made  of  them  ; 
and  their  use  depends  upon  the  mind. 
Distinction  and  mediocrity,  leisure  and 
toil,  wealth  and  poverty,  have  no  intrin- 
sic power  of  happiness  or  misery  in  their 
disposal.  There  is  a  principle  ijuithin, 
that  is  to  render  them  good  or  evil. 

But,  not  at  present  to  insist  on  this  ; 
these  circumstances  of  inequality,  in 
themselves,  are  less  than  they  seem.  It 
is  common,  I  know,  to  hear  of  the 
prerogatives,  the  power,  the  indepen- 
dence, of  the  higher  classes  of  society. 
But  Divine  Providence  acknowledges  no 
such  nobility  ;  no  such  exemption  from 
the  wants  of  the  human  lot.  It  teaches 
us  very  little  about  prerogative  or  inde- 
pendence, however  the  pride  of  man  may 
flatter  him.  No  tower  of  pride  was  ever 
high  enough  to  lift  its  possessor  above 
the  trials  and  fears  and  frailties  of  human- 
ity. No  human  hand  ever  built  the  wall, 
nor  ever  shall,  that  will  keep  out  aflflic- 


tion,  pain,  and  infirmity.  Sickness,  sor- 
row, trouble,  death,  are  all-levelling  dis- 
pensations. They  know  none  high  nor 
low.  The  chief  wants  of  life,  too,  the 
great  necessities  of  the  human  soul,  give 
exemption  to  none.  They  make  all  poor, 
all  weak.  They  put  supplication  in  the 
mouth  of  every  human  being,  as  truly  as 
in  that  of  the  meanest  beggar. 

Now  consider  society  for  one  moment 
in  regard  to  its  employments.  And  there 
is  not,  perhaps,  a  greater  infatuation  in 
the  world,  than  for  a  man  of  active  and 
industrious  habits  to  look  with  envy  or 
repining  upon  the  ease  and  leisure  of  his 
neighbor.  Employment,  activity,  is  one 
of  the  fundamental  laws  of  human  happi- 
ness. Ah  !  the  laborious  indolence  of 
him  who  has  nothing  to  do  ;  the  prey- 
ing weariness,  the  stagnant  ennui,  of  him 
who  has  nothing  to  obtain  ;  the  heavy 
hours  which  roll  over  him,  like  the 
waters  of  a  Lethean  sea,  that  has  not  yet 
quite  drowned  the  senses  in  their  oblivi- 
ous stupor;  the  dull  comfort  of  having 
finished  a  day ;  the  dreariness  in  pros- 
pect of  another  to  come  ;  in  one  word, 
the  terrible  visitation  of  an  avenging 
Providence  to  him  that  lives  to  himself! 

But  I  need  not  dwell  on  a  case  so  ob- 
vious, and  proceed,  at  once,  to  mention 
the  distinction  of  wealtli  and  poverty. 

It  must  not  be  denied  that  poverty, 
abject  and  desperate  poverty,  is  a  great 
evil  ;  but  this  is  not  a  common  lot,  and 
it  still  more  rarely  occurs  in  this  country, 
without  faults  or  vices,  which  should 
forbid  all  complaint.  Neither  shall  it 
here  be  urged,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
riches  are  acquired  with  many  labors 
and  kept  with  many  cares  and  anxieties  ; 
for  so  also  it  may  be  said,  and  truly  said, 
has  poverty  its  toils  and  anxieties.  The 
true  answer  to  all  difiiculties  on  this  sub- 
ject seems  to  be,  that  a  "  man's  life  con- 
sisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of  things 
which  he  possesseth."  Tiie  answer,  in 
short,  may  be  reduced  to  a  plain  matter 
of  fact.  There  is  about  as  much  cheer- 
fulness among  the  poor  as  among  the 
rich.  And,  I  suspect,  about  as  much 
contentment   too.     For  we   might    add 


INEQUALITY    IN   THE   LOT   OF   LIFE. 


8i 


that  a  man's  life,  if  it  consist  at  all  in  his 
possessions,  does  not  consist  in  what  he 
possesses,  but  in  what  he  thinks  himself 
to  possess.  Wealth  is  a  comparative 
term.  The  desire  of  property  grows, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  estimate  of 
it  lessens,  with  its  accumulation.  And 
thus  it  may  come  to  pass  that  he  who 
possesses  tliousands  may  less  feel  him- 
self to  be  rich,  and  to  all  substantial  pur- 
poses may  actually  be  less  rich,  than 
he  who  enjoys  a  sufficiency. 

But,  not  to  urge  this  point,  we  say 
that  a  man's  life  does  not  consist  in 
these  things.  Happiness,  enjoyment, 
the  buoyant  spirits  of  life,  the  joys  of 
humanity,  do  not  consist  in  them.  They 
do  not  depend  on  this  distinction,  of 
being  poor  or  rich.  As  it  is  with  the 
earth,  that  there  are  living  springs  within 
it,  which  will  burst  forth  somewhere, 
and  that  they  are  often  most  clear  and 
healthful  in  the  most  sterile  and  rugged 
spots,  so  it  is  with  the  human  heart. 
There  are  fountains  of  gladness  in  it : 
and  why  should  they  not  revive  the 
weary  .''  Why  should  they  not  cool  the 
brow  of  labor,  and  the  lips  that  are 
parched  with  toil  ?  Why  should  they  not 
refresh  the  poor  man  .''  Nay,  but  they 
do ;  and  they  refresh  him  the  more,  be- 
cause he  is  poor  and  weary.  Man  may 
hew  out  to  himself  cisterns,  and  how 
often  are  they  broken  cisterns,  which  are 
scrupulously  and  proudly  guarded  from 
his  poorer  fellow-man :  but  the  great 
fountains  which  God  has  opened  are  for 
all.  This  and  that  man  may  endeavor 
to  appropriate  them  to  himself;  he  may 
guide  them  to  liis  reservoir;  he  may 
cause  them  to  gush  forth  in  artificial 
fountains  and  to  fall  in  artificial  showers 
in  his  gardens  ;  but  it  is  artificial  still; 
and  one  draught  of  the  pure  well-spring 
of  honest,  homely  happiness,  is  better 
than  them  all ;  and  the  shower  which 
h&aven  sends,  falls  upon  the  rich  and 
the  poor,  upon  the  high  and  the  low, 
alike ;  and  with  still  more  impartial  favor 
descends  upon  the  good  and  the  evil, 
upon  the  just  and  the  unjust. 

III.    This    impartiality   will    be    still 


more  manifest,  if  we  reflect,  in  the  third 
place,  that  far  the  greatest  and  most 
numerous  of  the  divine  favors  are 
granted  to  all,  without  any  discrimina- 
tion. 

Look,  in  the  first  place,  at  the  natural 
gifts  of  Providence.  The  beauty  of  the 
earth,  the  glories  of  the  sky  ;  the  vision 
of  the  sun  and  the  stars ;  the  beneficent 
laws  of  universal  being  ;  the  frame  of 
society  and  of  government  ;  protecting 
justice  and  Almighty  providence  ;  whose 
are  these  ?  What  power  of  appropria- 
tion can  say  of  any  one  of  these,  "  This 
is  mine  and  not  another's  "  ?  And 
what  one  of  these  would  you  part  with 
for  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  or  all  the 
splendors  of  rank  or  office  ?  Again, 
your  eyesight,  —  that  regal  glance  that 
commands  in  one  act  the  outspread 
and  all-surrounding  beauty  of  the  fair 
universe,  — would  you  exchange  it  for  a 
sceptre  or  a  crown  ?  And  the  ear,  — 
that  gathers  unto  its  hidden  chambers 
all  music  and  gladness,  —  would  you 
give  it  for  a  kingdom  ?  And  that  won- 
derful gift,  speech,  —  that  breathes  its 
mysterious  accents  into  the  listening 
soul  of  thy  friend  ;  that  sends  forth  its 
viewless  messages  through  the  still  air, 
and  imprints  them  at  once  upon  the  ears 
of  thousands,  —  would  you  barter  that 
gift  for  the  renown  of  Plato  or  of  Mil- 
ton ?     • 

No,  there  are  unappropriated  blessings, 
blessings  which  none  can  appropriate, 
in  every  element  of  nature,  in  every 
region  of  existence,  in  every  inspiration 
of  lite,  which  are  infinitely  better  than 
all  that  can  be  hoarded  in  treasure  or 
borne  on  the  breath  of  fame.  All,  of 
which  any  human  being  can  say,  "  It  is 
mine,'"  is  a  toy,  is  a  trifle,  compared  with 
what  God  has  provided  for  the  great 
family  of  his  children  !  Is  he  poor  to 
whom  tlie  great  store-house  of  nature  is 
opened,  or  does  he  think  himself  poor 
because  it  is  God  who  has  made  him 
rich  ?  Does  he  complain  that  he  cannot 
have  a  magnificent  palace  to  dwell  in, 
who  dwells  in  this  splendid  theatre  of  . 
the    universe ;  that    he    cannot    behold 


82 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


swelling  domes  and  painted  walls,  who 
beholds  the  "  dread  magnificence  of 
heaven,"  and  the  pictured  earth  and 
sky  ?  Do  you  regret  the  want  of  attend- 
ants, of  a  train  of  servants,  to  anticipate 
every  wish  and  bring  every  comfort  at 
your  bidding  ?  Yet  how  small  a  thing 
is  it  to  be  waited  on,  compared  with  the 
privilege  of  bemg  yourself  active  ;  com- 
pared with  the  vigor  of  health  and  the 
free  use  of  your  limbs  and  senses  ?  Is 
it  a  hardship  that  your  table  does  not 
groan  with  luxuries  ?  But  how  much 
better  than  all  luxury  is  simple  appetite  ! 
The  very  circumstances  which  gain 
for  the  distinctions  of  life  such  an  undue 
and  delusive  estimation  are  such  as 
ought  to  make  us  cautious  about  the 
estimate  we  put  upon  them.  They  are 
distinctions,  and  therefore  likely  to  be 
over-rated  ;  but  is  that  a  good  and  sound 
reason  why  we  should  affix  to  them  an 
undue  importance?  Are  the  palaces  of 
kings  to  be  regarded  with  more  interest 
than  the  humbler  roofs  that  shelter  mil- 
lions of  human  beings  ?  What  more  is 
the  marriage  of  a  queen,  —  to  the  indi- 
vidual mind,  —  though  surrounded  with 
the  splendor  and  state  of  a  kingdom  ; 
though  accompanied  witli  shining  troops 
and  announced  by  roaring  cannon,  — 
what  more  is  it  than  that  marriage  of 
hearts  that  is  every  day  consummated 
beneath  a  thousand  lowly  roofs  ?  The 
distinctions  of  life,  too,  are  mostly  facti- 
tious ;  the  work  of  art,  and  man's  device. 
They  are  man's  gifts,  rather  than  God's 
gifts  ;  and  for  that  reason  I  would  es- 
teem them  less.  They  are  fluctuating, 
also,  and  therefore  attract  notice,  but  on 
that  account,  too,  are  less  valuable. 
They  are  palpable  to  the  senses,  attend- 
ed with  noise  and  show,  and  therefore 
likely  to  be  over-estimated.  While  those 
vast  benefits  whicli  all  share  and  which 
are  always  the  same,  which  come  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things,  which  do  not 
disturb  the  ordinary  and  even  tenor  of 
life,  pass  by  unheeded.  The  resounding 
chariot,  as  it  rolls  on  with  princely  state 
and  magnificence,  is  gazed  upon  with 
admiration  and  perhaps  with  envy.     But 


morning  comes  forth  in  the  east,  and 
from  his  glorious  chariot-wheels  scatters 
light  over  the  heavens  and  spreads  life 
and  beauty  through  the  world  :  morning 
after  morning  comes,  and  noontide  sets 
its  throne  in  the  southern  sky,  and  the 
day  finishes  its  splendid  revolution  in 
heaven,  without  exciting,  perhaps,  a 
comment  or  a  reflection.  The  pageant 
of  fashion  passes,  and  has  the  notice  of 
many  an  eye,  perhaps,  to  which  it  is  all 
in  vain  that  the  seasons  pass  by  in 
their  glory  ;  that  nature  arrays  herself 
in  robes  of  light  and  beauty,  and  fills 
the  earth  with  her  train.  To  want  what 
another  possesses,  to  be  outstripped  in 
the  race  of  honor  or  gain,  to  lose  some 
of  the  nominal  treasures  of  life,  may  be 
enough,  with  some  of  us,  to  disturb  and 
irritate  us  altogether  ;  and  such  an  one 
shall  think  little  of  it  that  he  has  life 
itself  and  that  he  enjoys  it :  it  shall  be 
nothing  to  him  that  he  has  quiet  sleep 
in  the  night  season,  and  that  all  the 
bounties  of  the  day  are  spread  before 
him  ;  that  he  has  friends  and  domestic 
joys,  and  the  living  fountain  of  cheerful 
spirits  and  affectionate  pleasures  witliin 
him. 

Nor  must  we  stop  here  in  our  esti- 
mate. There  is  an  infinite  sum  of  bless- 
ings which  have  not  yet  been  included 
in  the  account  ;  and  these,  like  all  the 
richest  gifts  of  heaven,  are  open  and 
free  to  all  ;  I  mean  the  gifts,  the  vir- 
tues, the  blessings  of  religion. 

It  has  already,  indeed,  sufficiently 
appeared,  not  only  that  the  inequalities 
in  the  allotments  of  Providence  are  at- 
tended with  a  system  of  compensations 
and  drawbacks  which  make  them  far 
less  than  they  seem  ;  and  also  on  ac- 
count of  the  vast  blessings  which  are 
diffused  everywhere  and  dispensed  to 
ail,  that  inequality,  instead  of  being  the 
rule  of  the  Divine  dealings,  is  only  a 
slight  exception  to  them.  But  we  come 
now  to  a  principle  that  absorbs  all  other 
considerations  ;  virtue,  the  only  intrin- 
sic, infinite,  everlasting  good,  is  acces- 
sible to  all.  If  there  were  ever  so  strong 
and  apparently  just  charges  of  partiality 


1 


INEQUALITY    IN   THE   LOT   OF   LIFE. 


S3 


a.o^ainst  the  Divine  Providence,  this  prin- 
ciple would  be  sufficient  to  vindicate  it. 
"O  God!"  exchiims  the  Persian  poet 
Sadi,  '*  have  pity  on  the  wicked  !  for 
thou  hast  done  everything  for  the  good, 
in  having  made  them  good." 

How  false  and  eardily  are  our  notions 
of  what  is  evil!  How  possible  is  it 
that  all  advantages  besides  religion  may 
prove  the  greatest  calamities  !  How 
possible  is  it  that  distinction,  that  suc- 
cessful ambition,  that  popular  applause, 
may  be  the  most  injurious,  the  most 
fatal  evil  that  could  befall  us !  How 
possible  that  wealth  may  be  turned  into 
the  very  worst  of  curses,  by  the  self- 
indulgence,  the  dissipation,  the  vanity 
or  hardness  of  heart  that  it  may  pro- 
duce !  And  there  is  a  judgment,  too, 
short  of  the  judgment  of  heaven,  that 
pronounces  it  to  be  so  ;  the  judgment 
of  every  right  and  noble  sentiment,  of 
all  good  sense,  of  all  true  friendship. 
There  is  a  friend,  not  a  flatterer,  who, 
as  he  witnesses  in  some  one  this  sad 
dereliction,  this  poor  exultation  of  van- 
ity, this  miserable  bondage  to  flattery, 
or  this  direful  success  of  some  dark 
temptation,  —  who,  as  he  witnesses  this, 
will  say  in  his  secret  thoughts,  with  the 
Persian  sage,  "  O  God  !  have  pity  on 
the  wicked  ;  have  pity  on  my  friend ! 
would  that  he  were  poor  and  unnoticed, 
would  that  he  were  neglected  or  for- 
saken, radier  than  thus  !  "  It  is  there- 
fore a  matter  of  doubt  whether  those 
things  which  we  crave  as  blessings 
would  really  be  such  to  us.  And  then, 
as  to  the  trials  of  life,  their  unequalled 
benefits  are  a  sufficient  answer  to  every 
objection  that  can  be  brought  against 
their  unequal  distribution. 

We  hear  it  said  that  there  is  much 
evil  in  the  world  ;  and  this  or  that  scene 
of  suffering  is  brought  as  an  example  of 
the  partial  dealings  of  heaven  ;  and  it 
is  felt,  if  it  is  not  said,  perhaps,  that 
"  God's  ways  are  unequal."  But  the 
strongest  objector  on  this  ground,  I 
think,  would  yield,  if  he  saw  that  the  at- 
tendant and  fruit  of  all  this  suffering  were 
a  fortitude,  a  cheerfulness,  a  heavenli- 


ness,  that  shed  brighter  hues  than  those 
of  earth  upon  the  dark  scene  of  calamity 
and  sorrow.  I  have  seen  suffering, 
sorrow,  bereavement,  all  that  is  darkest 
in  human  fortunes,  clothed  with  a  virtue 
so  bright  and  beautiful,  that  sympathy 
was  almost  lost  in  the  feeling  of  con- 
gratulation and  joy.  I  have  heard  more 
than  one  sufferer  say,  "  I  am  thankful ; 
God  is  good  to  me  ;  "  and  when  I  heard 
tliat,  I  said,  "It  is  good  to  be  afflicted." 
There  is,  indeed,  much  evil  in  the  world  ; 
but  without  it  there  would  not  be  much 
virtue.  The  poor,  the  sick,  and  the 
afflicted  could  be  relieved  from  their 
trials  at  once,  if  it  were  best  for  them  ; 
but  if  they  understood  their  own  wel- 
fare, they  would  not  desire  exemption 
from  their  part  in  human  trials.  There 
might  be  a  world  of  ease  and  indulgence 
and  pleasure  ;  but  "  it  is  a  world,"  to 
use  the  language  of  another,  "  from 
which,  if  the  option  were  given,  a  noble 
spirit  would  gladly  hasten  into  that  bet- 
ter world  of  difficulty  and  virtue  and 
conscience,  which  is  the  scene  of  our 
present  existence." 

In  fine,  religion  is  a  blessing  so  tran- 
scendent as  to  make  it  of  little  conse- 
quence what  else  we  have,  or  what  else 
we  want.  It  is  enough  for  us,  it  is 
enough  for  us  all ;  for  him  who  is  poor, 
for  him  who  is  neglected,  for  him  who  is 
disappointed  and  sorrowful;  it  is  enough 
for  him,  though  there  were  nothing  else, 
that  he  may  be  good  and  happy  for- 
ever. In  comparison  with  this,  to  be 
rich,  to  be  prosperous,  and  merely  that, 
is  the  most  trifling  thing  that  can  be 
imagined.  Is  it  not  enough  for  us,  my 
brethren,  that  we  may  gain  those  pre- 
cious treasures  of  the  soul  which  the 
world  cannot  give  nor  take  away  ;  that 
the  joys  and  consolations  and  hopes  of 
the  Spirit  and  Gospel  of  Christ  may  be 
ours  ?  'Has  not  he  a  sufficiency  ;  is  not 
his  heart  fnll  ;  is  not  his  blessedness 
complete,  who  can  say,  "  Whom  have  I 
in  heaven  but  thee,  and  there  is  none 
upon  earth  that  I  desire  besides  thee  : 
all  things  else  may  fail  ;  my  heart  may 
loie  its  power,  and  my  strength  its  firm- 


84 


ON   HUMAN    LIFE. 


ness  ;  but  thou  art  the  strength  of  my 
heart,  and  my  portion  forever." 

The  lesson,  my  friends,  which  these 
reflections  lay  before  us,  is  this  :  to 
learn  that  we  are  all  partakers  of  one 
lot,  children  of  one  Father  ;  to  learn  in 
whatsoever  state  we  are,  therewith  to  be 
content,  and  therein  to  be  grateful.  If 
you  are  ever  tempted  to  discontent  and 
murmuring,  ask  yourself,  ask  the  spirit 
within  you,  formed  for  happiness,  for 
glory  and  virtue,  of  what  you  shall  com- 
plain. Ask  the  ten  thousand  mercies  of 
your  lives,  of  what  you  shall  complain  : 
or  go  and  ask  the  bounties  of  nature  ; 
ask  the  sun  that  shines  cheerfully  upon 
you  ;  ask  the  beneficent  seasons  as  they 
roll,  of  what  you  shall  complain  ;  ask  — 
ask  —  of  your  Maker;  but  God  forbid 
that  you  or  I  should  be  guilty  of  the 
heinous  ingratitude  !  No,  my  friends, 
let  us  fix  our  thoughts  rather  upon  the 
full  and  overflowing  beneficence  of 
heaven,  upon  the  love  of  God.  Let  us 
fix  our  affections  upon  it,  and  then  we 
shall  /have  a  sufficiency  ;  then,  though 
somel  may  want  and  others  may  com- 
plain ;  though  dissatisfaction  may  prey 
upon  the  worldly,  and  envy  may  corrode 
the  hearts  of  the  jealous  and  discon- 
tented ;  for  us  there  shall  be  a  suffi- 
ciency indeed  ;  for  us  there  shall  be  a 
treasure  which  the  world  cannot  give, 
nor  change,  nor  disturb;  "an  inherit- 
ance incorruptible  and  undefiled,  and 
that  fadeth  not  away." 


XIII. 


ON   THE   MISERIES   OF   LIFE. 

Romans  viii-  20 :  "  For  the  creature  [_that  is  man] 
was  made  subject  to  vanity  [tkai  is  to  siiffering\^  not 
willingly,  but  by  reason  of  him  {or  at  the  will  0/ him] 
who  hath  subjected  the  same  in  hope." 

In  considering  the  spiritual  philoso- 
phy of  life,  we  cannot  avoid  the  problem 
of  human  misery.  The  reality  presses 
us  on  every  side,  and  philosopliy  de- 
mands to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  fact. 

I  have  often  wondered  that,  with  such 


themes  as  are  presented  to  the  pulpit, 
it  could  ever  have  been  dull  ;  still  more 
that  it  should  be  proverbially  dull.  So 
practical  are  these  themes,  so  profound, 
so  intimate  with  all  human  experience, 
that  I  cannot  conceive  what  is  to  be 
understood,  save  through  utter  perver- 
sion, by  a  dull  religion,  a  dull  congre- 
gation, or  a  dull  pulpit.  If  there  were 
an  invading  army  just  landed  upon  our 
shores  ;  if  there  were  a  conflagration  or 
a  pestilence  sweeping  through  our  city, 
and  we  were  assembled  here  to  consider 
what  was  to  be  done  ;  in  all  seriousness 
and  most  advisedly  do  I  say  that  no 
questions  could  be  raised,  on  such  an 
occasion,  more  vital  to  our  welfare,  than 
those  which  present  themselves  to  us 
here  on  every  Sunday.  Take  off  the 
covering  of  outward  form  and  demeanor 
from  the  heart  of  society,  and  what  do 
we  see .''  Is  there  not  a  struggle  and 
a  war  going  on  ;  not  upon  our  borders, 
but  in  the  midst  of  us,  in  our  dwellings, 
and  in  our  very  souls  ;  a  war,  not  for 
territory,  nor  for  visible  freedom,  but 
for  happiness,  for  virtue,  for  inward 
freedom  ?  Are  not  misery  and  vice,  as 
they  were  fire  and  pestilence,  pressing, 
urging,  threatening  to  sweep  through 
this  city  every  day  ?  Is  not  an  interest 
involved  in  every  day's  action,  thought,, 
purpose,  feeling,  that  is  dearer  than  mer- 
chandise, pleasure,  luxury,  condition  ; 
dearer  than  life  itself? 

Does  any  one  say  that  religion  is  some 
abstract  concern,  some  visionary  matter, 
fit  only  for  weak  enthusiasts  or  doting 
fools,  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  him 
nor  with  his  real  welfare  ;  a  thing  indif- 
ferent, gone  and  given  over  to  indiffer- 
ence, beyond  all  hope  of  recovery  ;  in 
which  he  cannot,  for  his  life,  interest 
himself  ?  Ay,  proud  philosopher  !  or 
vain  worldling  !  sayest  thou  that  ?  Is 
misery  something  abstract,  with  which 
thou  canst  not  interest  thyself.?  Is  sin 
—  that  source  of  misery  ;  is  the  wrong 
thought,  the  wrong  deed,  the  deed; 
folded,  muffled  in  darkness,  the  thought 
shut  up  in  the  secret  breast,  which 
neither  flashing  eve  nor  flushed  cheek 


THE   MISERIES   OF   LIFE. 


85 


may  tell,  —  is  this,  I  say,  something  ab- 
stract and  indiflerent  ?  And  is  the  holy 
peace  of  conscience,  the  joy  of  virtue, 
a  thing  for  which  a  human  being  need 
not,  cannot  care  ?  Nay,  these  are  the 
^reat,  invisible,  eternal  realities  of  our 
life,  of  our  very  nature  ! 

I  have  said  that  suffering,  as  the  most 
stupendous  fact  in  human  experience, 
IS  the  profoundest  problem  in  our  re- 
ligious philosophy,  presses  us  on  every 
side.  I  will  not  mock  you  with  formal 
proofs  of  its  existence.  And  do  not 
ihink,  either,  that  on  this  subject  I  will 
50  into  detail  or  description.  One  may 
easily  understand  human  experience, 
nterpret  the  universal  consciousness 
;oo  well,  to  think  that  either  needful  or 
;olerable.  I  will  not  speak  of  sicknesses 
)r  disappointments  or  bereavements, 
nany  though  they  are.  I  will  not  speak 
)f  the  minds,  more  in  number  than  we 
hink,  that  bear  the  one  solitary,  deep- 
imbosomed  grief  :  — 

'  One  fatal  remembrance,  one  sorrow  that  throws, 
In  dark  shade  alike  o'er  their  joys  and  their 

woes. 
To  which  life  nothing  brighter  nor  darker  can 

bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm,  and  affliction  no 

sting.-' 

'.  will  not  speak  of  the  sighing  that 
ises  up  from  all  the  world  for  a  happi- 
less  unfound.  But  I  point  you  to  that 
vhich  is  seldom  expressed,  to  that 
vhich  lies  deeper  than  all,  that  eternal 
vant,  which  lies  as  a  heavy  residuum 
X  the  bottom  of  the  cup  of  life  ;  which, 
-Ibeit  unperceived  amidst  the  flowings 
.nd  gushings  of  pleasure,  yet  when  the 
vaters  are  low  ever  disturbs  that  foun- 
ain-head,  that  living  cup  of  joy,  with 
mpatience,  anxiety,  and  blind  up-heav- 
ng  effort  after  something  good.  Yes, 
he  creature,  the  human  being,  is  made 
ubject  to  this.  There  is  a  wanting  and 
.  wanting,  and  an  ever  wanting,  of  what 
s  never  never  on  earth  to  be  obtained  ! 
"or  let  us  be  just  here.  Religion  itself 
Ices  not  altogether  assuage  that  feei- 
ng ;  "  For  even  we  ourselves,"  says  the 
^.postle,  "groan  within  ourselves."    No; 


religion  itself  does  not  suppress  that 
groan  ;  though  it  does  show,  and  therein 
is  a  most  blessed  visitation,  that  it  can 
satisfy  that  feeling  as  nothing  else  can, 
and  that  it  has  in  it  the  elements  for 
satisfying  it  fully  and  infinitely. 

I  dwell  somewhat  upon  this  point  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  my  brethren,  because 
I  conceive  that  it  is  one  office  of  the 
preacher,  as  it  is  of  the  poet  and  phi- 
losopher, to  unfold  the  human  heart  and 
nature  more  fully  to  itself.  Strange  as 
the  opinion  may  be  thought,  I  do  not 
believe  that  men  generally  know  how 
unhappy,  at  any  rate  how  far  from  hap- 
piness, they  are.  That  stupendous  fact, 
the  soul's  misery,  is  covered  up  with 
business,  cares,  pleasures,  and  vanities. 
Were  human  life  unveiled  to  its  depths  ; 
were  the  soul,  disrobed  of  all  overlay- 
ings  and  debarred  from  all  opiates,  to 
come  down,  down  to  its  own  naked  re- 
sources, it  seems  to  me,  at  times,  that 
religion  would  need  no  other  argument. 
With  such  apprehension  at  least  as  I 
have  of  this  subject,  I  feel  obliged  to 
preach,  as  to  some,  and  not  a  few,  who 
not  having  taken  the  religious  view  of 
their  existence,  have  come  to  look  upon 
life  with  a  dull  and  saddened  eye.  I 
believe  there  are  not  a  few, —  it  may  be 
that  they  are  of  the  more  solitary  in  the 
world,  and  who  have  not  as  many  stir- 
ring objects  and  prospects  in  life  as 
others,  —  who  look  upon  the  path  that 
stretches  before  them  as  cheerless,  and 
threatening  to  be  more  and  more  so  as 
it  advances  ;  who  say  in  their  silent 
thoughts,  "  I  shall  live,  perhaps,  too 
long !  I  shall  live,  perhaps,  till  I  am 
neglected,  passed  by,  forgotten  !  I  shall 
live,  possibly,  till  I  am  a  burden  to  others 
and  to  myself!  Oh,  what  may  my  state 
be  before  I  die  !  " 

Yes,  "the  creature  was  made  subject 
to  misery;"  and  if  you  will  find  a 
rational  being,  not  under  that  law,  you 
must  seek  him  without  the  bounds  of 
this  world. 

To  this  case,  then,  to  this  great  prob- 
lem involved  in  human  existence,  let  us 
give  our  thouirhts  tliis  evenin<r- 


86 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


And  in  the  first  place,  I  would  say, 
let  not  the  vast  amount  of  happiness  in 
this  world  be  forgotten  in  the  sense  of 
its  miseries. 

They  who  say  that  this  is  a  miserable 
world,  or  that  this  is  a  miserable  life, 
say  not  well.  It  is  misanthropy,  or  a  dis- 
eased imagination  only,  that  says  this. 
Life  is  liable  to  misery,  but  misery  is 
not  its  very  being  ;  it  is  not  a  miserable 
existence.  Witness,  —  I  know  not  what 
things  to  say,  or  how  many.  The  eye 
is  opened  to  a  world  of  beauty,  and  to 
a  heaven,  all  sublimity  and  loveliness. 
The  ear  heareth  tones  and  voices  that 
touch  the  heart  with  joy,  with  rapture. 
The  great,  wide  atmosphere  breathes 
upon  us,  bathes  us  with  softness  and 
fragrance.  Then  look  deeper.  How 
many  conditions  are  happy  !  Childhood 
is  happy,  and  youth  is  prevailingly  happy ; 
and  prosperity  hath  its  joy,  and  wealth 
its  satisfaction ;  and  the  warm  blood 
that  flows  in  the  ruddy  cheek  and  sinewy 
arm  of  honest  poverty  is  a  still  better 
gift.  No  song  is  so  hearty  and  cheer- 
ing, none  that  steals  forth  from  the  win- 
dows of  gay  saloons,  as  the  song  of 
honest  labor  among  the  hills  and  moun- 
tains. Oh,  to  be  a  man,  —  with  the 
true  energies  and  affections  of  a  man  ; 
all  men  feel  it  to  be  good.  To  be  a 
healthful,  strong,  true-hearted,  and  lov- 
ing man  ;  how  much  better  is  it  than 
to  be  the  minion  or  master  of  any  con- 
dition, —  lord,  landgrave,  king,  or  Cssar ! 
How  many  affections,  too,  are  happy ; 
gratitude,  generosity,  pity,  love,  and  the 
consciousness  of  being  beloved  !  And 
to  bow  the  heart,  in  lowliness  and  ado- 
ration, before  the  Infinite,  all-blessing, 
ever-blessed  One ;  to  see  in  the  all- 
surrounding  brightness  and  glory,  not 
beauty  and  majesty  only,  but  the 
all-Beautiful,  all-Majestic,  all-Conscious 
ilf/V/^and  Spirit  of  love,  —  this  is  to  be 
filled  with  more  than  created  fulness  ; 
it  is  to  be  filled  with  all  the  fulness  of 
God! 

A  world  where  such  things  are,  a 
world,  above  all,  where  such  a  presence 
is,  seemeth  to  me  a  goodly  world.     I 


look  around  upon  it,  I  meditate  upon  it, 
I  feel  its  blessings  and  beatitudes  ;  and 
I  say,  surely  it  is  a  world  of  plenteous- 
ness  and  beauty  and  gladness,  of  loves 
and  friendships,  of  blessed  homes  and 
holy  altars,  of  sacred  communions  and 
lofty  aspirations  and  immortal  pros- 
pects; and  I  remember  that  He  who 
made  it,  looked  upon  it,  and  saw  that 
it  was  very  good.  And  strange  it  seem- 
eth, indeed,  to  our  earlier  contemplation 
of  it,  that  in  such  a  world,  and  beneath 
the  bright  skies,  there  should  be  the 
dark  stroke  of  calamity,  —  a  serpent 
winding  through  this  Eden  of  our  exist- 
ence. 

Fut  it  is  here  ;  and  now  let  us  draw 
nearer,  and  behold  this  wonder  beneath 
the  heavens,  — viiseiy  ! 

What  is  its  nature  ?  What  account 
are  we  to  take  of  it  ?  What  are  we  to 
think  of  it?  On  this  point,  I  must  pray 
your  attention  to  something  of  detail  and 
s[)eculation  ;  though  I  must  be,  neces- 
sarily, brief. 

What,  then,  is  the  nature  of  misery  ? 
Is  it  an  evil  principle,  or  a  good  prin- 
ciple in  the  universe  .''  Is  it  designed  to 
do  us  harm,  or  to  do  us  good  ?  Doubt- 
less the  latter  ;  and  this  can  be  shown 
without  any  very  extended  or  laborious 
argument. 

Misery,  then,  evidently  springs  from 
two  causes  :  from  the  perfection  of  our 
nature,  and  from  the  imperfection  of  our 
treatment  of  it ;  that  is,  from  our  igno- 
rance, error,  and  sin. 

I  say  that  misery  springs,  first,  from 
the  perfection  or  excellence  of  our 
nature.  Thus  remorse,  a  pained  con- 
science, that  greatest,  and,  though  half- 
benumbed,  most  wide-spread  of  all 
misery,  never  would  afflict  us,  had  we 
not  a  moral  nature.  Make  us  animals, 
and  we  should  feel  nothing  of  this.  So 
of  our  intellectual  nature  ;  let  poor,  low 
instinct  take  its  place,  and  we  should 
never  suffer  from  ignorance,  error,  or 
mistake.  And  our  very  bodies  owe 
many  of  their  sufferings  and  diseases  to 
the  delicacy  of  our  nerves,  fibres,  and 
senses.     Gird  a  man  with  the  mail  of 


THE   MISERIES   OF   LIFE. 


87 


leviathan,  arm  him  with  hoofs  and 
claws,  and  he  would  have  but  few  hurts, 
diseases,  or  pains.  But  now  he  is 
clothed  with  these  veils  of  living  tis- 
sues, with  this  vesture  of  sensitive  feel- 
ing spread  all  over  his  frame,  that  his 
whole  body  may  be  an  exquisite  instru- 
ment of  communication  with  the  whole 
surrounding  universe  ;  that  earth,  air, 
sky,  waters,  all  their  visions,  all  their 
melodies,  may  visit  his  soul  through 
every  pore  and  every  sense.  In  such  a 
frame,  suffering  evidently  is  the  incident, 
not  the  intent.  And  then,  in  fine,  if  you 
ask  whence  comes  this  ever-craving  de- 
sire of  more,  more  ;  more  happiness, 
more  good,  more  of  everything  that  it 
grasps  ;  what  does  this  show  primarily 
but  the  extent  of  the  grasp,  the  large- 
ness of  the  capacity,  the  greatness  of 
the  nature  ?  That  universal  sighing, 
of  which  I  have  spoken,  which  is  for- 
ever saying,  "  Who  will  show  me  any 
good  ?  "  comes  not  from  the  dens  and 
keeps  of  animals,  but  from  the  dwellings 
of  thoughtful,  meditative,  and  immortal 
men. 

But  in  the  next  place,  I  say  that  our 
misery  cometh  from  the  imperfection 
of  our  treatment  of  this  elevated  and 
much-needing  nature  ;  from  our  igno- 
rance, error,  and  sin.  We  do  not  satisfy 
this  nature,  and  it  suffers  from  vague, 
ever-craving  want.  We  cannot  satisfy 
it,  perhaps  ;  which  only  the  more  shows 
its  greatness  ;  but  we  do  not  what  we 
can  to  satisfy  it.  We  wound  it  too  by 
transgression,  and  it  groans  over  the 
abuse.  We  err,  perhaps,  from  want  of 
reflection,  and  the  consequences  teach 
us  wisdom.  i  he  ciiild  that  puts  his 
hand  in  the  fire  will  not  put  it  there 
again.  A  cut  finger  is  a  brief  lesson,  a 
short  copy  writ  in  blood,  to  teach  dis- 
cretion. The  man  is  taught  to  transfer 
that  lesson  to  the  whole  scene  of  life. 
All  elements,  all  the  laws  of  things 
around  us,  minister  to  this  end  ;  and 
thus,  through  the  paths  of  painful  error 
and  mistake,  it  is  the  design  of  provi- 
dence to  lead  us  to  truth  and  happiness. 

Is,  then,  the  principle   of  misery  in 


tJiis  view  an  evil  principle  ?  If  erring 
but  taught  us  to  err  ;  if  mistakes  con- 
firmed us  in  imprudence  ;  if  the  pains 
of  imperfection  only  fastened  its  bonds 
upon  us,  and  the  miseries  of  sin  had  a 
natural  tendency  to  make  us  its  slaves, 
then  were  all  this  suffering  only  evil. 
But  the  evident  truth  on  the  contrary 
is,  that  it  all  tends  and  is  designed  to 
produce  amendment,  improvement.  This 
so  clearly  results  from  the  principles 
of  reason,  and  is  so  uniformly  sustained 
by  the  testimony  of  Scripture,  that  I  do 
not  think  it  necessary  to  quote  from  the 
one,  nor  any  farther  to  argue  from  the 
other. 

Misery,  then,  is  a  beneficent  principle 
in  the  universe.  He  who  subjected  the 
creature  to  misery,  subjected  him  in 
hope.  There  is  a  brightness  beyond 
that  dark  cloud.  It  is  not  an  inexplica- 
ble, unutterable,  implacable,  dark  doom, 
this  ministration  of  misery  ;  it  is  meant 
for  good.  It  is  meant  to  be  a  ministra- 
tion to  virtue  and  to  happiness.  I  say, 
to  virtue  and  happiness.  These  are  the 
specifications  of  what  I  mean,  when  I 
say  that  suffering  is  a  beneficent  princi- 
ple. It  springs  from  the  perfection  or 
excellence  of  our  nature,  and  thus  far, 
certainly,  all  is  well  with  our  argument. 
It  springs  from  imperfection  in  our 
treatrnent  of  it ;  but  it  is  designed  to  re- 
move that  imperfection  ;  and  still  there- 
fore the  path  of  our  argument,  though  it 
lead  over  desolations  and  ruins,  is  clear 
and  bright.  But  still  further  I  say 
that  it  is  not  an  abstract  argument ;  a 
mere  fair  theory  having  no  foundation 
in  truth  and  fact. 

I  will  reason  from  your  own  expe- 
rience. The  pained  thought,  the  pain- 
ful feeling  in  you  ;  tell  me  what  it  is, 
and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is  made  to 
work  out  good  for  you.  Is  it  ennui, 
satiety,  want .''  All  this  urges  and  com- 
pels you  to  seek  for  action,  enlargement, 
supply.  Is  it  that  most  sad  and  painful 
conviction,  the  conviction  of  deficiency 
or  of  sin  .''  This  directly  teaches  you  to 
seek  for  virtue,  improvement ;  for  par- 
don,   and   the    blessedness   of   pardon. 


88 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


Is  it  the  sorrow  of  unrequited  affection, 
or  a  sighing  for  friendship,  in  this  cold 
and  selfish  world  too  seldom  found  ? 
This  is  an  occasion  for  the  loftiest  gen- 
erosity, magnanimity,  and  candor.  Is 
it  sickness  or  bereavement,  the  body's 
pain  or  the  heart's  desolation  ?  Forti- 
tude, f;iith,  patience,  trust  in  heaven, 
the  hope  of  heaven  ;  these  are  so  much 
meant  as  the  end,  that,  indeed,  there 
are  no  other  resources  for  pain  and 
deprivation. 

And  these  happy  results,  I  say,  have 
not  failed  to  be  produced  in  the  expe- 
rience of  multitudes.  It  is  no  vision- 
ary dreaming  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
but  a  matter  of  fact.  Even  as  Christ 
was  made  perfect  through  sufferings,  so 
are  his  followers.  How  many  have 
said,  in  their  thoughts,  when  at  last  the 
true  light  has  broken  upon  them,  "  Ah  ! 
it  is  no  contradiction ;  the  dark  path 
tioes  lead  to  light ;  pain  /s  a  means  of 
pleasure  ;  misery,  of  happiness  ;  peni- 
tential grief,  of  virtue  ;  loss,  deprivation, 
sorrow,  are  the  elements,  or  rather  they 
are  the  means,  of  all  that  is  best  in  my 
character  ;  it  is  fortunate  for  me  that  I 
have  suffered  ;  it  is  good  for  me  that  I 
have  been  afflicted  ;  it  is  better,  how  far 
better  with  me  now,  than  if  I  had  been 
always  and  only  happy." 

Nay,  and  even  from  that  comparison, 
by  which  past  suffering  enhances  all 
present  and  coming  enjoyment,  I  could 
draw  an  argument  almost  sufficient  for 
its  vindication  in  the  great  scheme  of 
providence.  The  pains  of  a  sick  and 
dying  child  are  often  referred  to  as  the 
most  mysterious  tilings  in  providence  ; 
but  that  child,  it  should  be  remembered, 
may  be,  and  probably  will  be,  happier 
forever,  for  that  dark  cloud  that  brood- 
ed over  the  cradle  of  its  infancy.  And 
for  myself  I  must  say,  that  if  I  were  now 
standing  on  the  verge  of  a  tried  life  with 
the  prospects  of  everlasting  happiness 
before  me,  I  should  not  regret  that  I  had 
been  a  sufferer ;  I  should  count  it  all 
joy,  rather,  and  be  sure  that  my  eternal 
joy  would  be  dearer  for  it. 

But  this  is  not,  it  is  true,  the  chief  con- 


sideration. Suffering  is  the  discipline 
of  virtue,  that  which  nourishes,  invigo- 
rates, perfects  it.  Suffering,  I  repeat,  is 
the  discipline  of  virtue  ;  of  that  which 
is  infinitely  better  than  happiness,  and 
yet  which  embraces  all  essential  happi- 
ness in  it.  Virtue  is  the  prize  of  the 
severely  contested  race,  of  the  hard- 
fought  battle  ;  and  it  is  worth  all  the 
strifes  and  wounds  of  the  conflict. 

This  is  the  view  which  we  ought,  I  " 
think,  manfully  and  courageously  to 
take  of  our  present  condition.  Partly 
from  our  natural  weakness,  partly  from 
want  of  reflection,  and  partly  from  the 
discouraging  aspects  which  infidel  phi-  "I 
losophy  and  ascetic  superstition  have 
thrown  over  human  life,  we  have  ac- 
quired a  timidity,  a  pusillanimity,  a 
peevishness,  a  habit  of  complaining, 
which  enhances  ail  our  sorrows.  Dark 
enough  they  are,  without  needing  to  be 
darkened  by  gloomy  theories.  Enough 
do  we  tremble  under  them,  without  re- 
quiring the  misgivings  of  cherished  fear 
and  weakness.  Philosophy,  religion, 
virtue,  should  speak  to  man,  not  in  a 
voice  all  pity,  not  in  a  voice  all  terror  ; 
but  rather  in  that  trumpet  tone  that 
arouses  and  cheers  the  warrior  to  battle. 

With  a  brave  and  strong  heart  should 
man  go  forth  to  battle  with  calamity. 
He  shall  not  let  it  be  his  master,  but 
rather  shall  he  master  it ;  yea,  he  shall  be 
as  an  artificer,  who  taketh  in  his  hand 
an  instrument  to  work  out  some  beau- 
tiful work.  When  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
took  in  his  hand  the  axe  that  was  in  a 
few  moments  to  deprive  him  of  life,  and 
felt  its  keen  edge,  he  said,  smiling.  "  This 
is  a  sharp  medicine,  but  it  will  cure 
all  diseases."  Indeed,  the  manner  in 
which  the  brave  English  noblemen  and 
clergy  of  the  olden  time  went  to  death, 
even  when  it  was  to  appease  the  jealousy 
or  wrath  of  unjust  monarchs,  is  illus- 
trative of  the  spirit  I  would  recommend. 
Fortitude,  manliness,  cheerfulness,  with 
modesty  and  humility,  dressed  them, 
even  on  the  scaffold,  in  robes  of  eternal 
honor.  And  surely  he  who  takes  an 
instrument  in  his  hand,  which  is  not  to 


THE   MISERIES   OF  LIFE. 


89 


slay  him,  but  with  wliicli  he  may  work 
out  the  model  and  perfection  of  every 
virtue  in  him,  sliould  take  it  witli  reso- 
lution and  courage  ;  siiould  say,  "  With 
tliis  sore  pain  or  bitter  sorrow  is  a  good 
and  noble  work  for  me  to  do,  and  well 
and  nobly  will  I  strive  to  do  it.  I  will 
not  blench,  nor  fly  from  what  my  Father 
above  has  appointed  me.  I  will  not 
drown  my  senses  and  faculties  with 
opiates  to  escape  it.  I  will  not  forsake 
the  post  of  trial  and  peril."  Do  you 
remember  that  noble  boy  who  stood  on 
the  burning  deck  at  the  battle  of  the 
Nile .''  Many  voices  around  said,  "  Come 
down  !  —  come  away  !  "  But  the  confid- 
ing child  said,  "  Father,  shall  I  come  .''  " 
Alas!  that  Father's  voice  was  hushed 
in  death  ;  and  his  child  kept  his  post 
till  he  sunk  in  the  whelming  flame.  O 
noble  child  !  thou  teachest  us  firmly  to 
stand  in  our  lot  till  the  great  word  of 
providence  shall  bid  us  fly  or  bid  us 
sink  ! 

But  while  I  speak  thus,  think  me  not 
insensible  to  the  severity  of  man's  suf- 
ferings. I  know  what  human  nerves  and 
sinews  and  feelings  are.  When  the 
sharp  sword  enters  the  very  bosom,  the 
iron  enters  the  very  soul,  —  I  see  what 
must  follow.  I  see  the  uplifted  hands, 
the  writhen  brow,  the  written  agony  in 
the  eye.  But  God's  mercy,  which  "tem- 
pers the  blast  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  does 
not  suffer  these  to  be  the  ordinary  and 
permanent  forms  of  affliction.  No,  thou 
sittest  down  in  thy  still  chamber,  and 
sad  memories  come  there  ;  or,  it  may  be, 
strange  trials  gather  under  thy  brooding 
thought.  Thou  art  to  die  ;  or  thy  friend 
must  die ;  or,  worse  still,  thy  friend  is 
faithless  ;  or  thou  sayest  that  coming 
life  is  dark  and  desolate.  And  now,  as 
thou  sittest  there,  I  will  speak  to  thee  ; 
and  I  say  —  though  sighs  will  burst  from 
thy  almost  broken  heart,  yet  when  they 
come  back  in  echoes  from  the  silent 
walls,  let  them  teach  thee.  Let  them 
tell  thee  that  God  wills  not  thy  destruc- 
tion, thy  suffering,  for  its  own  sake; 
wills  thee  not,  cannot  will  thee,  any  evil  ; 
how  could  that  thoudit  come  from  the 


bosom  of  infinite  love  !  No,  let  thy  sor- 
rows tell  thee  that  God  wills  thy  repen- 
tance, thy  virtue,  thy  liappiness,  thv 
preparation  for  infinite  happiness  !  Let 
that  thought  spread  holy  light  through 
thy  darkened  chamber.  That  which  is 
against  thee  is  not  as  that  which  is  for 
thee.  Calamity,  a  dark  speck  in  thy  sky, 
seemeth  to  be  against  thee ;  but  God's 
goodness,  the  all-embracing  light  and 
power  of  the  universe,  forever  lives,  and 
shines  around  thee  and  for  thee. 

'•  Evil  and  good  before  him  stand, 
Their  mission  to  perfoiTn." 

The  angel  of  gladness  is  there,  but 
the  angel  of  affliction  is  there  too  ;  and 
both  alike  for  good.  May  the  angel  of 
gladness  visit  us  as  often  as  is  good  for 
us  !  —  I  pray  for  it.  But  that  angel  of 
affliction  !  what  shall  we  say  to  it .-'  Shall 
we  not  say,  "  Come  thou  too,  when  our 
Father  willeth  ;  come  thou,  when  need 
is  ;  with  saddened  brow  and  pitying  eye, 
come ;  and  take  us  on  thy  wings,  and 
bear  us  up  to  hope,  to  happiness,  to 
heaven  ;  to  that  presence  where  is  ful- 
ness of  joy,  to  that  right  hand  where  are 
pleasures  forevermore  !  " 

There  is  one  further  thought  which  1 
must  not  fail  to  submit  to  you  on  this 
subject,  before  I  leave  it.  The  greatness 
of  our  suflferings  points  to  a  correspon- 
dent greatness  in  the  end  to  be  gained. 
When  I  see  what  men  are  suflering 
around  me,  I  cannot  help  feehng  that  it 
was  meant,  not  only  that  they  should  be 
far  better  than  they  are,  but  far  better 
than  they  often  think  of  being.  The 
end  must  rise  higher  and  brighter  before 
us,  before  we  can  look  through  this  dark 
cloud  of  human  calamity.  The  struggle, 
the  wounds,  the  carnage  and  desolation 
of  a  battle,  would  overwhelm  me  with 
horror,  if  it  were  not  fought  for  freedom, 
for  the  fireside  ;  to  protect  infancy  from 
ruthless  butchery,  and  the  purity  of  our 
homes  from  brutal  wrong.  So  is  the 
battle  of  this  life  a  bewildering  maze  of 
misery  and  despair,  till  we  see  the  high 
prize  that  is  set  before  it.  You  would 
not  send  your  son  to  travel  through  a 


gj 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


barren  and  desolate  wilderness,  or  to 
make  a  long  and  tedious  voyage  to  an 
unhealthy  clime,  but  for  seme  great 
object :  say,  to  make  a  fortune  thereby. 
And,  any  way,  it  seems  to  your  parental 
affection  a  strange  and  almost  cruel  pro- 
ceeding. Nor  would  the  merciful  Father 
of  life  have  sent  his  earthly  children 
to  struggle  through  all  the  sorrows,  the 
pains  and  perils  of  this  world,  but  to  at- 
tain to  the  grandeur  of  a  moral  fortune, 
worth  all  the  strife  and  endurance.  No, 
all  this  is  not  ordained  in  vain,  nor  in 
reckless  indifference  to  what  we  suffer  ; 
but  for  an  end,  for  a  high  end,  for  an  end 
higher  than  we  think  for.  Troubles,  dis- 
appointments, afflictions,  sorrows,  press 
us  on  every  side,  that  we  may  rise  up- 
ward, upward,  ever  upward.  And,  be- 
lieve me,  in  thus  rising  upward  you  shall 
find  the  very  names  that  you  give  to 
calamity  gradually  changing.  Misery, 
strictly  speaking  and  in  its  full  meaning, 
does  not  belong  to  a  good  mind.  Misery 
shall  pass  into  suffering,  and  suffering 
into  discipline,  and  discipline  into  virtue, 
and  virtue  into  heaven.  So  let  it  pass 
with  you.  Bend  now  patiently  and 
meekly  in  that  lowly  "  worship  of  sor- 
row," till  in  God's  time  it  become  the 
worship  of  joy,  of  proportionably  higher 
joy,  in  that  world  where  there  shall  be 
no  more  sorrow  nor  pain  nor  crying; 
where  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  from  your 
eyes  ;  where  beamings  of  heaven  in  your 
countenance  shall  grow  brighter  by 
comparison  with  all  the  darkness  of 
earth. 

And  remember,  too,  that  your  forerun- 
ner into  that  blessed  life  passed  through 
this  same  worship  of  sorrow.  A  man 
of  sorrows  was  that  Divine  Master,  and 
acquainted  with  grief.  This  is  the  great 
Sabbath  of  the  year,*  that  commemo- 
rates his  triumph  over  sorrow  and  pain 
and  death  And  what  were  the  instru- 
ments, the  means,  the  ministers  of  that 
very  victory,  that  last  victory  ?  The 
rage  of  men,  and  the  fierceness  of  tor- 
ture;  the  arraignment  before  enemies  — 
mocking,  smiting,  scourging  ;  the  thorny 
*  Easter  Sunday. 


crown,  the  bitter  cross,  the  barred  tomb  ! 
With  these  he  fought,  through  these  he 
conquered,  and  from  these  he  rose  to 
heaven.  And,  believe  me,  in  something 
rtiust  every  disciple  be  Hke  the  master. 
Clothed  in  some  vesture  of  pain,  of  sor- 
row, or  of  affliction,  must  he  fight  the 
great  battle  and  win  the  great  victory. 
When  I  stand  in  the  presence  of  that 
high  example,  I  cannot  listen  to  poor, 
unmanly,  unchristian  complainings.  I 
would  not  have  its  disciples  account  too 
much  of  their  griefs.  Rather  would  I 
say.  Courage,  ye  that  bear  the  great, 
the  sublime  lot  of  sorrow  !  It  is  not 
forever  that  ye  suffer.  It  is  not  for 
naught  that  ye  suffer.  It  is  not  without 
end  that  ye  suffer.  God  wills  it.  He 
spared  not  his  own  Son  from  it.  God 
wills  it.  It  is  the  ordinance  of  his  wis- 
dom for  us.  Nay,  it  is  the  ordinance  of 
Infinite  love,  to  procure  for  us  an  infinite 
glory  and  beatitude. 


XIV. 

ON   THE   SCHOOL   OF   LIFE. 

Psalm  Ixxi.  17  :  "  O  God,  thou  hast  taught  me 
from  my  youth." 

Life  is  a  school.  This  world  is  a 
house  of  instruction.  It  is  hot  a  prison' 
nor  a  penitentiary,  nor  a  palace  of  ease, 
nor  an  amphitheatre  for  games  and 
spectacles  ;  it  is  a  school.  And  this 
view  of  life  is  the  only  one  that  goes  to 
the  depths  of  the  philosophy  of  life  ;  the 
only  one  that  answers  the  great  question, 
solves  the  great  problem,  of  life.  For 
what  is  life  given  ?  If  for  enjoyment 
alone,  if  for  suff'ering  merely,  it  is  a  chaos 
of  contradictions.  But  if  for  moral  and 
spiritual  learning,  then  everything  is  full 
of  significance,  lull  of  wisdom.  And 
this  view,  too,  is  of  the  utmost  practical 
importance.  It  immediately  presents  to 
us  and  presses  upon  us  the  question. 
What  are  we  learning  ?  And  is  not  this, 
truly,  the  great  question  ?  When  your 
son  comes  home  to  you  at  the  annual 
vacation,  it  is  the  first  question  in  your 
thoughts  concerning  /amy  and  you  ask 


THE   SCHOOL  OF   LIFE. 


91 


liim,  oryou  ask  for  the  certificates  and 
testimonials  of  his  teachers,  to  give  you 
some  evidence  of  his  learning.  At  every 
passing  term  in  the  great  school  of  life, 
also,  this  is  the  all-important  question. 
What  has  a  man  got,  from  the  experi- 
ence, discipline,  opportunity,  of  any  past 
period  ?  Not,  what  has  he  gatliered  to- 
gether in  the  shape  of  any  tangible  good  ; 
[)ut  what  has  he  got,  —  in  that  other  and 
eternal  treasure-house,  his  mind  I  Not, 
what  of  outward  accommodation  the  lit- 
eral scholar  has  had,  should  we  think  it 
much  worth  our  while  to  inquire  ;  not 
whether  his  text-books  liad  been  in  splen- 
did bindings  ;  not  whether  his  study-table 
had  been  of  rich  cabinet-work,  and  his 
chair  softly  cushioned;  not  whether  the 
school-house  in  which  he  had  studied 
were  of  majestic  size,  or  adorned  with 
columns  and  porticos ;  let  him  have 
got  a  good  education,  and  it  would  be 
comparatively  of  little  moment  how  or 
where  he  got  it.  We  should  not  ask 
what  honors  he  had  obtained,  but  as 
proofs  of  his  progress.  Let  him  have 
graduated  at  the  most  illustrious  univer- 
sity, or  have  gained,  through  some  mis- 
take, its  highest  distinctions,  and  still 
be  -essentially  deficient  in  mind  or  in 
accomplishment,  and  that  fatal  defect 
would  sink  into  every  parent's  heart  as 
a  heavy  and  unalleviated  disappointment. 
And  are  such  questions  and  considera- 
tions any  less  appropriate  to  the  great 
school  of  life,  whose  entire  course  is 
an  education  for  virtue,  happiness,  and 
heaven  ?  "  O  God  !  "  exclaims  the  Psalm- 
ist, "  thou  hast  taught  me  from  my 
youth." 

Life,  I  repeat,  is  a  school.  The  pe- 
riods of  life  are  its  terms;  all  human 
conditions  are  but  its  forms  ;  all  human 
employments,  its  lessons.  Families  are 
tlie  primary  departments  of  this  moral 
education;  the  various  circles  of  society, 
its  advanced  stages  ;  kingdoms  are  its 
universities  ;  the  world  is  but  the  mate- 
rial structure,  built  for  the  administration 
of  its  teachings  ;  and  it  is  lifted  up  in  the 
lieavens  and  borne  through  its  annual 
circuits  for  no  end  but  this. 


Life,  I  say  again,  is  a  school :  and  all 
its  periods,  infancy,  youth,  manhood,  and 
age,  have  their  appropriate  tasks  in  this 
school. 

With  what  an  early  care  and  wonder- 
ful apparatus  does  Providence  begin  the 
work  of   human  education  !     An  infant 
being  is  cast  upon  the  lap  of  nature,  not 
to  be  supported  or  nourished  only,  but  to 
be  instructed.     The  world  is  its  school. 
All  elements  around   are   its   teachers. 
Long  ere  it  is  placed  on  the  first  form  be- 
fore the    human  master,  it  has  been  at 
school ;  insomuch   that  a  distinguished 
statesman  has  said  with  equal  truth  and 
originality,  that  he  had  probably  obtained 
more  ideas  by  the  age  of  five  or  six  years 
than  he  has  acquired  ever  since.     And 
what    a   wonderful    ministration    is   it  ! 
What  mighty  masters  are  there  for  the 
training  of  infancy,  in  the  powers  of  sur- 
rounding nature !     With  a  finer  influence 
than  any  human  dictation,  they  penetrate 
the  secret  places    of  that  embryo  soul, 
and  bring  it  into  life  and  light.     From  the 
soft  breathings  of  spring  to  the  rough 
blasts  of  winter,  each  one  pours  a  bless- 
ing upon    its  favorite   child,  expanding 
its  frame  for  action  or  fortifying  it  for 
endurance.     You    seek    for    celebrated 
schools  and  distinguished  teachers  for 
your  children  ;  and  it  is  well.     Or  you 
cannot  afford  to  give  them  these  advan- 
tages, and  you  regret  it.     But  consider 
what  you  have.     Talk  we  of  far-sought 
and  expensive  processes  of  education .'' 
That  infant  eye  hath  its  master  in  the 
sun ;  that  infant  ear  is  attuned  by  the 
melodies    and    harmonies  of  the  wide, 
the  boundless  creation.     The  goings  on 
of  the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  the 
courses   of  childhood's   lessons.      The 
showsthat  are  painted  on  the  dome  of  the 
sky  and  on  the  uplil'ted  mountains  and  on 
the  spreading  plains    and    seas    are    its 
pictured  diagrams.     Immensity,  infinity, 
eternity,  are    its   teachers.     The    great 
universe  is  the  shrine  from  which  ora- 
cles, oracles  by  day  and  by  night,  are 
forever  uttered.     Well  may  it   be  said 
that  "of  such,"  of  beings  so  cared  for, 
"  is  the  kin^ldom  of  heaven."     Well  and 


92 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


fitly  is  it  written  of  him,  who  compre- 
hended the  wondrous  birth  of  humanity 
and  the  gracious  and  sublime  providence 
of  heaven  over  it,  that  "he  took  little 
children  in  his  arms  and  blessed  them." 

So  begins  the  education  of  man  in  the 
school  of  life.  It  were  easy,  did  the  time 
permit,  to  pursue  it  into  its  successive 
stages ;  into  the  period  of  youth,  when  the 
senses,  not  yet  vitiated,  are  to  be  refined 
into  grace  and  beauty,  and  the  soul  is 
to  be  developed  into  reason  and  virtue  ; 
of  manliood,  when  the  strength  of  the 
ripened  passions  is  to  be  held  under 
the  control  of  wisdom,  and  the  matured 
energies  of  the  higher  nature  are  to  be 
directed  to  the  accomplishment  of  wor- 
thy and  noble  ends;  of  age,  which  is 
to  finish  with  dignity  the  work  begun 
with  ardor ;  which  is  to  learn  patience 
in  weakness,  to  gather  up  the  fruits  of 
experience  into  maxims  of  wisdom,  to 
cause  virtuous  activity  to  subside  into 
pious  contemplation,  and  to  gaze  upon 
the  visions  of  heaven  through  the  part- 
ing veils  of  earth. 

But  in  the  next  place,  life  presents 
lessons  in  its  various  pursuits  and  con- 
ditions, in  its  ordinances  and  events. 
Riches  and  poverty,  gayeties  and  sor- 
rows, marriages  and  funerals,  the  ties  of 
life  bound  or  broken,  fit  and  fortunate, 
or  untoward  and  painful,  are  all  lessons. 
They  are  not  only  appointments,  but 
they  are  lessons.  They  are  not  things 
which  must  be,  but  things  which  are 
meant.  Events  are  not  blindly  and  care- 
lessly flung  together  in  a  strange  chance- 
medley  :  providence  is  not  schooling 
one  man,  and  another  screening  from 
the  fiery  trial  of  its  lessons  ;  it  has  no 
rich  favorites  nor  poor  victims  ;  one 
event  happeneth  to  all ;  one  end,  one 
design,  concerneth,  urgeth  all  men. 

Hast  thou  been  prosperous  }  Thou 
hast  been  at  school ;  that  is  all ;  thou 
hast  been  at  school.  Thou  thoughtest, 
perhaps,  that  it  was  a  great  thing,  and 
that  thou  wert  some  great  one  ;  but  thou 
art  only  just  a  pupil.  Thou  thoughtest 
that  thou  wast  master  and  hadst  nothing 
to  do  but  to  direct  and  command  ;   but  I 


tell  thee  that  there  is  a  Master  above 
thee,  the  Master  of  life  ;  and  that  He 
looks  not  at  thy  splendid  state  nor  thy 
many  pretensions ;  nor  at  the  aids  and 
appliances  of  thy  learning  ;  but  simply 
at  thy  learning.  As  an  earthly  teacher 
puts  the  poor  boy  and  the  rich  upon  the 
same  form,  and  knows  no  difference  be- 
tween them  but  their  progress  ;  so  it  is 
with  thee  and  thy  poor  neighbor.  What, 
then,  hast  thou  learnt  from  thy  pros- 
perity ?  This  is  the  question  that  1  am 
asking,  that  all  men  are  asking,  when 
any  one  has  suddenly  grown  prosperous, 
or  has  been  a  long  time  so.  And  I  have 
heard  men  say  in  a  grave  tone,  "  He 
cannot  bear  it  !  he  has  become  passion- 
ate, proud,  self-sufficient,  and  disagree- 
able." Ah  !  fallen,  disgraced  man  !  even 
in  the  world's  account.  But  what,  I  say 
again,  hast  thou  learnt  from  prosperity  ? 
Moderation,  temperance,  candor,  mod- 
esty, gratitude  to  God,  generosity  to 
man  ?  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  ! 
thou  hast  honor  with  heaven  and  with 
men.  But  what,  again  I  say,  hast  thou 
learnt  from  thy  prosperity  ?  Selfish- 
ness, self-indulgence,  and  sin  ;  to  forget 
or  overlook  thy  less  fortunate  fellow  ; 
to  forget  thy  God  1  Then  wert  thou  an 
unworthy  and  dishonored  being,  though 
thou  hadst  been  nursed  in  the  bosom  of 
the  proudest  affluence,  or  hadst  taken 
thy  degrees  from  the  lineage  of  an  hun- 
dred noble  descents  ;  yes,  as  truly  dis- 
honored, before  the  eye  of  heaven, 
though  dwelling  in  splendor  and  luxury, 
as  if  thou  wert  lying,  the  victim  of  beg- 
gary and  vice,  by  the  hedge  or  upon  the 
dung-hill.  It  is  the  scholar,  not  the 
school,  at  which  the  most  ordinary  hu- 
man equity  looks  ;  and  let  us  not  think 
that  the  equity  of  heaven  will  look  be- 
neath that  lofty  mark. 

But  art  thou,  to  whom  I  speak,  a  poor 
man  ?  Thou,  too,  art  at  school.  Take 
care  that  thou  learn,  rather  than  com- 
plain. Keep  thine  integrity,  thy  can- 
dor, and  kindness  of  heart.  Beware  of 
envy  ;  beware  of  bondage  ;  keep  thy 
self-respect.  The  body's  toil  is  nothing. 
Beware  of  the  mind's  drudgery  and  deg- 


THE   SCHOOL   OF   LIFE. 


93 


nidation.  I  do  not  say  be  always  poor. 
Better  thy  condition  if  thou  canst.  But 
be  more  an.xious  to  better  tliy  soul.  Be 
willing,  while  thou  art  poor,  patiently  to 
learn  the  lessons  of  poverty,  — fortitude, 
cheerfulness,  contentment,  trust  in  God. 
The  tasks,  I  know,  are  hard  ;  depriva- 
tion, toil,  the  care  of  children.  Thou 
must  wake  early  :  thy  children,  perhaps, 
will  wake  thee ;  thou  canst  not  put  them 
away  from  thee  to  a  distant  nursery. 
Fret  not  thyself  because  of  this  ;  but 
cheerfully  address  thyself  to  thy  task  ; 
learn  patience,  calmness,  self-command, 
disinterestedness,  love.  With  these  the 
humblest  dwelling  may  be  hallowed,  and 
so  made  dearer  and  nobler  than  the 
proudest  mansion  of  self-indulgent  ease 
and  luxury.  But,  above  all  things,  if 
thou  art  poor,  beware  that  thou  lose 
not  thine  independence.  Cast  not  thy- 
self, a  creature  poorer  than  poor,  an  in- 
dolent, helpless,  despised  beggar,  on 
the  kindness  of  others.  Choose  to  have 
God  for  thy  master,  rather  than  man. 
Escape  not  from  his  school,  either  by 
dishonesty  or  alms-taking,  lest  thou  fall 
into  that  state  worse  than  disgrace, 
where  thou  shalt  have  no  respect  for 
thj'self.  Thou  mayest  come  out  of  that 
school ;  yet  beware  that  thou  come  not 
out  as  a  truant,  but  as  a  noble  scholar. 
The  world  itself  doth  not  ask  of  the 
candidates  for  its  honors  whether  they 
studied  in  a  palace  or  a  cottage,  but 
what  they  have  acquired  and  what  they 
are ;  and  heaven,  let  us  again  be  as- 
sured, will  ask  no  inferior  title  to  its 
glories  and  rewards. 

Again,  the  entire  social  condition  of 
humanity  is  a  school.  The  ties  of  so- 
ciety affectingly  teach  us  to  love  one 
another.  A  parent,  a  child,  a  husband 
or  wife  or  associate  without  love  is 
nothing  but  a  cold  marble  image,  or 
rather  a  machine,  an  annoyance,  a  some- 
thing in  the  way  to  vex  and  pain  us. 
The  social  relations  not  only  teach  love, 
but  demand  it.  Show  me  a  society, 
no  matter  how  intelligent  and  accom- 
plished and  refined,  but  where  love  is 
not ;  where  there  is  ambition,  jeaious}', 


and  distrust,  not  simplicity,  confidence, 
and  kindness,  and  you  show  me  an  un- 
happy society.  All  will  complain  of  it. 
Its  punctilious  decorum,  its  polished 
insincerity,  its  "  threatening  urbanity," 
gives  no  satisfaction  to  any  of  its  mem- 
bers. What  is  the  difficulty  1  What 
does  it  want .''  I  answer,  it  wants  love  : 
and  if  it  will  not  have  tliat  it  must  suf- 
fer ;  and  it  ought  to  suffer. 

But  the  social  state  also  powerfully 
teaches  modesty  and  meekness.  All 
cannot  be  great ;  and  nobody  may  rea- 
sonably expect  all  the  world  to  be  en- 
gaged with  lauding  his  merits.  All 
cannot  be  great ;  and  we  have  happily 
fallen  upon  times  when  none  can  be 
distinguished  as  a  few  have  been  in  the 
days  of  semi-barbarous  ignorance.  All 
cannot  be  great;  for  then  nobody  were. 
The  mighty  mass  of  human  claims 
presses  down  all  individual  ambition. 
Were  it  not  so,  it  were  not  easy  to  see 
where  that  ambition  would  stop.  Well 
that  it  be  schooled  to  reason  ;  and  so- 
ciety, without  knowing  it,  is  an  efficient 
master  for  that  end.  Is  any  one  vexed 
and  sore  under  neglect  ?  Does  he  walk 
through  the  street  unmarked,  and  say 
that  he  deserves  to  be  saluted  oftener 
and  with  more  respect .''  Does  the  pang 
of  envy  shoot  through  his  heart  when 
notice  is  bestowed  on  others,  whom  he 
thinks  less  worthy  than  he  is  ?  Perhaps 
society  is  unjust  to  him.  What  then  .'' 
What  shall  he  do  ?  What  can  he  do,  but 
learn  humility  and  patience  and  quiet- 
ness 1  Perhaps  the  lesson  is  roughly 
and  unkindly  given.  Then  must  so- 
ciety, through  its  very  imperfection, 
teach  us  to  be  superior  to  its  opinion  ; 
and  our  care  must  be,  not  to  be  cynical 
and  bitter,  but  gentle,  candid,  and  affec- 
tionate still. 

Society  is  doubtless  often  right  in  its 
neglect  or  its  condemnation  ;  but  cer- 
tainly it  is  sometimes  wrong.  It  seems 
to  be  the  lot,  the  chance,  the  fortune, 
the  accident  of  some,  to  be  known,  ad- 
mired, and  celebrated.  Adulation  and 
praise  are  poured  out  at  their  feet  while 
they  live,   and  upon    their   tomb   when 


94 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


they  die.  But  thousands  of  others,  in- 
trinsically just  as  interesting,  with  senti- 
ments that  mount  as  high  on  earth,  and 
will  flourish  as  fair  in  heaven,  live  un- 
praised  and  die  unknown.  Nay,  and 
the  very  delicacy  of  some  minds  for- 
bids their  being  generally  known  and 
appreciated.  Tact,  facility,  readiness, 
conversation,  personal  recommendations, 
manners,  and  connections, help  on  some; 
and  all  these  may  be  wanting  to  minds 
that  have  none  the  less  worth  and 
beauty.  Who,  then,  would  garner  up 
his  heart  in  the  opinion  of  this  world.'' 
Yet  neither  let  us  hate  it  ;  but  let  its 
imperfection  minister  to  our  perfection. 

There  are  also  broken  ties  ;  and  some- 
times the  holiest  ties  wear  themselves 
out,  like  imperfect  things,  alas  !  as  they 
are.  What,  theii,  is  to  be  learnt  ?  I 
answer,  a  great  lesson.  What  is  to  be 
done  .''  A  great  duty.  To  be  just ;  to 
be  true  ;  to  cherish  a  divine  candor ;  to 
make  the  best  of  that  which  seems  not 
well  ;  to  pour  not  vinegar  upon  the  gall- 
ing chain,  but  the  oil  of  gentleness  and 
forbearance.  So  shall  many  a  wound 
be  healed  ;  and  the  hearts  shall  be  knit 
together  in  a  better  bond  than  that  of 
hasty  impulse,  —  the  bond  of  mutual  im- 
provement, strengthening  mutual  love. 

But  not  to  insist  more  at  large  upon 
the  disciplinary  character  of  all  the 
conditions  of  life  and  society,  let  us  con- 
sider, for  a  moment  farther,  some  of  its 
events  and  ordinances. 

Amidst  all  the  gayety  and  splendor  of 
life  there  is  a  dark  spot ;  over  its  bright- 
est career  there  comes  a  sudden  and 
overshadowing  cloud  ;  in  the  midst  of 
its  loud  and  restless  activity  there  is  a 
deep  pause  and  an  awful  silence  ;  what 
a  lesson  is  death  !  —  death,  that  stops 
the  warm  current  and  the  vital  breath, 
and  freezes  mortal  hearts  in  fear  and 
wonder ;  death,  that  quells  all  human 
power,  and  quenches  all  human  pride  ; 
death,  "the  dread  teacher,"  the  awful 
admonisher,  that  tells  man  of  this  life's 
frailty,  and  of  a  judgment  to  come. 
What  a  lesson  is  death  !  Stern,  cold, 
inexorable,  irresistible,  —  the   collected 


might  of  the  world  cannot  stay  it,  nor 
ward  it  off;  the  breath  that  is  parting 
from  the  lips  of  king,  or  beggar,  the 
breath  that  scarcely  stirs  the  hushed 
air,  —  that  little  breath,  —  the  wealth  of 
empires  cannot  buy  it,  nor  bring  it  back 
for  a  moment.  What  a  lesson  is  this 
to  proclaim  our  own  frailty,  and  a  power 
beyond  us  !  It  is  a  fearful  lesson  ;  it 
is  never  familiar.  That  which  lays  its 
hands  upon  all,  walks  through  the  earth 
as  a  dread  mystery.  Its  mandate  falls 
upon  the  ear  in  as  fearful  accents  now 
as  when  it  said  to  the  first  man,  "  Thou 
shalt  die  !  dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust 
shalt  thou  return."  It.  is  a  universal 
lesson.  It  is  read  everywhere.  Its  mes- 
sage comes  every  year,  every  day.  The 
years  past  are  filled  with  its  sad  and 
solemn  mementos  ;  and  could  a  prophet 
now  stand  in  the  midst  of  us  and  an- 
nounce the  future,  to  more  than  one  of 
us  would  he  say,  "  Set  thy  house  in  or- 
der ;  for  this  year  thou  shalt  die."  Yes, 
death  is  a  teacher.  I  have  seen  upon 
the  wall  of  our  school-rooms  the  dia- 
gram that  sets  forth  some  humble  theo- 
rem ;  but  what  a  handwriting  is  traced 
by  the  finger  of  death  upon  the  walls 
of  every  human  habitation  !  And  what 
does  it  teach  ?  Duty ;  to  act  our  part 
well ;  to  fulfil  the  work  assigned  us. 
Other  questions,  questions  of  pride  and 
ambition  and  pleasure,  may  press  them- 
selves upon  a  man's  life  ;  but  when  he 
is  dying,  when  he  is  dead,  there  is  but 
one  question,  —  but  one  question:  has 
lie  lived  well  ?  I  have  seen  an  old  man 
upon  his  bier,  and  I  said,  "Hath  he 
clone  the  work  of  many  years  faithfully  ? 
hath  he  come  to  his  end  like  a  shock  of 
corn  fully  ripe  ?  Then  all  is  well.  There 
is  no  evil  in  death,  but  what  life  makes." 
I  have  seen  one  fall  amidst  life's  cares, 
manly  or  matronly,  and  when  the  end 
came,  not  like  a  catastrophe,  not  as  un- 
looked  for;  when  it  came  as  that  which 
had  been  much  thought  upon  and  al- 
ways prepared  for ;  when  I  saw  the 
head  meekly  bowed  to  the  visitation,  or 
the  eye  raised  in  calm  bright  hope  to 
heaven,  or  when  the  confidence  of  long 


THE   SCHOOL   OF   LIFE. 


95 


intimate  friendship  knows  that  it  would 
be  raised  there,  tliough  the  kind  veil  of 
delirium  be  spread  over  it,  I  said,  "  The 
work  is  done,  the  victory  is  gained  ; 
thanks  be  to  God,  who  giveth  that  vic- 
tory through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 
I  have  seen  an  infant  form  sweetly  re- 
posing on  its  last  couch,  as  if  death  had 
lost  all  its  terrors,  and  had  become  as 
one  of  the  clierubim  of  heaven  ;  and  I 
said,  "  Ah  !  how  many  live  so  that  they 
will  yet  wish  that  they  had  died  with 
that  innocent  child  !  " 

Among  our  Christian  ordinances, 
brethren,  there  is  one  that  celebrates 
the  victory  over  death  ;  and  there  is 
one  that  is  appropriate  to  the  beginning 
of  life.  They  are  both  teachers.  Bap- 
tismal waters,  the  emblems  of  a  purity 
received  from  God  and  to  be  watched 
over  for  God  ;  the  consecration  unto 
obedience  to  the  great  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity ;  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Father, 
and  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost ;  these 
teach  us,  parents,  of  a  charge  to  be 
solemnly  kept,  of  duties  to  be  faithfully 
rendered.  The  sacramental  table;  what 
is  it  but  an  altar,  set  up  amidst  the  realm 
of  death,  to  the  hope  of  everlasting  life  ? 
To  keep  us  in  mind  of  him  who  con- 
quered death,  and  brought  life  and  im- 
mortality to  light  ;  who  gave  his  life  a 
ransom  for  many  ;  who  became  a  curse 
for  us  that  we  might  be  redeemed  from 
the  curse  of  sin  ;  who  died  that  we 
might  live  forever;  lo !  these  symbols 
that  are  set  forth  from  time  to  time  in 
the  house  of  God,  in  the  school  of 
Christ  !  Touching  memorials  of  pain 
and  sorrow  and  patient  endurance  ! 
Blessed  omens,  on  God's  altar,  of  peace, 
and  forgiveness,  and  glorious  victory  ! 

Such,  my  friends,  are  some  of  the 
lessons  of  the  school  of  life.  Indulge 
me  in  one  or  two  observations  on  the 
general  character  of  this  school,  and  I 
shall  have  completed  my  present  design. 

Life  is  a  finely  attempered,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  a  very  trying  school. 

It  is  finely  attempered  ;  that  is,  it  is 
carefully  adjusted,  in  all  its  arrangements 
and  tasks,  to  man's  powers  and  passions. 


There  is  no  extravagance  in  its  teach- 
ings ;  nothing  is  done  for  the  sake  of 
present  effect.  It  excites  man,  but  it 
does  not  excite  him  too  much.  Indeed. 
so  carefully  adjusted  are  all  things  to 
this  raging  love  of  excitement,  so  ad- 
mirably fitted  to  hold  this  passion  in 
check,  and  to  attemper  all  things  to 
what  man  can  bear,  that  I  cannot  help 
seeing  in  this  feature  of  life,  intrinsic 
and  wonderful  evidence  of  a  wise  and 
over-ruling  Order.  Men  often  complain 
that  life  is  dull,  tame,  and  drudging. 
But  how  unwisely  were  it  arranged  if  it 
were  all  one  gala-day  of  enjoyment  or 
transport !  And  when  men  make  their 
own  schools  of  too  much  excitement, 
their  parties,  controversies,  associations, 
and  enterprises,  how  soon  do  the  heavy 
realities  of  life  fasten  upon  the  chariot- 
wheels  of  success  when  they  are  ready 
to  take  fire,  and  hold  them  back  to  a 
moderated  movement  ! 

Everything,  I  say,  is  tempered  in  the 
system  of  things  to  which  we  belong. 
The  human  passions,  and  the  correspon- 
dent powers  of  impression  which  man 
possesses,  are  all  kept  within  certain 
limits.  I  think  sometimes  of  angel 
forms  on  earth  ;  of  a  gracefulness  and 
beauty  more  than  mortal ;  of  a  flash  or  a 
glance  of  the  eye  in  the  eloquent  man, 
that  should  rend  and  inflame  a  thousand 
hearts,  as  lightning  does  the  gnarled  oak  ; 
but  do  we  not  see  that  for  the  sensitive 
frame  of  man  enough  excitement  is  al- 
ready provided  ;  that  the  moderated  tone 
of  things  is  all  man's  ear  could  bear  ; 
the  softened  and  shaded  hue,  enough  for 
his  eye  ;  the  expressions  of  countenance 
and  gesture,  such  as  they  are,  enough 
for  his  heart  ?  Nay,  how  often  is  the  ex- 
citement of  thought  and  feeling  so  great 
that,  but  for  the  interruptions  of  humble 
cares  and  trifles, —  the  interpositions  of  a 
wise  providence, —  the  mind  and  frame 
would  sink  under  them  entirely !  It 
would  seem  delightful,  no  doubt,  in  the 
pilgrimage  of  life,  to  walk  through  un- 
ending galleries  of  paintings  and  statues  ; 
but  human  life  is  not  such  ;  it  is  a  school. 

It  is  a  trying  school.     It  is  a  school, 


96 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


very  trying  to  faith,  to  endurance,  and 
to  endeavor.  There  are  mysteries  in  it. 
As  to  the  pupil  in  a  human  school  there 
are  lessons  of  which  he  does  not  under- 
stand the  full  intent  and  bearing,  as  he 
is  obliged  to  take  some  things  on  trust, 
so  it  is  in  the  great  school  of  providence. 
There  are  hard  lessons  to  be  got  in  this 
school.  As  the  pupil  is  often  obliged  to 
bend  all  his  faculties  to  the  task  before 
him,  and  tears  sometimes  fall  on  the  page 
he  is  studying,  so  it  is  in  the  school  of 
God's  providence ;  there  are  hard  les- 
sons in  it. 

In  short,  the  whole  course  of  human 
life  is  a  conflict  with  difficulties  ;  and,  if 
rightly  conducted,  a  progress  in  improve- 
ment. In  both  these  respects  man  liolds 
a  position  peculiar,  and  distinct  from  that 
of  the  animal  races.  They  are  not  at 
school.  They  never  improve.  With 
them,  too,  all  is  facihty  ;  while  with  man, 
comparatively,  all  is  difficulty.  Look  at 
the  ant-hill,  or  the  hive  of  bees.  See 
how  the  tenant  of  the  one  is  provided 
with  feet  so  constructed  that  he  can  run 
all  over  his  house,  outside  and  inside  — 
no  heavy  and  toilsome  steps  required  to 
go  upward  or  downward  ;  and  how  the 
wings  of  the  other  enable  him  to  fly 
through  the  air,  and  achieve  the  journey 
of  days  in  an  hour.  Man's  steps,  com- 
pared with  these,  are  the  steps  of  toil- 
some endeavor. 

Why  is  this  so  ?  Why  is  man  clothed 
with  this  cumbrous  mass  of  flesh  ?  Be- 
cause it  is  a  more  perfect  instrument  for 
the  mind's  culture,  though  that  end  is 
not  to  be  wrought  out  without  difficulty. 
Why  are  his  steps  slow  and  toilsome  ? 
Because  they  are  the  steps  of  improve- 
ment. Why  is  he  at  school?  That  he 
may  learn.  Why  is  the  lesson  hard  ? 
That  he  may  rise  high  on  the  scale  of 
advancement. 

Nor  is  it  ever  too  late  for  him  to  learn. 
This  is  a  distinct  consideration  ;  but  let 
me  dwell  a  moment  upon  it  in  close. 
Nor,  I  say,  is  it  ever  too  late  for  man  to 
learn.  If  any  man  thinks  that  his  time 
has  gone  by,  let  me  take  leave  to  contra- 


dict that  dangerous  assumption.  Life 
is  a  school ;  the  whole  of  life.  There 
never  comes  a  time,  even  amidst  the  de- 
cays of  age,  when  it  is  fit  to  lay  aside  the 
eagerness  of  acquisition  or  the  cheer- 
fulness of  endeavor.  I  protest  utterly 
against  the  common  idea  of  growing  old. 
I  hold  that  it  is  an  unchristian,  a  heathen 
idea.  It  may  befit  those  who  expect 
to  lay  down  and  end  their  being  in  the 
grave,  but  not  those  who  look  upon  the 
grave  as  the  birthplace  of  immortality. 
I  look  for  old  age  as,  saving  its  infirmi- 
ties, a  cheerful  and  happy  time.  I  thinl< 
that  the  affections  are  often  full  as  warm 
then  as  they  ever  are.  Well  may  the 
affections  of  piety  be  so  I  They  are  ap- 
proaching near  to  the  rest  that  remain- 
eth  ;  they  almost  grasp  the  prize  that  shall 
crown  them  ;  they  are  ready  to  say,  with 
aged  Simeon,  "  Now  let  thy  servant  de- 
part." The  battle  is  almost  fought ;  the 
victory  is  near  at  hand.  "  Why,"  —  does 
any  one  still  ask, —  "  why  does  the  battle 
press  hard  to  the  very  end  .-*  Why  is  it 
ordained  for  man  that  he  shall  walk,  all 
through  the  course  of  life,  in  patience 
and  strife,  and  sometimes  in  darkness  ? 
Because  from  patience  is  to  come  perfec- 
tion. Because  from  strife  is  to  come 
triumph.  Because  from  the  dark  cloud 
is  to  come  the  lightning  flash  that  opens 
the  way  to  eternity  ! 

Christian  I  hast  thou  been  faithful  in 
the  school  of  life  ?  Art  thou  faithful 
to  all  its  lessons  ?  Or  hast  thou,  negli- 
gent man  !  been  placed  in  this  great 
school  only  to  learn  nothing,  and  hast 
not  cared  whether  thou  didst  learn  or 
not  ?  Have  the  years  passed  over  thee 
only  to  witness  thy  sloth  and  indiffer- 
ence ?  Hast  thou  been  zealous  to  ac- 
quire everything  but  virtue,  but  the 
favor  of  thy  God  ? 

But    art    thou 
God  help  thee  to 
years    to   come, 
thine  encouragement, 
"  These  things    saith 


faithful.  Christian  ? 
be  yet  more  so,  in 
And  remember,  for 
what  is  written  : 
the  first  and  the 
last,  who  was  dead  and  is  alive  ;  I 
know    thy   works  and    tribulation    and 


THE   VALUE   OF   LIFE. 


97 


poverty  (but  thou  art  rich)  ;  fear  none 
of  those  things  which  thou  shalt  suffer  ; 
be  faithful  unto  death,  and  I  will  give 
thee  a  crown  of  life." 


XV. 


ON   THE   VALUE   OF   LIFE. 

(PREACHED    ON    NEW-YEAR'S    DAY.) 

Job  iii.  2,  3  :  "And  Job  spake  and  said,  Let  the 
day  perish  wherein  I  was  born." 

Thrre  is  a  worldly  habit  of  viewing 
this  life,  and  especially  of  depreciating 
its  value,  against  which,  in  this  dis- 
course, I  wish  to  contend.  It  is  the 
view  of  life  which  many  of  the  heathens 
entertained,  and  which  better  became 
them  than  those  who  hold  the  faith  of 
Christians.  "  When  we  reflect,"  says 
one  of  the  Grecian  sages,  "on  the  des- 
tiny that  awaits  man  on  earth,  we 
ought  to  bedew  his  cradle  with  our 
tears."  Job's  contempt  of  life,  so  ener- 
getically expressed  in  the  chapter  from 
which  my  text  is  taken,  was  of  the  same 
character.  We  may  observe,  however, 
that  Job's  contempt  of  life  consisted 
not  with  the  views  entertained  by  the 
children  of  the  ancient  dispensation,  and 
was  emphatically  rebuked,  in  common 
with  all  his  impious  complaints,  in  the 
sequel  of  that  affecting  story.  The  birth 
of  a  child  among  the  Hebrews  was  hailed 
with  joy,  and  its  birthday  was  made  a 
festival. 

But  there  are  times  and  seasons, 
events  and  influences,  in  life,  which 
awaken,  in  many,  sentiments  similar  to 
those  of  Job,  and  which  require  to  be 
considered. 

The  sensibility  of  youth  sometimes 
takes  this  direction.  It  is  true,  indeed, 
that  to  the  youthful  mind  life  for  a 
while  is  fdled  with  brightness  and  hope. 
It  is  the  promised  season  of  activity  and 
enjoyment,  of  manly  independence,  of 
successful  business,  or  of  glorious  am- 
bition ;  the  season  of  noble  enterprises 
and  lofty  attainments.  There  is  a  time 
when  the  youthful  fancy  is  kindling  with 


the  anticipations  of  an  ideal  world  ; 
when  it  is  thinking  of  friendship  and 
honor  of  another  sort  than  those  which 
are  commonly  found  in  the  world  ;  when 
its  promised  mansion  is  the  abode  of  per- 
fect happiness,  and  its  paths,  as  they 
stretch  into  life,  seem  to  it  as  the  paths 
that  shine  brighter  and  brighter  for- 
ever. 

But  over  all  these  glowing  expecta- 
tions there  usually  comes,  sooner  or 
later,  a  dark  eclipse;  and  it  is  in  the 
first  shock  of  disappointed  hope,  before 
the  season  of  youth  is  yet  fully  past, 
that  we  are  probably  exposed  to  take 
the  most  opposite  and  disconsolate 
views  of  life.  It  is  here  that  we  find 
real,  in  opposition  to  factitious,  senti- 
mentalism.  Before  this  great  shock  to 
early  hope  comes,  the  sentimental  char- 
acter is  apt  to  be  affectation,  and  after- 
wards it  is  liable  to  be  misanthropy. 
But  now  it  is  a  genuine  and  ingenuous 
sorrow,  at  finding  life  so  different  from 
what  it  expected.  There  is  a  painful 
and  unwelcome  effort  to  give  up  many 
cherished  habits  of  thinking  about  it. 
The  mind  encounters  the  chilling  selfish- 
ness of  the  world,  and  it  feels  the  miser- 
able insufficiency  of  the  world  to  satisfy 
its  longings  after  happiness;  and  life 
loses  many  of  the  bright  hues  that  had 
gilded  its  morning  season.  Indeed, 
when  w'e  take  into  account  the  unwonted 
and  multiplied  cares  of  this  period,  the 
want  of  that  familiarity  and  habit  which 
renders  the  ways  and  manners  of  life 
easy,  the  difficulties  and  embarrassments 
that  beset  the  youthful  adventurer,  the 
anxiety  about  establishing  a  character 
and  taking  a  place  in  the  world,  and 
above  all,  perhaps,  the  want  of  self- 
discipline, —  when  we  take  all  this  into 
the  account,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fresh- 
ness of  disappointment,  we  may  well 
doubt  whether  the  period  of  entrance  into 
life  is  the  happiest,  though  it  is  common- 
ly looked  upon  as  such.  It  is  not,  per- 
haps, till  men  proceed  farther  in  the  way 
that  they  are  prepared  either  rightly  tO' 
estimate  or  fully  to  enjoy  it.  And  it  is 
worthy  of  notice,  in  this  connection,  that 


98 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


those  diseases  which  spring  from  mental 
anxiety  are  accounted,  by  physicians, 
to  be  the  most  prevalent  between  the 
ages  of  twenty  and  forty. 

Manhood  arrives  at  a  conclusion  un- 
favorable to  life  by  a  different  process. 
It  is  not  the  limited  view  occasioned  by 
disappointment,  that  brings  it  to  think 
poorly  of  life  ;  but  it  assumes  to  hold 
the  larger  view  taiven  by  experience  and 
reflection.  It  professes  to  have  proved 
this  life,  and  found  it  little  worth.  It 
has  deliberately  made  up  its  mind  that 
life  is  far  more  miserable  than  happy. 
Its  employments,  it  finds,  are  tedious, 
and  its  schemes  are  baffled.  Its  friend- 
ships are  broken,  or  its  friends  are  dead. 
Its  pleasures  pall  and  its  honors  fade. 
Its  paths  are  beaten  and  familiar  and 
dull.  It  has  grasped  the  good  of  life ; 
and  everything  grasped  loses  half  of  its 
charm  ;  in  the  hand  of  possession  every- 
thing is  shrivelled  and  shrunk  to  insig- 
nificance. 

Is  this  manhood,  then,  sad  or  senti- 
mental .''  No  ;  farthest  possible  from  it. 
Sentiment,  it  holds  to  be  ridiculous  ; 
sadness,  absurd.  It  smiles,  in  reckless- 
ness. It  is  merry,  in  despite.  It  sports 
away  a  life,  not  worth  a  nobler  thought, 
or  else  it  wears  away  a  life,  not  worth  a 
nobler  aim,  than  to  get  tolerably  through 
it.  This  is  a  worldly  manhood  ;  and  no 
wonder  that  its  estimate  of  the  value  of 
existence  is  low  and  earthly. 

Poetry  has  often  ministered  to  a  state 
of  mind,  loftier  indeed,  but  of  alike  com- 
plexion. "  Life,"  says  the  Grecian  Pin- 
dar, "  is  the  dream  of  a  shadow." 

"  What,"  says  the  melancholy  Kirk 
White,  — 

"  What  is  this  passing  life  ? 
A  peevish  April  day  : 
A  little  sun,  a  little  rain. 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away." 

The  melancholy  of  Byron  is  of  a  darker 
complexion  ;  one  might  anticipate,  in- 
deed, that  his  misanthropy,  as  well  as 
gloom,  would  repel  every  reader  ;  and 
yet  a  critic  has  observed  that  this  is  the 
very  quality  which  has  caught  and  held 


the  ear  of  the  sympathizing  world.  If 
the  world  does  sympathize  with  it,  it  is 
tim.e  that  the  Christian  preacher  should 
raise  his  voice  against  it.  One  may  justly 
feel,  indeed,  for  the  sufferings  as  well  as 
perversions  of  that  extraordinary  mind  ; 
but  its  scepticism  and  scorn  must  not 
be  suffered  to  fling  their  shadows  across 
the  world,  without  rebuke  or  remon- 
strance. Its  sufferings,  indeed,  are  a 
striking  proof,  which  the  Christian  teach- 
er might  well  adduce,  of  the  tendencv  of 
earthly  passion  and  unbelief  to  darken 
all  the  way  of  human  life. 

The  pulpit,  also,  I  must  allow,  has 
fallen  under  the  charge  of  leaning  to 
the  dark  side  of  things.  It  may  be  said, 
perhaps,  that  if  its  instructions  are  to 
have  any  bias,  it  is  expedient  that  it 
should  lean  to  the  dark  side.  But  error 
or  mistake  is  not  to  be  vindicated  by  its 
expediency,  or  its  power  to  affect  the 
mind.  And  its  expediency,  in  fact,  if  not 
its  power,  in  this  case,  is  to  be  doubted. 
Men  of  reflection  and  discernment  are, 
and  ought  to  be,  dissatisfied  with  dispro- 
portionate and  extravagant  statements, 
made  with  a  view  to  support  the  claims 
of  an  ascetic  piety  or  a  cynical  morality. 
And  one  mistake,  the  preacher  may  find, 
is  to  the  hearer  an  intrenchment  strong 
against  a  hundred  of  his  arguments. 

It  is  true,  also,  that  religious  men  in 
general  have  been  accustomed  to  talk 
gloomily  of  the  present  state.  I  do  not 
mean  such  religious  men  as  the  wise 
and  holy  saints  of  old.  Let  the  rejoicing 
apostles,  rejoicing  in  the  midst  of  the 
greatest  calamities,  let  the  mild  cheer- 
fulness of  their  Master,  stand  as  monu- 
ments against  the  perversions  of  later 
times.  It  has  strangely  come  to  be 
thought  a  mark  of  great  piety  towards 
God  to  disparage,  if  not  to  despise,  the 
state  which  he  has  ordained  for  us  ;  and 
the  claims  of  this  world  have  been  ab- 
surdly set  up,  not  in  comparison  only, 
but  in  competition,  with  the  claims  of 
another  ;  as  if  both  were  not  parts  of 
one  system  ;  as  if  a  man  could  not  make 
the  best  of  this  world  and  of  another 
at  the  same  time  ;  as  if  we  should  learn 


THE   VALUE   OF   LIFE. 


99 


to  think  better  of  other  works  and  dis- 
pensations of  God  by  thinking  meanly 
of  these.  Jesus  and  his  apostles  did  not 
teach  us  to  contemn  our  present  con- 
dition. They  taught  that  every  creature 
and  every  appointment  of  God  is  good, 
and  to  be  received  thankfully.  They 
did  not  look  upon  life  as  so  much  time 
lost  ;  they  did  not  regard  its  employ- 
ments as  trifles  unworthy  of  immortal 
beings  ;  they  did  not  tell  their  followers 
to  fold  their  arms  as  if  in  disdain  of 
their  state  and  species  ;  but  it  is  evident 
that  they  looked  soberly  and  cheerfully 
upon  the  world  as  the  theatre  of  worthy 
action,  of  exalted  usefulness,  and  of 
rational  and  innocent  enjoyment. 

But  I  am  considering  the  disparaging 
views  of  life  ;  and  against  these  views, 
whether  sentimental,  worldly,  poetical, 
or  religious,  I  must  contend.  I  firmly 
maintain  that,  with  all  its  evils,  life  is  a 
blessing.  There  is  a  presumptive  argu- 
ment for  this,  of  the  greatest  strength. 
To  deny  that  life  is  a  blessing  is  to 
destroy  the  very  basis  of  all  religion, 
natural  and  revealed  ;  and  the  argument 
I  am  engaged  upon,  therefore,  well  de- 
serves attention.  For  the  very  founda- 
tion of  all  religion  is  laid  in  the  belief 
that  God  is  good.  But  if  life  is  an  evil 
and  a  curse,  there  can  be  no  such  belief 
rationally  entertained.  The  Scriptures 
do  not  prove,  nor  pretend  to  prove,  that 
God  is  good.  They  assume  that  truth 
as  already  certain.  But  what  makes  it 
certain  .''  Where  does,  or  can,  the  proof 
come  from  ?  Obviously,  from  this  world, 
and  from  nowhere  else.  Nowhere  else 
can  our  knowledge  extend,  to  gather 
proof.  Nay  more,  I  say  the  proof  must 
come  from  this  life,  and  from  nothing 
else.  For  it  avails  not,  if  life  itself  is 
doomed  to  be  unhappy,  —  it  avails  not 
to  the  argument  to  say  that  this  world 
is  fair  and  glorious.  It  avails  not  to  say 
that  this  outward  frame  of  things,  this 
vast  habitation  of  life,  is  beautiful.  The 
architecture  of  an  infirmary  may  be  beau- 
tiful, and  the  towers  of  a  prison  may  be 
built  on  the  grandest  scale  of  architec- 
tural magnificence  ;  but  it  would  little 


avail  the  victims  of  sickness  or  bond- 
age. And  so  if  this  life  is  a  doomed 
life,  doomed  by  its  very  conditions  to 
sufferings  far  greater  than  its  pleasures  ; 
if  it  is  a  curse  and  not  a  blessing  ;  if 
sighs  and  groans  must  rise  from  it  more 
frequent  and  loud  than  voices  of  joy 
and  gladness,  it  will  avail  but  little  that 
heaven  spreads  its  majestic  dome  over 
our  misery ;  that  the  mountain  walls, 
which  echo  our  griefs,  are  clothed  with 
grandeur  and  might  ;  or  that  the  earth, 
which  bears  the  burden  of  our  woes, 
is  paved  with  granite  and  marble,  or 
covered  with  verdure  and  beauty. 

Let  him,  then,  who  says  that  this  life 
is  not  a  blessing  ;  let  him  who  levels 
his  satire  at  humanity  and  human  ex- 
istence as  mean  and  contemptible  ;  let 
him  who,  with  the  philosophic  pride  of  a 
Voltaire  or  a  Gibbon,  looks  upon  this 
world  as  the  habitation  of  a  miserable 
race,  fit  only  for  mockery  and  scorn,  or 
who,  with  the  religious  melancholy  of 
Thomas  a  Kempis  or  of  Brainard,  over- 
shadows this  world  with  the  gloom  of 
his  imagination,  till  it  seems  a  dungeon 
or  a  prison,  which  has  no  blessing  to 
offer  but  escape  from  it,  —  let  all  such 
consider  that  they  are  extinguishing  the 
primal  light  of  faith  and  hope  and  hap- 
piness. If  life  is  not  a  blessing,  if  the 
world  is  not  a  goodly  world,  if  residence 
in  it  is  rot  a  favored  condition,  then  re- 
ligion has  lost  its  basis,  truth  its  foun- 
dation in  the  goodness  of  God  ;  then  it 
matters  not  what  else  is  true  or  not  true  ; 
speculation  is  vain  and  faith  is  vain  ; 
and  all  that  pertains  to  man's  highest 
being  is  whelmed  in  the  ruins  of  misan- 
thropy, melancholy,  and  despair. 

The  argument  in  this  view  is  well 
deserving  of  attention.  Considered  as 
a  merely  speculative  point,  it  is,  never- 
theless, one  on  which  everything  hangs. 
And  this,  indeed,  is  the  consideration 
which  I  have  been  stating ;  that  the 
whole  superstructure  of  religious  truth 
is  based  upon  this  foundation  truth,  — 
that  life  is  a  blessing. 

And  that  this  is  not  a  mere  assump- 
tion, I  infer,  in  the  next  place,  from  ex- 


lOO 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


perience.  And  there  are  two  points  in 
this  experience  to  be  noticed.  First, 
the  love  of  life  proves  it  is  a  blessing. 
If  it  is  not,  why  are  men  so  attached 
to  it  ?  Will  it  be  said  that  it  is  "  the 
dread  of  something  after  death,"  that 
binds  man  to  life  ?  But  make  the  case 
a  fair  one  for  the  argument :  say,  for 
instance,  that  the  souls  of  men  sleep, 
after  death,  till  the  resurrection  ;  and 
would  not  almost  every  man  rather  live 
on,  during  tlie  intermediate  space,  than 
to  sink  to  that  temporary  oblivion  ? 

But  to  refer,  in  the  next  place,  to  a 
consideration  still  plainer  and  less  em- 
liarrassed  ;  why  are  we  so  attached  to 
our  local  situation  in  life,  to  our  home, 
to  the  spot  that  gave  us  birth,  or  to  any 
place,  no  matter  how  unsightly  or  bar- 
ren,—  though  it  were  the  rudest  moun- 
tain or  rock,  —  on  which  the  liistory  of 
years  had  been  written  ?  Will  it  be 
said  that  it  is  habit  which  endears  our 
residence  ?  But  what  kind  of  habit  ? 
A  habit  of  being  miserable  ?  The  ques- 
tion needs  no  reply.  Will  you  refer  me 
to  the  pathetic  story  of  the  aged  prisoner 
of  the  Bastile,  who,  on  being  released 
and  coming  forth  into  the  world,  desired 
to  return  to  his  prison,  and  argue  from 
this  that  a  man  may  learn  to  love  even 
the  glooms  of  a  dungeon,  provided  they 
become  habitual  ?  But  why  did  that 
aged  prisoner  desire  to  return  ?  It  was 
not  because  he  loved  the  cold  shadow 
of  his  prison-walls  ;  but  it  was,  as  the 
story  informs  us,  because  his  friends 
were  gone  from  the  earth  ;  it  was  be- 
cause no  living  creature  knew  him,  that 
the  world  was  darker  to  him  than  the 
gloomy  dungeons  of  the  Bastile.  It 
shows  how  dear  are  the  ties  of  kindred 
and  society.  It  shows  how  strong  and 
how  sweet  are  those  social  affections, 
which  we  never  appreciate  till  we  are 
cut  off  from  their  joys  ;  which  glide 
from  heart  to  heart,  as  the  sunbeams 
piss  unobserved  in  the  daylight  of  pros- 
perity ;  but  if  a  ray  of  that  social  kind- 
ness visits  the  prison  of  our  sickness 
and  affliction,  it  comes  to  us  like  a  beam 
of  heaven.     And  though  we  had  worn 


out  a  life  in  confinement,  we  go  back 
again  to  meet  that  beam  of  heaven,  the 
smile  of  society  ;  and  if  we  do  not  find 
it,  we  had  rather  return  to  the  silent 
walls  that  know  us,  than  to  dwell  in  a 
world  that  knows  us  not. 

"  But,  after  all,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
how  many  miseries,"  it  may  be  said, 
"  are  bound  up  with  this  life,  too  deeply 
interwoven  with  it,  and  too  keenly  felt, 
to  allow  it  to  be  called  a  favored  and 
happy  life  !  Besides  evils  of  common 
occurrence  and  account,  besides  sickness 
and  pain  and  poverty,  besides  disap- 
pointment and  bereavement  and  sorrow, 
how  many  evils  are  there  that  are  not 
embraced  in  the  common  estimate  ;  evils 
that  are  secret  and  silent,  that  dwell 
deep  in  the  recesses  of  life,  that  do  not 
come  forth  to  draw  the  public  gaze  or 
to  awaken  the  public  sympathy  ?  How 
many  are  there  who  never  tell  their 
grief;  how  many  who  spread  a  fair  and 
smiling  exterior  over  an  aching  heart !  " 

Alas  !  it  is  but  too  easy  to  make  out 
a  strong  statement  :  and  yet  the  very 
strength  of  the  statement,  the  strong 
feeling,  at  least,  with  which  it  is  made, 
disproves  the  cynical  argument.  The 
truth  is,  and  it  is  obvious,  that  misery 
makes  a  greater  impression  upon  us 
than  happiness.  Why?  Because  misery 
is  not  the  habit  of  our  minds.  It 
is  a  strange  and  unwonted  guest,  and 
we  are  more  conscious  of  its  presence. 
Happiness,  —  not  to  speak  now  of  any 
very  high  quality  or  entirely  satisfying 
state  of  mind,  but  only  of  a  general 
easiness,  cheerfulness,  and  comfort,  — 
happiness,  I  say,  dwells  with  us,  and 
we  forget  it  ;  it  does  not  excite  us  ;  it 
does  not  disturb  the  order  and  course 
of  our  thoughts.  All  our  impressions 
about  affliction,  on  the  other  hand,  show 
that  it  is  more  rare,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  more  regarded.  It  creates  a  sen- 
sation and  stir  in  the  world.  When 
death  enters  among  us,  it  spreads  a 
groan  through  our  dwellings  ;  it  clothes 
them  with  unwonted  and  sympatliizing 
grief.  Thus,  afflictions  are  like  epochs 
in   life.     We  remember  them  as  we  do 


THE   VALUE   OF   LIFE. 


lOI 


the  storm  and  earthquake,  because  they 
are  out  of  the  common  course  of  things. 
They  stand  like  disastrous  events  in  a 
table  of  chronology,  recorded  because 
they  are  extraordinary,  and  with  whole 
periods  of  prosperity  between.  Thus 
do  we  mark  out  and  signalize  the  times 
of  calamity  ;  but  how  many  happy  days 
pass,  unnoted  periods  in  the  table  of 
life's  chronology,  unrecorded  either  in 
tlie  book  of  memory  or  in  the  scanty 
annals  of  our  thanksgiving  ?  How  many 
happy  months  are  swept  beneath  the 
silent  wing  of  time,  and  leave  no  name 
nor  record  in  our  hearts  !  How  little 
are  we  able,  much  as  we  may  be  dis- 
posed, to  call  up  from  the  dim  remem- 
brances of  the  year  that  is  just  ended, 
the  peaceful  moments,  the  easy  sensa- 
tions, the  bright  thouglits,  the  move- 
ments of  kind  and  blessed  affections,  in 
which  life  has  flowed  on,  bearing  us 
almost  unconsciously  upon  its  bosom, 
because  it  has  borne  us  calmly  and 
gently  !  Sweet  moments  of  quietness 
and  affection  !  glad  hours  of  joy  and 
hope  !  days,  ye  many  days  begun  and 
ended  in  health  and  happiness  !  times 
and  seasons  of  heaven's  gracious  be- 
neficence I  stand  before  us  yet  again  in 
the  light  of  memory,  and  command  us 
to  be  thankful,  and  to  prize  as  we  ought 
the  gift  of  life. 

But,  my  brethren,  I  must  not  content 
myself  with  a  b:ire  defence  of  life  as 
against  a  sceptical  or  cynical  spirit,  or 
as  against  the  errors  and  mistakes  of 
religion.  I  must  not  content  myself 
with  a  view  of  the  palpable  and  acknowl- 
edged blessings  of  life.  Life  is  more 
than  what  is  palpable,  or  often  acknowl- 
edged. I  contend  against  the  cynical 
and  the  superstitious  -disparagement  of 
life,  not  alone  as  wrong  and  as  fatal 
indeed  to  all  religion;  but  I  contend 
against  it  as  fatal  to  the  highest  im- 
provement of  life.  I  say  that  life  is 
not  only  good,  but  that  it  was  made  to 
be  glorious.  Ay,  and  it  has  been  glori- 
ous in  the  experience  of  millions.  The 
glory  of  all  Iniman  virtue  arrays  it.  The 
glory  of  sanctity  and  beneficence  and 


heroism   is   upon   it.     The  crown  of   a 
thousand  martyrdoms  is  upon  its  brow. 

Through  this  visible  and  sometimes 
darkened  life  it  was  intended  that  the 
brightness  of  the  soul  should  shine  ;  and 
that  it  should  shine  through  all  its  sur- 
rounding cares  and  labors.  The  hum- 
blest life  which  any  one  of  us  leads  may 
be  what  has  been  expressively  denomi- 
nated "the  life  of  God  in  the  soul."  It 
may  hold  a  felt  connection  with  its  in- 
finite source.  It  may  derive  an  inex- 
pressible sublimity  from  that  connection. 
Yes,  my  brethren,  there  may  be  some- 
thing of  God  in  our  daily  life  ;  something 
of  might  in  this  frail  inner  man  ;  some- 
thing of  immortality  in  this  momentary 
and  transient  being. 

This  mind  —  I  survey  it  with  awe, 
with  wonder  —  encompassed  with  flesh, 
fenced  around  with  barriers  of  sense, 
yet  it  breaks  every  bound,  and  stretches 
away,  on  every  side,  into  infinity.  It  is 
not  upon  the  line  only  of  its  eternal 
duration,  that  it  goes  forth,  ibrth  from 
this  day  of  its  new  annual  period,  through 
the  periods  of  immortality  ;  but  its 
thoughts,  like  diverging  rays,  spread 
themselves  abroad  and  far,  far  into  the 
boundless,  the  immeasurable,  the  infi- 
nite. And  these  diverging  rays  may  be 
like  cords  to  lift  up  to  heaven.  What 
a  glorious  thing,  then,  is  this  life  !  To 
knoW'  its  wonderful  Author;  to  bring 
down  wisdom  from  the  eternal  stars  ;  to 
bear  upward  its  homage,  its  gratitude, 
its  love  to  the  ruler  of  all  worlds  ;  what 
glory  in  the  created  universe  is  there, 
surpassing  this?  "Thou  crownest  it," 
says  the  Psalmist,  —  "  thou  crownest  it 
with  glory  and  honor  ;  thou  hast  made  it 
a  little  lower  than  the  angelic  life." 

Am  I  asked,  then,  what  is  life  ?  I  say, 
in  answer,  that  it  is  good.  God  saw 
and  pronounced  that  it  was  good,  when 
he  made  it.  Man  feels  that  it  is  good 
when  he  preserves  it.  It  is  good  in 
the  unnumbered  sources  of  happiness 
around  it.  It  is  good  in  the  ten  thou- 
sand buoyant  and  happy  affections  within 
it.  It  is  good  in  its  connection  with 
infinite  goodness,  and  in  its  hope  of  infi- 


lo: 


ON   HUMAN    LIFE. 


nite  glory  beyond  it.  True,  our  life  is 
frail  in  its  earthly  state,  and  it  has  often 
bowed  down  with  earthly  burdens  ;  but 
still  it  endures  and  revives  and  flourishes  ; 
still  it  is  redeemed  from  destruction,  and 
crowned  with  loving  kindness  and  tender 
mercy.  Frail,  too,  and  yet  strong  is  it, 
in  its  heavenly  nature.  The  immortal 
is  clothed  with  mortality  ;  and  the  in- 
corruptible with  corruption.  It  is  like 
an  instrument  formed  for  heavenly  mel- 
ody; whose  materials  were  taken,  indeed, 
from  the  mouldering  and  unsightly  for- 
est ;  but  lo  !  the  hand  of  the  artificer 
has  been  upon  it  ;  it  is  curiously  wrought; 
it  is  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  ;  it 
is  fashioned  for  every  tone  of  gladness 
and  triumph.  It  may  be  relaxed,  but  it 
can  be  strung  again.  It  may  send  forth 
a  mournful  strain,  but  it  is  formed  also 
for  the  music  of  heavenly  joy.  Even  its 
sadness  is  "  pleasing  and  mournful  to 
the  soul."  Even  suffering  is  hallowed 
and  dear.  Life  has  that  value,  that  even 
misery  cannot  destroy  it.  It  neutralizes 
grief,  and  makes  it  a  source  of  deep  and 
sacred  interest.  Ah  !  holy  hours  of  suf- 
fering and  sorrow  ;  hours  of  communion 
with  the  great  and  triumphant  Sufferer  ; 
who  that  has  passed  through  your  silent 
moments  of  prayer  and  resignation  and 
trust,  would  give  you  up  for  all  the 
brightness  of  prosperity  ? 

Am  I  still  asked  what  is  life?  I  answer, 
that  it  is  a  great  and  sublime  gift.  Those 
felicitations  with  which  this  renewed 
season  of  it  is  welcomed,  are  but  a  fit 
tribute  to  its  value,  and  to  the  gladness 
which  belongs  to  it.  "  Happy,"  says  the 
general  voice,  —  "  happy  New- Year!  "  to 
all  who  live  to  see  it.  Life  is  felt  to  be 
a  great  and  gracious  boon,  by  all  who 
enjoy  its  light  ;  and  this  is  not  too  much 
felt.  It  is  the  wonderful  creation  of 
God  ;  and  it  cannot  be  too  much  ad- 
mired. It  is  light  sprung  from  void  dark- 
ness ;  it  is  power  waked  from  inertness 
and  impotence  ;  it  is  being  created  from 
nothing  ;  well  may  the  contrast  enkindle 
wonder  and  delight.  It  is  a  stream  from 
the  infinite  and  overflowing  goodness  ; 
and  from  its  first  gushing  forth  to  its 


mingling  with  the  ocean  of  eternity,  that 
goodness  attends  it.  Yes  ;  life,  despite 
of  all  that  cynics  or  sentimentalists  say, 
is  a  great  and  glorious  gift.  There  is 
gladness  in  its  infant  voices.  There  is 
joy  in  the  buoyant  step  of  its  youth. 
There  is  deep  satisfaction  in  its  strong 
maturity.  There  is  holy  peace  in  its 
quiet  age.  There  is  good  for  the  good  ; 
there  is  virtue  for  the  faithlul  ;  there  is 
victory  for  the  valiant  ;  there  is  spirit- 
uality for  the  spiritual ;  and  there  is, 
even  in  this  humble  life,  an  infinity  for 
the  boundless  in  desire.  There  are 
blessings  upon  its  birth  ;  there  is  hope 
in  its  death  ;  and  there  is  —  to  con- 
summate all — there  is  eternity  in  its 
prospect. 

As  I  have  discoursed  upon  this  theme 
it  is  possible  that  some  may  have  thought 
that  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  religion  ; 
that  it  is  a  subject  merely  for  fine  sen- 
timents and  for  nothing  more.  Let  me 
tell  such  a  thinker  that  this  subject  has 
not  only  much  to  do  with  religion  every 
way,  but  that  it  furnishes,  in  fact,  a  test 
of  our  religion.  To  the  low-minded, 
debased,  and  sensual  this  life  must, 
doubtless,  be  something  very  poor,  in- 
different, and  commonplace  ;  it  must  be 
a  beaten  path,  a  dull  scene,  shut  in  on 
every  side  by  the  earthly,  palpable,  and 
gross.  But  break  down  the  barriers  of 
sense;  open  the  windows  of  faith  ;  fling 
wide  the  gates  that  darken  the  sensual 
world,  and  let  the  light  of  heaven  pour 
in  upon  it ;  and  then  what  is  this  life  ? 
How  changed  is  it !  how  new  !  a  new 
heavens,  indeed,  and  a  new  earth.  Yes, 
this  earth, which  binds  one  man  in  chains, 
is  to  the  other  the  starting  place,  the 
goal  of  immortality.  This  earth,  which 
buries  one  man  in  the  rubbish  of  dull 
cares  and  wearying  vanities,  is  to  the 
other  the  lofty  mount  of  meditation, 
where  heaven  and  infinity  and  eternity 
are  spread  before  him  and  around  him. 
Yes,  my  friend,  the  life  thou  leadest,  the 
life  thou  thinkest  of,  is  the  interpreter 
of  thine  inward  being.  Such  as  lile  is  to 
thee,  such  thou  art.  If  it  is  low  and 
mean  and  base,  if  it  is  a  mere  money- 


LIFE'S    CONSOLATIONS    LN    VIEW    OF   DEATH. 


103 


•getting  or  pleasure-seeking  or  honor- 
craving  life,  so  art  thou.  Be  thou  luf ty- 
mindeil,  pure,  and  holy  ;  and  life  shall 
be  to  thee  the  beginning  of  heaven,  the 
threshold  of  immortality. 


XVI. 


LIFE'S   CONSOLATIONS   IN   VIEW 
OF   DEATH. 

John  xi.  25  :  "  Jesus  said  unto  her,  I  am  the  res- 
urrection and  the  life." 

These  words,  my  brethren,  so  stu- 
pendous in  their  import,  so  majestic  in 
their  tone,  when  and  where  were  they 
uttered  .''  They  were  uttered  in  a  world 
of  the  dying  ;  in  a  world  which  is  the 
tomb  of  all  past  generations  ;  in  a  world 
from  whose  dreary  caverns,  from  whose 
dark  catacombs,  and  alike  from  whose 
proud  mausoleums  and  towering  pyra- 
mids, no  word  ever  issued  that  spake  of 
anything  but  death.  They  were  uttered 
in  an  hour  when  bereavement,  dimmed 
with  tears  and  fainting  with  sorrow,  was 
sighing  for  help  more  than  human. 

It  was  at  Bethany.  You  remember 
the  affecting  story  of  Mary,  and  Martha 
her  sister,  and  of  Lazarus  their  brother. 
So  simply  and  truly  is  it  told,  that  it 
seems  as  if  it  were  the  relation  of  what 
had  taken  place  in  any  village  around  us. 
"  Now  a  certain  man,  named  Lazarus,  of 
Bethany,  was  sick."  How  does  such 
an  event,  when  it  becomes  sufficiently 
marked  with  peril  to  attract  attention, 
spread  anxiety  and  apprehension  through 
a  whole  neighborhood !  Life  pauses, 
and  is  suspended  on  the  result.  '"  Laza- 
rus was  sick."  What  fears,  watchings, 
and  agonies  of  solicitude  hover  around 
the  sick  man's  couch,  none  but  the  in- 
mates of  his  dwelling  can  know.  It  was 
in  such  an  emergency  that  Mary  and 
Martha,  fearful  and  troubled,  sent  a 
message  to  their  chief  comforter  and 
friend,  saying,  "  Behold,  he  whom  thou 
lovest  is  sick."  Jesus,  for  reasons  per- 
haps beyond  our  knowledge,  does  not 
immediately  answer  the  call  of  distress. 


He  remains  two  days  in  the  same  place. 
Then  the  dreaded  event  had  taken 
place  ;  all  was  over  ;  and  he  calmly  says 
to  his  disciples,  "  Our  friend  Lazarus 
sleepeth."  So  does  he  contemplate 
death,  not  as  a  dread  catastrophe,  but 
as  a  quiet  sleep  ;  a  sacred  repose,  suc- 
ceeding the  weary  and  troubled  day  of 
life.  Beautifully  says  our  great  drama- 
tist, — 

"After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 

But  so  does  it  not  appear  to  the  be- 
reaved and  sorrowing  sisters.  They 
are  plunged  into  the  deepest  distress. 
It  is  a  time  of  mourning  in  that  still  and 
desolate  house  at  Bethany.  The  dead 
is  buried  ;  but  grief  lives,  and  the  hours 
pass  in  silent  agony.  The  sympathiz- 
ing neighbors  from  the  village  are  still 
there  ;  and  many  friends  from  Jerusa- 
lem are  with  tiie  afflicted  sisters  to  com- 
fort them  concerning  their  brother. 

At  length  the  Master  approaches. 
Martha,  ever  more  alert  and  attentive 
to  what  is  passing,  first  hearing  of  it, 
goes  forth  to  meet  him.  Soon,  however, 
she  returns,  and  says  to  Mary,  her  sis- 
ter, secretly,  gives  her  a  private  intima- 
tion —  how  much  passes  in  the  dumb 
show,  in  whispers,  where  deep  grief  is  ! 
—  she  says,  in  a  low  tone,  "  The  Master 
is  come,  and  calleth  for  thee.  And  as 
soon  as  she  heard  that,  she  arose  quick- 
ly and  came  unto  him."  The  language 
of  both  when  they  met  him  is  the  same, 
turns  upon  the  same  point  :  "  Lord,  if 
thou  hadst  been  here,  our  brother  had 
not  died."  What  natural  and  living 
truth  is  there  in  this  simjjle  trait  of  feel- 
ing !  How  natural  is  it  for  the  bereaved 
to  think  that  if  this  or  that  had  been 
done ;  if  this  or  that  physician  had 
been  called  ;  if  some  other  course  had 
been  adopted,  or  some  other  plan  or 
clime  had  favored,  the  blow  might  have 
been  averted.  The  thoughts  all  shrink 
from  the  awful  certainty,  revert  to  the 
possibility  of  its  having  been  avoided, 
and  catch  at  all  possible  suppositions  to 
find  relief.  But  the  awful  certainty  nev- 
ertheless overwhelmed  the  mourning  sis- 


I04 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


ters  ;  "  the  end  had  come  ;  their  brother 
was  dead  —  was  dead!  no  help  now; 
no  change  to  come  over  that  still  sleep  ;" 
so  mourned  they  ;  and  Jesus,  behold- 
ing their  distress,  groaned  in  spirit  and 
was  troubled.  "Jesus  wept."  He  was 
not  one  who,  with  cold  philosophy  or 
misplaced  rapture  in  his  countenance, 
looked  on  bereavement  and  agony  — 
looked  on  death.  He  was  not  one  who 
iorbade  tears  and  sorrows.  He  was 
not  one  who  approached  the  grave  wilh 
an  air  of  triumph,  though  he  had  gained 
a  victory  over  it ;  but  it  is  written  that, 
''  again  groaning  within  himself,  he  came 
to  the  grave."  No,  humanity  shudders, 
and  trembles,  and  groans  when  it  comes 
there,  and  may  not,  by  any  true  relig- 
ion, be  denied  these  testimonies  to  its 
frailty. 

But  still  there  were  words  of  soothing 
and  comfort  uttered  by  our  Saviour  on 
this  occasion;  and  let  us  now  turn  to 
them  and  consider  tlieir  import.  "  Mar- 
tha said  to  Jesus,  Lord,  if  thou  hadst 
been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died. 
But  I  know  tliat  even  now,  whatsoever 
thou  wilt  ask  of  God,  God  will  give  it 
thee.  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  thy  brother 
shall  rise  again.  Martha  saith  unto  him, 
I  know  he  shaH  rise  again  in  the  resur- 
recdon,  at  the  last  day."  She  had  prob- 
ably heard  the  doctrine  of  a  future  life 
from  himself;  but  alas  !  that  life  seems 
far  off ;  dim  shadows  spread  themselves 
over  the  everlasting  fields  ;  they  seem 
unreal  to  a  person  of  Martha's  turn  of 
mind ;  she  wants  her  brother  again  as 
he  was  but  now  by  her  side  ;  she  enter- 
tains some  hope  that  Jesus  will  restore 
him  ;  she  says,  '•  Even  now,  I  know  that 
wliatsoever  thou  wilt  ask  of  God,  God 
will  give  it  thee."  Jesus  does  not  reply 
to  this  suggestion  ;  he  does  not  tell  her 
whether  her  brother  sliall  immediately 
come  back  to  her,  but  utters  himself 
in  a  more  general  and  a  grander  truth. 
'  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life  ; 
he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live  ;  and  whosoever 
livetb  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never 
die  ;  believest  thou   this  ? "     As   if   he 


had  said,  be  not  too  curious  nor  anxious 
in  your  thoughts,  but  confide,  Martha, 
in  me.  You  believe  in  a  future  resur- 
rection, or  renewal  of  life  ;  you  hope 
for  the  immediate  resurrection  of  your 
brother  ;  but  be  satisfied  with  this,  "  1 
am  the  Resurrection  ;  "  all  that  resur- 
rection, renewal  of  life,  heavenly  happi- 
ness, means,  is  embodied,  consummated, 
fulfilled  in  me.  Nay,  it  is  not  some  fu- 
ture return  to  being  of  which  I  speak  ; 
he  that  liveth,  and  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die.  Already  he  hath  begun  to 
live  immortally.  Death  is  for  the  body  ; 
but  for  that  soul,  no  death.  Its  aflfec- 
tions  are  in  their  very  nature  immortal, 
and  have  in  them  the  very  elements  of 
undecaying  happiness. 

Let  us  attend  a  moment  to  the  two 
parts  of  this  instruction  :  what  our  Sav- 
iour uttered  as  already  the  belief  of 
Martha  ;  and  what  he  added  in  the  em- 
phatic declaration,  '•  I  am  the  Resurrec- 
tion and  the  Life." 

"Thy  brother  shall  live  again  "  —  thy 
brother !  Not  some  undefined  spirit- 
uality, not  some  new  and  strange  being, 
shall  go  forth  beyond  the  mortal  bourn  ; 
but  life  —  life,  in  its  character,  its  affec- 
tions, its  spiritual  identity,  such  as  it  is 
here  ;  thy  brother  shall  rise  again."  He- 
is  not  lost  to  thee  ;  he  shall  not  be  so 
spiritually  changed  as  to  be  forever  lost 
to  thee.  On  some  other  shore  —  as  if 
he  had  only  gone  to  another  hemisphere 
instead  of  another  world  ;  on  some  other 
shore  thou  shalt  find  him  again, —  find 
thy  brother.  Thus  much  must  have 
been  taught,  or  there  had  been  no  per- 
tinency, no  comfort  in  the  teaching. 
To  have  only  said  that  in  the  eternal 
revolutions  and  metamorphoses  of  be- 
ing, life,  existence  should  in  some  sense 
be  continued,  or  tliat  all  souls  should  be 
re-absorbed  into  the  Parent  Soul,  would 
have  been  nothing  to  this  mourning  sis- 
ter. Without  conscious  identity,  indeed, 
without  continued  existence,  a  future 
life  has  no  intelligible  meaning ;  and 
certainly  without  it  there  could  be  no 
such  thing  as  reward  or  retribution. 
And  since  the  social  element  is  an  essen- 


LIFE'S   CONSOLATIONS   IN   VIEW   OF   DEATH. 


105 


tial  part  of  our  nature,  that  element  must 
be  found  in  a  nature  which  is  the  same  : 
and  that  being  so,  to  suppose  that  friends 
should  meet  and  commune  together 
without  recognition  is  as  absurd  as  it 
would  be  unsatisfactory.     Most  clearly 

—  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  case  before 
us  —  such  a  promise  of  future  existence, 
that  is,  of  a  vague,  indefinite,  unremem- 
bering  e.\istence,  would  be  no  comfort 
to  sorrowing  friendship.  To  individual 
expectation  it  would  be  something,  but 
to  bereaved  affection,  nothing.  It  is  to 
such  sorrow,  one  of  the  bitterest  in  this 
world  —  that  of  a  sister  left  alone  in  the 
world  —  that  Jesus  speaks,  and  he  says, 
"  Thy  brother  shall  live  again." 

"  Thy     brother     shall     live     again." 
What   words   are  these  to  be    uttered, 

—  amidst  the  wrecks  of  time,  the  me- 
morials of  buried  nations,  tlie  earth- 
mounds  swelling  far  and  wide  above  the 
silent  dust  of  all  that  has  ever  lived 
and  breathed  in  the  visible  creation  ! 
Whence  comes  such  stupendous,  such 
amazing  words  as  these  ?  From  be- 
yond the  regions  of  all  visible  life  they 
come.  From  the  dark  earth  beneath  us 
no  voice  issues  ;  from  the  shining  walls 
of  heaven  no  angel  forms  beckon  us. 
Silence,  dust,  death,  are  here  ;  no  more  : 
the  earth  entombs  us,  the  heavens  crush 
us,  till  those  words  come  to  us,  heaven- 
sent, from  the  great  realm  of  invisible 
life.  O  blessed  revelation  !  Life  there 
is  for  us,  somewhere  ;  I  ask  not  where. 
I  can  wait  God's  time  for  that.  Blessed 
fields  there  are  somewhere  in  the  great 
embosoming  universe  of  God,  that 
stretch  onward  and  onward  forever,  and 
the  happy  walk  there.  There  shall  we 
find  our  lost  ones,  and  be  with  them 
evermore.  "  Father,"  said  our  Saviour 
when  he  was  about  to  depart,  "  I  will 
that  they  whom  thou  hast  given  me, 
be  with  me  where  I  am."  Shall  that 
prayer  be  answered  ?  Then  shall  there 
be  a  glorious  fellowship  of  good  men 
with  Jesus  and  with  one  another.  Are 
we  not  sometimes,  w'len  we  think  of 
this,  like  Paul,  "in  a  strait  between 
two," —  between  the  claims  of  friendship 


on  earth  and  of  friendship  in  heaven,  — 
and  ready  to  say,  "  For  us  it  is  better  to 
depart  and  be  with  Christ"?  Are  we 
not  ready  to  say,  as  the  disciples  did 
of  Lazarus,  when  our  beloved  ones  are 
gone  from  us,  '•  Let  us  go  and  die  with 
them  "  ? 

And  then,  in  addition  to  this  inexpres- 
sible comfort«and  hope,  what  is  it  that 
our  Saviour  so  emphatically  says  to 
Martha  ?  "I  ai?i  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life."  Something  /«  addition,  we 
may  well  suppose  it  must  be.  And  I 
understand  it  to  be  this  :  He  that  be- 
lieveth  on  me,  that  is,  receiveth  me,  hath 
the  spirit,  the  spiritual  life  that  is  in  me, 
the  same  love  of  God,  the  same  trust 
in  God,  —  is  already  living  an  immortal 
life.  He  shall  never  die.  That  in  him 
which  partakes  of  my  inward  life  shall 
never  die.  It  is  essentially  immortal, 
and  immortally  blessed  ;  and  no  dark 
eclipse  shall  come  over  it,  between  death 
and  the  resurrection,  to  bury  it  in  the 
gloom  of  utter  unconsciousness,  or  to 
cause  it  to  wander  like  a  shadow  in  the 
dim  realms  of  an  intermediate  state.  I 
inn  the  Resurrection.  Thy  brother,  who 
hath  part  in  me,  lives  now  as  truly  as 
I  live."  As  he  says  in  another  place,  "  I 
am  the  bread  of  life  ;  he  that  eateth  me, 
even  he  shall  live  through  me  ;  "  so  he 
says,  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life  :  and  to  him  that  is  partner  and 
partaker  with  me,  belongeth  not  death, 
but  only  resurrection,  continued  life,  life 
everlasting." 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  consider  one 
or  two  further  grounds  for  consolation 
that  are  suggested  by  this  teaching  of 
our  Saviour. 

That  which  he  especially  proposes  to 
his  bereaved  friends  at  Bethany  is  faith 
in  him.  It  was  a  faith  in  him  as  the 
Saviour  of  the  world,  as  one  who  was 
commissioned  to  bring  life  and  immortal- 
ity clearly  to  light,  as  one  who  through 
his  own  death  and  resurrection  should 
open  the  way  to  heaven.  But  we  should 
not  do  justice  to  this  sentiment  of  faith, 
if  we  did  not  regard  it  as  something  more 
than  any  mere  view  of  him  as  Saviour ; 


io6 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


if  we  did  not  regard  it  as  the  most  inti- 
mate participation  of  the  spiritual  life 
that  was  in  him.  That  participation  em- 
braces, doubtless,  general  purity  of  heart 
and  life,  a  humble  resignation  to  God's 
will,  a  thoughtful  consideration  of  the 
wise  purposes  and  necessary  uses  of 
affliction  ;  but  especially  it  embraces,  as 
the  sum  and  source  of  all,  the  love  of 
God.  Faitli  in  Christ  is  nothing  more 
emphatically  than  it  is  the  love  of  God,  his 
Father.  Upon  nothing  does  he  more 
earnestly  insist,  and  upon  this  he  espe- 
cially insists  as  the  pledge  and  the  test  of 
fidelity  to  him. 

To  this,  then,  let  me  particularly  direct 
your  attention  as  the  most  essential  part 
of  that  faith  which  is  to  comfort  us. 

It  is  the  love  of  God  only  that  can 
produce  a  just  sense  of  his  love  to  us. 
It  is  only  a  deep  and  true  sense  of  his 
love  to  us  that  can  assuage  the  wounds 
of  our  affliction.  This  results  from  the 
very  nature  of  things.  It  is  not  a  tech- 
nical dogma,  but  a  living  and  practical 
truth.  It  is  not  a  truth  merely  for  cer- 
tain persons  called  Christians,  who  are 
supposed  to  understand  this  language, 
but  it  is  a  truth  for  all  men.  We  suffer 
under  the  government  of  God.  It  is  his 
will  that  has  appointed  to  us  change, 
trial,  bereavement,  sorrow,  death.  The 
dispensation,  therefore,  will  be  colored 
to  us  throughout  —  it  will  be  darkened 
or  brightened  all  over  —  by  our  views  of 
its  great  Ordainer.  Ah  !  it  is  a  doubt 
here  J  it  is  some  distrust  or  difficulty,  or 
want  of  vital  faith  on  this  point,  that 
often  adds  the  bitterest  sting  to  human 
affliction.  When  all  is  well  with  us,  we 
can  say  that  God  is  good,  and  think 
that  we  have  some  love  to  him  ;  but 
when  the  blow  of  calamity  or  death  falls 
upon  our  dearest  possessions,  strikes 
down  innocent  childhood,  or  lovely  youth, 
or  the  needed  maturity  of  all  human 
virtue  or  source  of  all  earthly  help  and 
comfort, — strikes  from  our  side  that 
which  we  could  least  of  all  spare;  oh! 
it  seems  to  us  a  cruel,  cruel  blow  !  —  and 
we  say,  perhaps,  in  our  distracted 
thoughts,  "  Is  God  good,  to  inflict  it  upon 


us  ?  He  could  have  saved,  and  he  did 
not  ;  he  would  not.  Why  would  he  not  ? 
Does  he  love  us,  and  yet  afflict  us  so?  — 
yet  crush  us,  break  us  down,  and  blight 
all  our  hopes  ?  Is  this  a  loving  dispen- 
sation .'' " 

My  friends,  there  is  but  one  remedy 
for  all  this  ;  the  love,  the  true,  pure,  child- 
like love  of  God :  such  love  and  trust 
as  Jesus  felt ;  even  as  he,  the  smitten, 
afflicted,  cast  down,  betrayed,  crucified, 
who  was  urged,  in  the  extremity  of  his 
sorrow,  to  say,  "  Father,  if  it  be  possible, 
remove  this  cup  from  me  ;  "  yet  immedi- 
ately added,  "  Father,  not  my  will,  but 
thine  be  done."  This  is  our  example. 
This  is  our  only  salvation.  Nothing  but 
this  love  of  God  can  yield  us  comfort. 
If  there  is  no  ground  for  this,  then  there  is 
no  place  for  consolation  in  the  universe. 
There  may  be  enduring,  there  may  be 
forgetting,  but  there  can  be  no  consola- 
tion. If  there  is  ground  for  this  love  and 
trust,  who  in  the  day  of  trouble  will  not 
pray  God  to  breathe  it  into  his  broken 
heart  ? 

I  have  said  that  doubt,  distrust,  want 
of  faith,  is  our  difficulty.  And  yet,  how 
can  we  doubt?  Wo^  can  the  Infinite 
Being  be  anything  but  good  ?  What 
motive,  what  reason,  what  possibility, 
I  had  almost  said,  can  there  be  to  In- 
finite power,  Infinite  sufficiency,  to  be 
anything  but  good  ?  How  can  we,  —  ex- 
cept it  be  in  some  momentary  paroxysm 
of  grief,  —  how,  I  say,  can  we  doubt  ? 
How  doubt,  beneath  these  shining  heav- 
ens ;  amidst  the  riches,  the  plenitude, 
the  brightness  and  beauty,  of  the  whole 
creation;  with  capacities  of  thought,  of 
improvement,  of  happiness,  in  ourselves 
that  almost  transcend  expression  ;  nay, 
and  with  sorrows,  too,  tliat  proclaim 
the  loss  of  objects  so  inexpressibly  dear? 
Whence,  but  from  love  in  God,  could 
have  come  a  love  in  us  so  intense,  so 
transporting,  so  full  of  joy  and  blessed- 
ness ;  nay,  and  so  full,  too,  of  pain  and 
anguish  ?  No  !  such  a  love  in  me  as- 
sures me  that  it  had  its  origin  in  love. 
Could  the  Being  who  made  me  intelligent 
have  been  himself  without  intelligence? 


LIFE'S   CONSOLATIONS    IN    VIEW    OF    DEATH. 


107 


Nor  could  the  Being  want  love  who  has 
made  me  so  to  love,  so  to  sorrow  for 
what  I  love.  By  my  very  sorrows, 
then,  I  know  that  God  loves  me  ;  I  say 
not  whether  with  approbation,  but  with 
an  infinite  kindness,  an  infinite  pity. 
What  /  need  is  but  to  feel  it,  to  pray 
for  that  feeling,  to  meditate  upon  all 
that  should  bring  that  feeling  into  my 
lieart  ;  to  take  refuge,  amidst  my  sor- 
rows, in  the  assurance  that  God  loves 
nie  :  that  he  does  not  willingly  grieve 
or  afflict  me  ;  that  he  chastens  me  for 
my  profiting  ;  that  he  could  not  show 
.so  much  love  for  me  by  leaving  me  un- 
chastened.  untried,  undisciplined.  "  We 
iuive  had  fathers  of  our  flesh  who  chas- 
tened us,'' —  put  us  to  tasks,  trials,  griefs ; 
"and  we  gave  them  reverence,"  —  felt, 
amidst  all,  that  they  were  good.  "  Shall 
we  not  much  rather  be  in  subjection 
to  the  Father  of  our  spirits  and  live?" 
Great  is  the  faith  that  must  save  us. 
It  is  a  faith  in  the  Infinite,  —  a  faith  in 
the  Infinite  love  of  God  ! 

From  this  faith  arises  another  ground 
of  consolation.  It  is,  not  only  that  all 
is  well,  but  that  in  the  great  order  of 
things,  tJiat  which  particularly  concerns 
lis  —  enters  into  our  peculiar  suffering  — 
is  well.  Our  case,  perhaps,  is  bereave- 
ment, heavy  and  sorrowful  bereavement. 
Is  it  a  messenger  of  wrath  .''  Is  any 
one  of  its  circumstances,  of  its  peculi- 
arities,—  so  poignant  and  piercing  to 
us,  —  an  indication  of  divine  anger  ? 
Awful  thought !  Immitigable  calamity, 
if  it  were  so  !  But  no  ;  it  is  appointed 
in  love.  Can  God  do  anything  for 
anger's  sake  ?  To  me  it  were  not  God, 
of  whom  this  could  be  said.  Let  it  be 
that  a  hadv!\-xx\  has  died.  Has  God  made 
him  die  because  he  hated  him  ?  I  be- 
lieve it  not.  If  he  has  lost  his  being,  I 
believe  that  it  is  well  that  he  has  lost  it. 
If  he  has  gone  to  retribution,  I  believe 
it  is  well  that  he  has  gone  to  that  retri- 
bution ;  that  nothing  could  be  better  for 
him,  being  what  it  is.  If  /  were  that 
unhappy  being,  I  would  say,  "  Let  me 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  infinitely  good 
God,  rather  tlian  anywhere  else."     But 


if  it  is  a  good  being  that  lias  gone  from 
me,  an  innocent  child,  or  one  clothed 
with  every  lovely  virtue,  one  whom  Jesus 
loved  as  he  loved  the  dear  brother  in 
Bethany,  to  what  joys  unspeakable  has 
that  being  gone  !  In  the  bosom  of  God, 
in  the  bosom  of  infinite  love,  all  with 
him  is  well.  Could  that  departed  one 
speak  to  us,  that  lovely  and  loving  one, 
invested  with  the  radiance  and  sur- 
rounded with  the  bliss  of  some  heavenly 
land,  would  not  the  language  be,  — • 
"  Mourn  not  for  me,  or  mourn  not  as 
having  no  hope.  Dishonor  not  the 
good  and  blessed  One,  my  Father  and 
your  Father,  by  any  distrust  or  doubt. 
Mourn  for  me,  remember  me,  as  I  too 
remember  you,  long  for  you  ;  but  mourn 
with  humble  patience  and  calm  sustain- 
ing faith." 

How  is  it  with  us,  my  brethren,  in 
this  world,  and  what,  in  contemplation 
of  death,  would  we  say  to  those  that 
we  shall  leave  behind  us  ?  "  Grieve 
not  for  me,"  would  not  one  say,  —  or, 
"  grieve  not  too  much  when  I  am  gone. 
I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  suffer 
that  awful  agony,  that  desolating  sor- 
row, that  is  often  seen  in  the  house  of 
mourning.  Remembered  I  would  be ; 
oh,  let  me  have  a  memorial  in  some 
living,  affectionate  hearts !  I  would 
never  be  forgotten  ;  I  would  never  have 
it  felt  that  the  tie  with  me  is  broken  : 
but  let  the  memory  of  me  be  calm, 
patient,  sacred,  gently  sorrowing  if  need 
be,  but  yet  ever  partaking  of  the  bless- 
edness of  that  love  which  death  cannot 
quench.  Let  not  my  name  gather  about 
it  an  awfulness  or  a  sacredness,  such 
that  it  may  not  be  uttered  in  the  places 
where  I  have  lived  ;  or  if  in  the  sanc- 
tuary where  it  is  kept  there  is  a  delicacy 
that  forbids  the  easy  utterance  of  it,  still 
let  it  not  be  invested  with  gloom  and 
sadness.  Think  of  me,  when  I  am  gone, 
as  one  who  thought  much  on  death  : 
who  had  thoughts  of  it,  more  and 
greater  than  he  could,  in  the  ordinary 
goings  on  of  life,  find  fit  occasion  to 
utter.  If  you  could  wish  that  I  had 
said  more  to  you  on  this  and  many  other 


io8 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


themes,  yet  give  the  confidence  that  jou 
must  ask,  for  that  secret  world  within 
us  all,  that  world  of  a  thousand  tender 
thoughts  and  feelings  for  which  lan- 
guage has  no  expression.  Think  of  me 
as  still  possessing  those  thoughts  and 
feelings,  as  still  the  same  to  you,  as  one 
that  loves  you  still  ;  for  death  shall  not 
destroy  in  us  that  image  of  Christ,  a 
pure  and  holy  love.  If  I  retain  my  con- 
sciousness, I  must  still  think  of  you 
with  more  than  all  the  love  I  ever  felt  ; 
it  cannot  be  otherwise.  And  if  I  am 
to  sleep  till  tlie  resurrection,  though 
my  hope  is  far  different  :  believing  in 
Jesus,  my  hope  is  that  I  am  already  of 
the  Resurrection  ;  yet,  if  it  be  so  that 
God  has  ordained  that  pause  in  my  ex- 
istence, it  is  surely  for  a  wise  purpose  ; 
it  is  doubtless  best  for  me  ;  and  to  the 
ever  good  and  blessed  will  of  God  I 
calmly  and  humbly  submit  myself  :  to 
that  ever-gracious  will  I  pray  you  to  be 
patiently  and  cheerfully  resigned.  How 
much  better  is  it  than  your  will  or  mine  ! 
What  boundless  good  may  we  not  ex- 
pect from  an  Infinite  Will,  prompted  by 
an  Infinite  Love  !  Lift  up  your  lowly 
thoughts  to  this  :  lift  them  up  to  the 
heavenly  regions,  to  the  boundless  uni- 
verse, to  the  all-embracing  eternity  ; 
and  in  these  contemplations  lose  the 
too  keen  sense  of  this  breathing  hour 
of  time,  of  this  world  of  dust  and  shad- 
ows, —  and  of  brightness  and  beauty, 
too ;  for  all  is  good  ;  all  in  earth  and  in 
heaven,  in  time  and  eternity,  is  good." 

Thus,  I  conceive,  might  a  wise  and 
good  man,  about  to  depart  from  this 
life,  speak  to  those  whom  he  was  to 
leave  behind  him.  And  thus  might 
those  who  have  died  in  infant  inno- 
cence, thus  might  angel-children,  speak 
from  some  brighter  sphere.  And  if  it 
were  wisdom  thus  to  speak,  then  let 
that  wisdom  sink  into  our  hearts,  and 
bring  there  its  consolation.  Perfect  re- 
lief from  suffering  it  cannot  bring;  sor- 
row we  may,  we  must  ;  many  and  bitter 
pains  must  we  bear  in  this  mortal  lot ; 
Jesus  wept  over  such  pains,  and  we  may 
weep  over  them  ;  but  let  us  be  wise  ;  let 


us  be  trustful  ;  let  the  love  of  God  fill 
our  hearts  ;  let  the  heavenly  consolation 
help  us  all  that  it  can.  It  can  help  us 
much.  It  is  not  mere  breath  of  words 
to  say  that  God  is  good,  that  all  is  right, 
all  is  well  ;  all  that  concerns  us  is  tlie 
care  of  Infinite  Love.  It  is  not  a  mere 
religious  commonplace,  to  say  that  sul  - 
mission,  trust,  love,  can  help  us.  Mori- 
than  eye  ever  saw  or  the  ear  ever  hean-!, 
or  the  worldly  heart  ever  conceived,  can 
a  deep,  humble,  childlike,  loving  pietv 
bring  help  and  comfort  in  the  hours  of 
mortal  sorrow  and  bitterness.  Believest 
thou  this  .f"  This  was  our  Saviour's 
question  to  Martha  in  her  distress. 
"  He  that  believetli  on  me,  though  he 
were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  And  he 
that  liveth,  and  believeth  on  me,  shall 
never  die.  Believest  thou  this  ?  "  This 
humble-believing,  this  heart-believing, 
my  friends,  is  what  we  need,  —  must 
have,  —  must  seek.  The  breathing  of 
the  life  of  Jesus  in  us,  the  bright  cloud 
around  us  in  which  he  walked,  this  can 
comfort  us  beyond  all  that  we  know, 
all  that  we  imagine.  May  we  find  that 
comfort  !  Forlorn,  forsaken  ;  or  de- 
prived, destitute ;  or  bereaved,  broken- 
hearted; whatever  be  our  strait  or 
sorrow,  may  we  find  that  comfort  ! 

My  brethren,  I  have  been  communing 
now  with  afiliction.  It  is  a  holy  and 
delicate  ofiice  ;  and  I  have  been  afraid, 
when  speaking  with  all  the  earnestness 
I  felt,  lest  I  should  not  speak  with  all 
the  delicacy  I  ought;  lest  I  should  only 
add  to  grief  by  touching  its  wound.  But 
I  felt  that  I  was  coming  to  meet  sorrow  ; 
I  know  that  I  often  come  to  meet  it 
here  ;  it  has  of  late  occupied  much  of 
my  mind  ;  and  I  could  not  refrain  from 
offering  my  humble  aid  for  its  relief. 

I  reflected,  too,  that  1  was  coming  this 
morning  to  this  sacred  table,*  this  altar 
reared  for  the  comfort  of  all  believing 
souls  :  reared  by  dying  hands  to  tlie 
resurrection,  to  the  hope  of  everlasting 
life.  It  was  the  same  night  in  which  he 
was  betrayed  :  it  was  when  he  was  about 
to  die,  that  Jesus  set  forth  in  the  form 

*  Preached  before  \\\t  Communion. 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   LIFE   SOLVED. 


109 


of  a  feast  this  solemn  and  cheering  me- 
morial   of    himself,  and    uttered    many 
sootiiing  and  consoHng  words  to  his  dis- 
ciples.    He    did   not    build    a   tomb   by 
which  to  be  remembered  ;   but  he  ap- 
pointed a  feast  of  remembrance.     He 
did  not  tell  his  disciples  to  put  on  sack- 
cloth ;  but  to  clothe  themselves  with  the 
recollections  of   him,  as  with  the  robe 
of  immortality      Death,  indeed,  was  a 
dread  to  him,  and   he  shrunk  from   it. 
It  was  a  grief  to  his  disciples  ;  and  he 
recognized  it  as  such,  and  so  dealt  with 
it.     But  he  showed  to  them  a  trust  in 
God,  a  loving  submission  to  the  Father, 
that  could  stay  the  soul.     He  spoke  of 
a  victory  over  death.     He  assured  them 
that  man's  last  enemy  was  conquered. 
Here,  then,  amidst  these   memorials  of 
death,  let  us  meditate  upon  the  life  ever- 
lasting.    Let  us  carry  our  thoughts  to 
that  world  where  Christ  is,  and  where 
he  prayed  that  all  who  love  him  might 
be  with  him  ;   where,  we  believe,  they 
are  with  him.     Let  our  faith  rise  so  high 
—  God   grant   it  !  —  that   we   can   say  : 
"  O  grave,  where    is    thy   victory  ?     O 
death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?     Thanks  be 
to    God    who    giveth     us     the    victory 
through  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord  !  " 


XVII. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE  SOLVED  IN 
THE   LIFE    OF   CHRIST. 

John  i.  4  :  "  In  him  was  life,  and  the  Hfe  was  the 
light  of  men." 

The  words,  "life  and  light,"  are  con- 
stantly used  by  the  Apostle  John,  after 
a  manner  long  familiar  in  the  Hebrew 
writings,  for  spiritual  happiness  and 
spiritual  truth.  The  inmost  and  truest 
life  of  man,  the  life  of  his  life,  is  spir- 
itual life  —  is,  in  others  words,  purity, 
love,  goodness  ;  and  this  inward  purity, 
love,  goodness,  is  the  very  light  of  life  ; 
that  which  brightens,  blesses,  guides  it. 

I  have  little  respect  for  the  ingenuity 
that  is  always  striving  to  work  out  from 
the  simple  language  of  Scripture  fanciful 


and  far-fetched  meanings  ;  but  it  would 
seem,  in  the  passage  before  us,  as  if 
Jolin  intended  to  state  one  of  the  deepest 
truths  in  the  very  frame  of  our  being  ; 
and  that  is,  tJiat  goodness  is  the  foun- 
tain of  wisdotn. 

Give  me  your  patience  a  moment,  and 
I  will  attempt  to   explain  this  proposi- 
tion.    "  In  it  was  life  ;  "  that  is,  in  this 
manifested  and  all-creating  energy,  this 
outflowing  of  the  power  of  God,  was  a 
divine  and   infinite    love    and  joy  ;  and 
this  life  was  the  light  of  men.     That  is 
to    say  —  love  first,  then    light.      Light 
does  not  create  love  ;  but  love  creates 
light.     The  good  heart  only  can  under- 
stand the  good  teaching.     The  doctrine 
of  truth  that  guides  a  man  comes  from 
the   divinity  of  goodness    that  inspires 
him.     But,  it  will    be    said,    does  not  a 
man   become    holy,  or    good,    in   view 
of   truth  1     I    answer,    that    he    cannot 
-jiew  the  truth,  but  through  the  medium 
of  love.     It  is  the  loving  view  only,  that 
is    effective,    that    is   any    view   at   all. 
I  must  desire  you  to  observe  that  I  am 
speaking  now  of  the  primary  convictions 
of  a  man,  and  not  of  the  secondary  in- 
fluences that  operate  upon  him.      Light 
may   strengtiien    love  ;  a  knowledge  of 
the  works  and  ways  of  God  may  have 
this  effect,  and  it  is  properly  presented 
for    this    purpose.      But    light    cannot 
originate  love.      If  love    were    not  im- 
planted   in  man's  original    and   inmost 
being;  if  there  were  not  placed    there 
the  moral  or  spiritual  feeling,  that  loves 
while   it   perceives    goodness ;    all    the 
speculative  light  in  the  universe  would 
leave  man's  nature  still  and  forever  cold 
and  dead  as  a  stone.     In  short,  loveli- 
ness is  a  quality  which  nothing  but  love 
can  perceive.     God  cannot  be  known  in 
his  highest,  that  is,  in  his  spiritual  and 
holy  nature,  except  by  those  who  love 
him. 

Now,  of  this  life  and  light,  as  we  are 
immediately  afterwards  taught,  Jesus 
Christ,  not  as  a  teacher  merely,  but  as 
a  being,  is  to  us  the  great  and  appoint- 
ed source.  And  therefore  when  Thom- 
as says,  "  How  can  we  know  the  way  of 


I  10 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


1 


which  thou  speakest  ? "  Jesus  answers, 
"  /  a7n  the  way,  and  the  truth,  and  the 
life ;  no  man  cometh  to  the  Father  but 
by  me."  That  is,  no  man  can  truly  come 
to  God,  but  in  that  spirit  of  filial  love 
of  which  I  am  the  example. 

In  our  humanity  there  is  a  problem. 
In  Christ  only  it  is  perfectly  solved. 
The  speculative  solution  of  that  problem 
is  philosophy.  The  practical  solution  is 
a  good  life  ;  and  the  only  perfect  solution 
is  the  life  of  Christ.  '•  In  him  was  life, 
and  the  life  was  the  light  of  men." 

In  him,  I  say,  was  solved  the  problem 
of  life.  What  is  that  problem  ?  What  are 
the  questions  which  it  presents  ?  They 
are  these  :  Is  there  anything  that  can 
be  achieved  in  life,  in  which  our  nature 
can  find  full  satisfaction  and  sufficiency  ? 
And  if  there  be  any  such  thing,  any  such 
end  of  life,  then  is  there  any  adaptation 
of  things  to  that  end  ?  Are  there  any 
means  or  helps  provided  in  life  for  its 
attainment  ?  Now  the  end  must  be  the 
highest  condition  of  our  highest  nature  ; 
and  that  end,  we  say,  is  virtue,  sanctity, 
blessedness.  And  the  helps  or  means 
are  found  in  the  whole  discipline  of  life. 
But  the  end  was  perfectly  accomplished 
in  Christ,  and  it  was  accomplished 
through  the  very  means  which  are  ap- 
pointed to  us.  "  He  was  tempted  in  all 
points  as  we  are,  yet  without  sin  ;  "  and 
'■  he  was  made  thus  perfect  through  suf- 
ferings." 

Our  Saviour  evidently  regarded  him- 
self as  sustaining  this  relation  to  human 
life  :  the  enlightener  of  its  darkness,  the 
interpreter  of  its  mystery,  the  solver  of 
its  problem.  "  I  am  the  light  of  the 
world,"  he  says  ;  "  he  that  followeth  me 
shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  but  shall 
have  the  light  of  life."  And  again :  ''  I  am 
come  a  light  into  the  world,  that  who- 
soever beheveth  on  me,  should  not  abide 
in  darkness."  It  was  not  for  abstract 
teaching  to  men  that  he  came,  but  for 
actual  guidance  in  their  daily  abodes. 
It  was  not  to  deliver  doctrines  alone,  nor 
to  utter  or  echo  back  the  intuitive  con- 
victions of  our  own  minds,  but  to  live  a 
life  and  to  die  a  death;  and  so  to  live  and 


to   die,  as   to  cast  light  upon  the  dark 
paths  in  which  we  walk. 

I  need  not  say  that  there  is  darkness, 
in  the  paths  of  men  ;  that  they  stumble 
at  difficulties,  are  ensnared  by  tempta- 
tions, are  perplexed  by  doubts  ;  that 
they  are  anxious  and  troubled  and  fear- 
ful ;  that  pain  and  affliction  and  sorrow 
often  gather  around  the  steps  of  their 
earthly  pilgrimage.  All  this  is  written 
upon  the  very  tablet  of  the  human  heart. 
And  I  do  not  say  that  all  this  is  to  be 
erased  ;  but  only  that  it  is  to  be  seen 
and  read  in  a  new  light.  I  do  not  say 
that  ills  and  trials  and  sufferings  are  to 
be  removed  from  life  ;  but  only  that  over 
this  scene  of  mortal  trouble  anew  heaven 
is  to  be  spread  ;  and  that  the  light  of 
that  heaven  is  Christ,  the  sun  of  right- 
eousness. 

To  human  pride,  this  may  be  a  hard 
saying  ;  to  human  philosophy,  learning, 
and  grandeur,  it  may  be  a  hard  saying  ; 
but  still  it  is  true,  that  the  simple  life  of 
Christ,  studied, understood,  and  imitated, 
would  shed  a  brighter  light  than  all 
earthly  wisdom  can  find,  upon  the  dark 
trials  and  mysteries  of  our  lot.  It  is  true 
that  whatever  you  most  need  or  sigh 
for,  whatever  you  most  want,  to  still  the 
troubles  of  your  heart  or  compose  the 
agitations  of  your  mind,  the  simple  life 
of  Jesus  can  teach  you. 

To  show  this,  I  need  only  take  the 
most  ordinary  admissions  from  the  lips 
of  any  Christian,  or,  I  may  say,  of  almost 
any  unbeliever. 

Suppose  that  the  world  were  filled  with 
beings  like  Jesus.  Would  not  all  the 
great  ills  of  society  be  instantly  relieved  1 
Would  you  not  immediately  dismiss  all 
your  anxieties  concerning  it,  perfectly 
sure  that  all  was  going  on  well  .-*  Would 
not  all  coercion,  infliction,  injury,  injus- 
tice, and  all  the  greatest  suffering  of  life, 
disappear  at  once  ?  If,  at  the  stretching 
out  of  some  wonder-working  wand,  that 
change  could  take  place,  would  not  the 
change  be  greater  far  than  if  every 
house,  hovel,  and  prison  on  earth  were 
instantly  turned  into  a  palace  of  ease 
and  abundance   and  splendor  ?    Happy 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   LIFE   SOLVED. 


I  I  I 


then  would  be  these  "  human  years  ;  " 
and  the  eternal  ages  would  roll  on  in 
brightness  and  beauty  !  The  "  still,  sad 
music  of  humanity,"  that  sounds  through 
the  world,  now  in  the  swellings  of  grief, 
and  now  in  pensive  melancholy,  would 
be  exchanged  for  anthems,  lifted  up  to 
the  nurch  of  time  and  bursting  out  from 
the  heart  of  the  world  ! 

But  let  us  make  another  supposition, 
and  bring  it  still  nearer  to  ourselves. 
Were  any  one  of  us  a  perfect  imitator  of 
Christ,  were  any  one  of  us  clothed  with 
the  divinity  of  his  virtue  and  faith,  do 
you  not  perceive  what  the  effect  would 
be  ?  Look  around  upon  the  circle  of  life's 
ills  and  trials,  and  observe  the  effect. 
Did  sensual  passions  assail  you  ?  How 
weak  would  be  their  solicitation  to  the 
divine  beatitude  of  your  own  heart!  You 
would  say,  "  I  have  meat  to  eat  that  ye 
know  not  of."  Did  want  tempt  you  to  do 
wrongly,  or  curiosity  to  do  rashly  ?  You 
would  say  to  the  one,  "  Man  shall  not 
live  by  bread  alone  ;  there  is  a  higher 
life  which  I  must  live  ;  "  and  to  the  other, 
"  Thou  shalt  not  tempt  the  Lord  thy 
God."  Did  ambition  spread  its  king- 
doms and  thrones  before  you,  and  ask 
you  to  swerve  from  your  great  alle- 
giance ?  Your  reply  would  be  ready  : 
"  Get  thee  hence,  Satan,  for  it  is  written, 
thou  shalt  worship  the  Lord  thy  God,  and 
him  only  shalt  thou  serve."  Did  the 
storm  of  injury  beat  upon  your  head,  or 
its  silent  shaft  pierce  your  heart.''  In 
meekness  you  would  bow  that  head,  in 
prayer  that  heart,  saying,  "  Father,  for- 
give them,  for  they  know  not  what  they 
do."  What  sorrow  could  reach  you  ; 
what  pain,  what  anguish,  that  would  not 
be  soothed  by  a  faith  and  a  love  like  that 
of  Jesus  ?  And  what  blessing  could  liijht 
on  you,  that  would  not  be  brightened  by 
a  filial  piety  and  gratitude  like  his  ?  The 
world  around  you  would  be  new,  and  the 
heavens  over  you  would  be  new  ;  for  they 
would  be  all,  and  all  around  their  ample 
range,  and  all  through  their  glorious 
splendors,  the  presence  and  the  visita- 
tion of  a  Father.  And  you  yourself 
would  be  a  new  creature  ;  and  you  would 


enjoy  a  happiness  new,  and  now  scarcely 
known  on  earth. 

And  1  cannot  help  observing  here  that 
if  such  be  the  spontaneous  conviction 
of  every  mind  at  all  acquainted  with 
Christianity,  what  a  powerful  indepen- 
dent argument  there  is  for  receiving 
Christ  as  a  guide  and  example  !  It  were 
an  anomaly,  indeed,  to  the  eye  of  reason, 
to  reject  the  solemn  and  self-claimed 
mission  of  one  whom  it  would  be  happi- 
ness to  follow,  whom  it  would  be  perfec- 
tion to  imitate.  Yet  if  the  former,  the 
special  mission  were  rejected  ;  if  it  were, 
as  it  may  be,  by  possibility, honestly  re- 
jected, what  is  a  man  to  think  of  himself, 
who  passes  by,  and  discards  the  latter, 
the  teaching  of  the  life  of  Christ  ?  Let 
it  be  the  man  Rousssau,  or  the  man 
Hume,  or  any  man  in  these  days,  who 
says  that  he  believes  nothing  in  churches 
or  miracles  or  mi:>sions  trom  heaven. 
But  he  admits,  as  they  did  and  as  every 
one  must,  that  in  Jesus  Christ  was  the 
most  perfect  unfolding  of  all  divine 
beauty  and  holiness  that  the  world  ever 
saw.  What,  I  say,  is  he  to  do  with 
this  undeniable  and  undenied  Gospel 
of  the  life  of  Jesus  'i  Blessed  is  he,  if 
he  receives  it ;  that  is  unquestionable. 
All  who  read  of  him,  all  the  world, 
admits  that.  But  what  shall  we  say  if 
he  rejects  it  ?  If  any  one  could  be 
clothed  with  the  eloquence  of  Cicero  or 
the  wisdom  of  Socrates,  and  would  not, 
ail  the  world  would  pronounce  him  a 
fool,  would  say  that  he  had  denied  his 
humanity.  And  surely  if  any  one  could 
be  invested  with  all  the  beauty  and  gran- 
deur of  the  life  of  Jesus,  and  would  not, 
he  must  be  stricken  with  utter  moral 
fatuity  ;  he  must  be  accounted  to  have 
denied  his  highest  humanity.  The  in- 
terpretation of  his  case  is  as  plain  as 
words  can  make  it;  and  it  is  this  :  "  Light 
has  come  into  the  world,  and  men  have 
loved  darkness  rather  than  light,  because 
their  deeds  are  evil." 

"  In  him  was  life."  says  our  text,  "and 
the  life  was  the  light  of  men." 

I  have  attempted  to  bring  home  the 
conviction  of   this,  simply  by  bringing 


1  12 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


before  your  minds  the  supposition  that 
the  world,  and  we  ourselves,  were  like 
him.  But  as  no  conviction,  I  think,  at 
the  present  stage  of  our  Christian  pro- 
gress is  so  important  as  this,  let  me  at- 
tempt to  impress  it  by  another  course 
of  reflections.  I  say  of  our  Christian 
progress.  We  have  cleared  away  many 
obstacles,  as  we  think,  and  have  come 
near  to  the  simplicity  of  the  Gospel.  No 
comphcated  ecclesiastical  organization 
nor  scholastic  creed  stands  between  us 
and  the  solemn  verities  of  Christianity. 
I  am  not  now  pronouncing  upon  those 
accumulations  of  human  devices;  but  I 
mean  especially  to  say  that  no  mystical 
notions  of  their  necessity  or  importance 
mingle  themselves  with  our  ideas  of  ac- 
ceptance. We  have  come  to  stand  be- 
fore the  simple,  naked  shrine  of  the  origi- 
nal Gospel.  We  have  come,  through 
many  human  teachings  and  human  ad- 
monitions, to  Christ  himself.  But  little 
will  it  avail  us  to  have  come  so  far,  if  we 
take  not  one  step  farther.  Now,  what  I 
think  we  need  is,  to  enter  more  deeply 
into  the  study  and  understanding  of 
what  Christ  was. 

This,  let  us  attempt.  And  I  pray  you 
and  myself,  brethren,  not  to  be  content 
with  the  little  that  can  now  be  said  ;  but 
let  us  carefully  read  the  Gospels  for 
ourselves,  and  lay  the  law  of  the  life  of 
Christ  with  rigorous  precision  to  our 
own  lives,  and  see  where  they  fail  and 
come  short.  It  is  true,  indeed,  and  I 
would  urge  nothing  beyond  the  truth, 
that  the  life  of  Jesus  is  not,  in  every  re- 
spect, an  example  for  us.  That  is  to 
say,  the  manner  of  his  life  was,  in  some 
respects,  different  from  what  ours  can 
or  should  be.  He  was  a  teacher  ;  and 
the  most  of  us  are  necessarily  and  law- 
fully engaged  in  the  business  of  life. 
He  was  sent  on  a  peculiar  mission;  and 
none  of  us  have  such  a  mission.  But 
the  spirit  that  was  in  him  maybe  in  us. 
To  some  of  the  traits  of  this  spirit,  as 
the  only  sources  of  light  and  help  to  us, 
let  me  now  briefly  direct  your  attention. 

And  first,  consider  his  self-renuncia- 
tion.    How  entire  that  self  renunciation 


was  ;  how  completely  his  aims  went  be- 
yond personal  ease  and  selfi.sh  gratifica 
tion  ;  how  all  his  thoughts  and  words  and 
actions  were  employed  upon  the  work  for 
which  he  was  sent  into  the  world ;  how 
his  whole  life,  as  well  as  his  death,  was 
an  offering  to  that  cause,  I  need  not 
tell  you.  Indeed,  so  entirely  is  this  his 
accredited  character;  so  completely  is 
he  set  apart  in  our  thoughts  not  only  to 
a  peculiar  office,  but  set  apart  too  and 
separated  from  all  human  interests  and 
affections,  that  we  are  liable  to  do  his 
character  in  this  respect  no  proper  jus- 
tice. We  isolate  him,  till  he  almost 
ceases  to  be  an  example  to  us ;  till  he 
almost  ceases  to  be  a  virtuous  being. 
He  stands  alone  in  Judea  ;  and  the  words 
—  society,  country,  kindred,  friendship, 
home  —  seem  to  have,  to  him,  only  a 
fictitious  application.  But  these  ties 
bound  him  as  they  do  others  ;  the  gen- 
tleness and  tenderness  of  his  nature 
made  him  peculiarly  susceptible  to  them  ; 
no  more  touching  allusions  to  kindred 
and  country  can  be  found  in  human 
language  than  his ;  as  when  he  said, 
"  O  Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  "  in  fore- 
sight of  her  coming  woes  ;  as  when  he 
said  on  the  cross,  "  Behold  thy  mother  ! 
behold  thy  son  !  "  Doubtless  he  desired 
to  be  a  benefactor  to  his  country,  an  hon- 
or to  his  family ;  and  when  Peter,  dep- 
recating his  dishonor  and  degradation, 
said,  "  Be  it  far  from  thee,  Lord  !  this 
shall  not  be  unto  thee,"  and  he  turned 
and  said  unto  Peter,  "Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan,  thou  savorest  not  the  things 
that  be  of  God,  but  those  that  be  of  men," 
it  has  been  beautifully  suggested  that 
the  very  energy  of  that  repulse  to  his 
enthusiastic  and  admiring  disciple  shows 
perhaps  that  he  felt  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  mind  that  was  leaning  that 
way :  that  the  things  of  men  were  con- 
tending with  the  things  of  God  in  him  ; 
that  he  too  much  dreaded  the  coming 
humiliation  and  agony,  to  wish  to  have 
that  feeling  fostered  in  his  heart. 

But  he  rejected  all  this  ;  he  renounced 
himself,  renounced  all  the  dear  affections 
and  softer  pleadings  of  his  affectionate 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   LIFE   SOLVED. 


113 


nature,  that  he  might  be  true  to  higher 
interests  than  his  own,  or  his  country's, 
or  his  kindred's.  Now  I  say  that  the 
same  self-renunciation  would  relieve 
us  of  more  than  half  of  the  difficulties 
and  of  the  diseased  and  painful  affections 
of  our  lives.  Simple  obedience  to  rec- 
titude, instead  of  self-interest,  simple 
self-culture,  instead  of  ever  cultivating 
the  good  opinion  of  others  ;  how  many 
disturbing  and  irritating  questions  would 
these  single-hearted  aims  take  away 
from  our  bosom  meditations  !  Let  us 
not  mistake  the  character  of  this  self- 
renunciation.  We  are  required,  not  to 
renounce  the  nobler  and  better  affections 
of  our  natures,  not  to  renounce  happi- 
ness, not  to  renounce  our  just  dues  of 
honor  and  love  from  men.  It  is  remark- 
able that  our  Saviour,  amidst  all  his 
meekness  and  all  his  sacrifices,  always 
claimed  that  he  deserved  well  of  men, 
deserved  to  be  honored  and  beloved. 
It  is  not  to  vilify  ourselves  that  is  re- 
quired of  us  ;  not  to  renounce  our  self- 
respect,  the  just  and  reasonable  sense  of 
our  merits  and  deserts  ;  not  to  renounce 
our  own  righteousness,  our  own  virtue, 
if  we  have  any;  such  falsehood  towards 
ourselves  gains  no  countenance  from  the 
example  of  Jesus;  but  it  is  to  renounce 
our  sins,  our  passions,  our  self-flattering 
delusions  ;  and  it  is  to  forego  all  out- 
ward advantages  which  can  be  gained 
only  through  a  sacrifice  of  our  inward 
integrity,  or  through  anxious  and  petty 
contrivances  and  compliances.  What 
we  have  to  do,  is  to  choose  and  keep  the 
better  part  ;  to  secure  that,  and  let  the 
worst  take  care  of  itself  ;  to  keep  a  good 
conscience,  and  let  opinion  come  and 
go  as  it  will  ;  to  keep  high  self-respect, 
and  to  let  low  self-indulgence  go ;  to 
keep'inward  happiness,  and  let  outward 
advantages  hold  a  surbordinate  place. 
Self-renunciation,  in  fine,  is,  not  to  re- 
nounce ourselves  in  the  highest  charac- 
ter ;  not  to  renounce  our  moral  selves, 
ourselves  as  the  creatures  and  children 
of  God;  herein  rather  it  is  to  cherish 
ourselves  to  make  the  most  of  ourselves, 
to  hold   ourselves    inexpressibly  dear. 


What,  then,  is  it  precisely  to  renounce 
ourselves  ?  It  is  to  renounce  our  self- 
ishness ;  to  have  done  with  this  eternal 
self-considering  wliich  now  disturbs  and 
vexes  our  lives  ;  to  cease  that  ever  ask- 
ing, "And  what  shall  we  have?" —  to 
be  content  with  the  plentitude  of  God's 
abounding  mercies  ;  to  feast  upon  that 
infinite  love,  that  is  shed  all  around  us 
and  within  us,  and  so  to  be  hippy.  I 
see  many  a  person,  in  society,  honored, 
rich,  beautiful,  but  wearing  still  an  anx- 
ious and  disturbed  countenance  ;  many 
a  one  upon  whom  this  simple  principle, 
this  simple  self-forgetting,  would  bring 
a  change  in  their  appearance,  demeanor, 
and  the  whole  manner  of  their  living 
and  being;  a  change  that  would  make 
them  tenlbld  more  beautiful,  rich,  and 
honored.  Yes,  strange  as  it  may  seem 
to  them,  what  they  want,  is,  to  com- 
mune deeply,  in  prayer  and  meditation, 
with  the  spirit  of  Jesus,  to  be  clothed, 
not  with  outward  adorning,  but  with 
the  simple  self- forgetting,  single-hearted 
truth  and  beauty  of  his  spirit.  This  is 
the  change,  this  is  the  conversion  that 
they  want,  to  make  them  lovely  and 
happy  beyond  all  the  aspirations  of  their 
ambition,  and  all  their  dreams  of  happi- 
ness. 

Have  you  never  observed  how  happy 
is  the  mere  visionary  schemer,  quite 
absorbed  in  his  plans,  quite  thoughtless 
of  everything  else  ?  Have  you  never 
remarked  how  easy  and  felicitous  is  the 
manner  in  society,  the  eloquence  in  the 
public  assembi}'.  the  whole  life's  action, 
of  one  who  has  forgotten  himself  ?  For 
this  reason  in  part  it  is  that  the  eager 
pursuit  of  fortune  is  often  happier  than 
the  after  enjoyment  of  it:  for  now  the 
man  begins  to  look  about  for  happiness, 
and  to  ask  for  a  respect  and  attention 
which  he  seldom  satisfactorily  receives  ; 
and  many  such  are  found,  to  the  wonder 
and  mortification  of  their  families,  look- 
ing back  from  their  splendid  dwellings, 
and  often  referring  to  the  humble  shop 
in  which  they  worked,  and  wishing  in 
their  hearts  that  they  were  there  again. 

It  is  our  inordinate  self-seeking,  self- 


114 


ON   HUMAN    LIFE. 


considering,  that  is  ever  a  stumbling- 
block  in  our  way.  It  is  this  which  spreads 
questions,  snares,  difficulties,  around  us. 
It  is  this  that  darkens  the  very  ways  of 
Providence  to  us,  and  makes  the  world  a 
less  happy  world  to  us  than  it  might  be. 
There  is  one  thought  that  could  take  us 
out  from  all  these  difficulties  ;  but  we 
cannot  think  it.  There  is  one  clew  from 
the  labyrinth ;  there  is  one  solution  of 
this  struggling  philosophy  of  life  within 
us  ;  it  is  found  in  that  Gospel,  that  life  of 
Jesus, with  which  we  have,  alas  !  but  little 
deep  heart-acquaintance.  Every  one 
must  know  that,  if  he  could  be  elevated 
to  that  self-forgetting  simplicity  and 
disinterestedness,  he  would  be  relieved 
from  more  than  half  of  the  inmost  trials 
of  his  bosom.  What  then  can  be  done 
for  us  but  that  we  be  directed,  and  that 
too  with  a  concern  as  solemn  as  our 
deepest  wisdom  and  welfare,  to  the  Gos- 
pel of  Christ.''  "  In  him  was  life  ;  and 
the  life  was  the  light  of  men." 

In  him  was  the  life  of  perfect  love. 
This  is  the  second  all-enlightening, 
all-healing  principle  that  the  Gospel  of 
Christ  commends  to  us.  It  is  indeed 
the  main  and  positive  virtue,  of  which 
self-renunciation  is  but  the  negative 
side. 

Again,  I  need  not  insist  upon  the  pre- 
eminence of  this  principle  in  the  life  of 
our  Saviour.  But  I  must  again  remind 
you  that  this  principle  is  not  to  be  looked 
upon  as  some  sublime  abstraction,  as 
merely  a  love  that  drew  him  from  the 
bliss  of  heaven,  to  achieve  some  stu- 
pendous and  solitary  work  on  earth.  It 
was  a  vital  and  heartfelt  love  to  all 
around  him  ;  it  was  affection  to  his 
kindred,  tenderness  to  his  friends,  gen- 
tleness and  forbearance  towards  his  dis- 
ciples, pity  to  the  suffering,  forgiveness 
to  his  enemies,  prayer  for  his  murderers  ; 
love  flowing  all  round  him  as  the  gar- 
ment of  life,  and  investing  pain  and  toil 
and  torture  and  death  with  a  serene  and 
holy  beauty. 

It  is  not  enough  to  renounce  ourselves, 
and  there  to  stop.  It  is  not  enough  to 
wrap  ourselves  in  our  close  garment  of 


reserve  and  pride,  and  to  say,  "  The  world 
cares  nothing  for  us,  and  we  will  care 
nothing  for  the  world  :  society  does  us  no 
justice,  and  we  will  withdraw  from  it  our 
thoughts,  and  see  how  patiently  we  can 
live  within  the  confines  of  ourown  bosom, 
or  in  quiet  communion,  through  books, 
with  the  mighty  dead."  No  man  ever 
found  peace  or  light  in  this  way.  The 
misanthropic  recluse  is  ever  the  most 
miserable  of  men,  whether  he  lives  in 
cave  or  castle.  Every  relation  to  man- 
kind, of  hate  or  scorn  or  neglect,  is  full 
of  vexation  and  torment.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  do  with  men  but  to  love  them  ; 
to  contemplate  their  virtues  with  ad- 
miration, their  faults  with  pity  and 
forbearance,  and  their  injuries  with  for- 
giveness. Task  all  the  ingenuity  of  your 
mind  to  devise  some  other  thing,  but  you 
never  can  find  it.  To  all  the  haughti- 
ness and  wrath  of  men  I  say,  —  however 
they  may  disdain  the  suggestion,  — the 
spirit  of  Jesus  is  the  only  help  for  you. 
To  hate  your  adversary  will  not  help 
you  ;  to  kill  him  will  not  help  you  ;  noth- 
ing within  the  compass  of  the  universe 
can  help  you,  but  to  love  him.  Oh,  how 
wonderfully  is  man  shut  up  to  wisdom  — 
barred,  as  I  may  say,  and  imprisoned 
and  shut  up  to  wisdom  ;  and  yet  he  will 
not  learn  it  ! 

But  let  that  love  flow  out  upon  all 
around  you,  and  what  could  harm  you  } 
It  would  clothe  you  with  an  impenetrable, 
heaven-tempered  armor.  Or  suppose, 
to  do  it  justice,  that  it  leaves  you,  all  de- 
fencelessness,  as  it  did  Jesus  ;  all  vul- 
nerableness,  through  delicacy,  through 
tenderness,  through  sympathy,  through 
pity  ;  suppose  that  you  suffer,  as  all  must 
suffer  ;  suppose  that  you  be  wounded,  as 
gentleness  only  can  be  wounded  ;  yet 
how  would  that  love  flow,  with  precious 
healing,  through  every  wound  !  How 
many  difficulties,  too,  both  within  and 
without  a  man,  would  it  relieve  !  How 
many  dull  mitids  would  it  rouse  ;  how 
many  depressed  minds  would  it  lift  up  ! 
How  many  troubles,  in  society,  would  it 
compose  ;  how  many  enmities  would  it 
soften ;   how  many  questions,  answer ! 


RELIGION   THE   GREAT   SENTIMENT   OF   LIFE. 


US 


How  many  a  knot  of  mystery  and  mis- 
understanding would  be  untied  by  ons 
word  spoken  in  simple  and  confiding 
truth  of  heart  !  How  many  a  rough  path 
would  be  made  smooth,  and  crooked 
way  be  made  straight!  How  manya  soli- 
tary place  would  be  made  glad,  if  love 
were  there  ;  and  how  many  a  dark  dwell- 
ing would  be  filled  with  light  !  "  In  him 
was  life,  and  the  life  was  the  light  of 
men.'' 

Once  more  :  there  was  a  sublime 
spirituality  in  the  mind  of  Jesus,  wliich 
must  come  into  our  life,  to  fill  up  the 
measure  of  its  light.  It  is  not  enough, 
in  my  view,  to  yield  ourselves  to  the 
blessed  bonds  of  love  and  self-renuncia- 
tion in  the  immediate  circles  of  our  lives. 
Our  minds  must  go  into  the  infinite  and 
immortal  regions,  to  find  sufficiency  and 
satisfaction  for  the  present  hour.  There 
must  be  a  breadth  of  contemplation  in 
which  tiiis  world  shrinks,  I  will  not  say  to 
a  point,  but  to  the  narrow  span  that  it  is. 
There  must  be  aims,  which  reign  over 
the  events  of  life,  and  make  us  feel  that 
we  can  resign  all  the  advantages  of  life, 
yea,  and  life  itself;  and  yet  be  "con- 
querors and  more  than  conquerors 
through  him  who  has  loved  us." 

There  is  many  a  crisis  in  life  when  we 
need  a  faith  like  the  martyr's  to  support 
us.  There  are  hours  in  life  like  martyr- 
dom —  as  full  of  bitter  anguish,  as  full  of 
utter  earthly  desolation ;  in  which  more 
than  our  sinews,  in  which  we  feel  as  if 
our  very  heart-strings,  were  stretched 
and  lacerated  on  the  rack  of  affliction  ; 
in  which  life  itself  loses  its  value,  and  we 
ask  to  die ;  in  whose  dread  struggle  and 
agony  life  might  drop  from  us,  and  not 
be  minded.  Oh  !  then  must  our  cry, 
like  that  of  Jesus,  go  up  to  the  pitving 
heavens  for  help,  and  nothing  but  the 
infinite  and  the  immortal  can  help  us. 
Calculate,  then,  all  the  gains  of  earth, 
and  they  are  trash  ;  all  its  pleasures,  and 
they  are  vanity  ;  all  its  hopes,  and  they 
are  illusions  ;  and  then,  when  the  world 
is  sinking  beneath  us,  must  we  seek  the 
everlasting  arms  to  bear  us  up,  to  bear 
us  up  to  heaven.     Thus  was  it  with  our 


great  Example,  and  so  must  it  be  with  us. 
"In  him  was  life;"  the  life  of  self-re- 
nunciation, the  life  of  love,  the  life  of 
spiritual  and  all-conquering  faith  ;  and 
tiiat  life  is  the  light  of  men.  Oh 
blessed  light  !  come  to  our  darkness ; 
for  our  soul  is  dark,  our  way  is  dark, 
for  want  of  thee  ;  come  to  our  darkness, 
and  turn  it  into  day  ;  and  let  it  shine 
brighter  and  brighter,  till  it  mingles 
with  the  light  of  the  all-perfect  and 
everlasting  day  ! 


XVIII. 


ON  RELIGION  AS  THE  GREAT  SEN- 
TIMENT OF  LIFE. 

I  Cor.  XV.  ig  :  "  If  in  this  life  only  we  have  hope, 
we  are  of  all  men  most  miserable." 

There  is  a  nation  in  modern  times, 
of  which  it  is  constantly  said  that  it  has 
no  religion  ;  that  in  this  life  only  has  it 
hope.  One  is  continually  assured,  not 
by  foreigners  alone,  but  in  that  very 
country,  —  I  need  not  say  that  I  speak 
of  France,  —  that  the  people  there  have 
no  religion,  that  the  religious  sentiment 
has  become  nearly  extinct  among  them.* 

Although  there  is,  doubtless,  some 
exaggeration  in  the  statement,  as  would 
be  very-  natural  in  a  case  so  very  ex- 
traordinary, and  the  rather  as  the  repre- 
sentation of  it  comes  from  a  people  who 
are  fond  of  appearing  an  extraordinary 
and  wonderful  people,  and  of  striking 
the  world  with  astonishment  ;  yet  there 
is  still  so  much  truth  in  tiie  representa- 
tion, and  it  is. a  thing  so  unheard  of 
in  the  history  of  all  nations,  whether 
Heathen,  IMahometan,  or  Christian,  that 
one  is  naturally  led  to  reflect  upon  the 
problem  whicli  the  case  presents  for  our 
consideration.  Can  a  nation  go  on 
without  religion  ?  Can  a  people  live 
devoid  of  every  religious  hope,  without 
being  of  all  people  the  most  miserable  ? 

*  Such  is  the  language  which  I  heard  fourteen 
years  ago  in  France ;  but  I  trust  it  is  becoming  every 
day  less  applicable. 


ii6 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


Can  human  nature  bear  such  a  state  ? 
This  is  the  problem. 

It  is  the  more  important  to  discuss 
this  problem,  because  the  very  spectacle 
of  such  a  nation  has  some  tendency  to 
unhinge  the  faith  of  the  world.  The 
thoughtless  at  least,  the  young  perhaps, 
who  are  generally  supposed  to  feel  less 
than  otliers  the  necessity  of  this  great 
principle,  may  be  led  to  say  with  them- 
selves, "  Is  not  religion,  after  all,  an 
error,  a  delusion,  a  superstition,  with 
which  mankind  will  yet  be  able  to  dis- 
pense .'"'  *  A  part  of  my  reply  to  this 
question  I  propose  to  draw  especially 
from  the  experience  of  the  young.  For 
I  think,  indeed,  that  instead  of  this  be- 
ing an  age  when  men,  and  the  young  es- 
pecially, can  afford  to  dispense  with  the 
aid  and  guidance  of  religion,  it  is  an  age 
which  is  witnessing  an  extraordinary  de- 
velopment of  sensibility,  and  is  urging 
the  need  of  piety  beyond,  perhaps  be- 
yond all  former  ages.  The  circumstan- 
ces, as  I  conceive,  which  have  led  to 
this  development  are  the  diffusion  of 
knowledge,  and  the  new  social  relation- 
ships introduced  by  free  principles.  But 
my  subject,  at  present,  does  not  permit 
me  to  enlarge  upon  these  points. 

Can  the  world,  then,  go  on  without 
religion  ?  I  will  not  inquire  now  wheth- 
er human  governments  can  go  on.  But 
can  the  human  heart  go  on  without  re- 
ligion ?  Can  all  its  resistless  energies, 
its  swelling  passions,  its  overburdening 
affections,  be  borne  without  piety  .''  Can 
it  suffer  changes,  disappointments,  be- 
reavements, desolations  ;  ay,  or  can  it 
satisfactorily  bear  overwhelming  joy, 
without  religion  ?  Can  youth  and  man- 
hood and  age,  can  life  and  death,  be 
passed  through,  without  the  great  prin- 
ciple which  reigns  over  all  the  periods 
of  life,  which  triumphs  over  death,  and 
is  enthroned  in  the  immortality  of  faith, 
of  virtue,  of  truth,  and  of  God  ? 

I  answer,  with  a  confidence  that  the 
lapse  of  a  hundred  nations  into  Atheism 
could  not  shake,  that  it  is  not  possible  : 
in  the  eye  of  reason  and  truth,  that  is  to 

*  The  very  opinion  of  the  French  Auguste  Comte. 


say,  it  is  not  possible  for  the  world,  for 
the  human  heart,  for  life,  to  go  on  with- 
out religion.  Religion,  naturally,  fairly, 
rightly  regarded,  is  the  great  sentiment 
of  life  :  and  this  is  the  point  which  I 
shall  now  endeavor  to  illustrate. 

What  I  mean  by  saying  that  religion 
is  the  great  sentiment  of  life,  is  this  : 
that  all  the  great  and  leading  states  of 
mind  which  this  life  originates  or  occa- 
sions in  every  reflecting  person  demand 
the  sentiment  of  religion  for  their  sup- 
port and  safety.  Religion,  I  am  aware, 
is  considered  by  many  as  soinething 
standing  by  itself,  and  which  a  man  may 
take  as  the  companion  of  his  journey, 
or  not  take,  as  he  pleases  ;  and  many 
persons,  I  know,  calmly,  some,  it  is  pos- 
sible, contemptuously,  leave  it  to  stand 
aside  and  by  itself,  as  not  worthy  of 
their  invitation,  or  not  worthy,  at  any 
rate,  of  being  earnestly  sought  by  them. 
But  when  they  thus  leave  it,  I  undertake 
to  say  that  they  do  not  understand  the 
great  mental  pilgrimage  on  which  they 
are  going.  If  all  the  teachings  of  nature 
were  withdrawn,  if  Revelation  were  blot- 
ted out,  if  events  did  not  teach  ;  yet  the 
very  experience  of  life,  the  natural  de- 
velopment of  human  feeling,  the  history 
of  every  mind  which,  as  a  mind,  has  an}' 
history,  would  urge  it  to  embrace  relig- 
ion as  an  indispensable  resort.  There 
is  thus,  therefore,  not  only  a  kind  of 
metaphysical  necessity  in  the  very  na- 
ture of  the  mind,  and  a  moral  call,  in  all 
its  situations,  for  religion  ;  but  there  is 
wrapped  up  within  the  very  germs  of  all 
human  experience,  of  all  human  feeling, 
joyous  or  sorrowful  ;  there  is,  attending 
the  very  development  of  all  the  natural 
affections,  a  want,  a  need  inexpressible, 
bf  the  power  of  that  divine  principle. 

Let  us  trace  this  want,  this  need,  in 
some  of  the  different  stages  through 
which  the  character  usually  passes.  Let 
us  see  whether  this  great  necessity  does 
not  press  down  upon  every  period  of 
life,  and  even  upon  its  commencement ; 
yes,  whether  upon  the  very  heart  of 
youth  there  are  not  already  deep  records 
of  experience,  that  point  it  to  this  great 


RELIGION   THE   GREAT   SENTIMENT   OF   LIFE. 


117 


reliance.  I  have  in  a  former  discourse 
spoken  of  the  disappointments  of  youth  ; 
I  now  speak  of  its  wants  and  dangers. 

In  youth,  then,  —  that  is  to  say,  some- 
where between  the  period  of  childhood 
and  manhood, — there  is  commonly  a 
striking  development  of  sensibility  and 
imagination.  The  passions  then,  if  not 
more  powerful  than  at  any  other  period, 
are  at  any  rate  more  vivid,  because  their 
objects  are  new  :  and  they  are  then  most 
uncontrollable,  because  neither  reason 
nor  experience  has  attained  to  the  ma- 
turity necessary  to  moderate  and  restrain 
them.  The  young  have  not  lived  long 
enough  to  see  how  direful  are  the  effects 
of  unbridled  inclination,  how  baseless 
are  the  fabrics  of  ambition,  how  liable 
to  disappointment  are  all  the  hopes  of 
this  world.  And  therefore  the  sensi- 
bility of  youth  is  apt  to  possess  a  char- 
acter of  strong  excitement  and  almost 
of  intoxication.  I  never  look  upon  one 
at  such  a  period,  whose  quick  and  ardent 
feelings  mantle  in  the  cheek  at  every 
turn,  and  flash  in  the  eye  and  thrill 
through  the  veins,  and  falter  in  the 
hurried  speech  in  every  conversation  ; 
yes,  and  have  deeper  tokens,  in  the 
gathering  paleness  of  the  countenance, 
in  speechless  silence,  and  the  tightening 
cords  of  almost  suffocating  emotion  ; 
I  never  look  upon  such  an  one,  all  fresh 
and  alive,  and  yet  unused,  to  the  might 
and  mystery  of  the  power  that  is  work- 
ing within  ;  a  being  full  of  imagination, 
too,  living  a  life  but  half  of  realities, 
and  full  half  of  airy  dreams  ;  a  being, 
whom  a  thousand  things,  afterwards  to 
be  regarded  with  a  graver  eye,  now  move 
to  laughter  or  to  tears  ;  I  never  look 
upon  such  an  one  —  how  is  it  possible 
to  do  so?  —  without  feeling  that  one 
tiling  is  needful ;  and  that  is,  the  serenity 
of  religion,  the  sobriety  and  steadiness 
of  deep-founded  principle,  the  strong 
and  lofty  aim  of  sacred  virtue. 

But  the  sensibility  of  youth  is  not 
always  joyous  nor  enthusiastic.  Long 
ere  it  loses  its  freshness  or  its  fascina- 
tion, it  oftentimes  meets  with  checks 
and  difficulties  ;  it  has  its  early  troubles 


and  sorrows.  Some  disappointment 
in  its  unsuspecting  friendsliips,  some 
school-day  jealousy  or  affliction,  some 
jar  upon  the  susceptible  nerves  or  the 
unruly  passions,  from  the  treatment  of 
kindred  or  friends  or  associates  ;  or,  at 
a  later  period,  some  galling  chain  of  de- 
pendence or  poverty  or  painful  restraint ; 
or  else,  the  no  less  painful  sense  of  me- 
diocrity, the  feeling  in  the  young  heart 
that  the  prizes  of  ambition  are  all  out 
of  its  reach,  that  praise  and  admiration 
and  love  all  fall  to  the  lot  of  others; 
some  or  other  of  these  causes,  I  say, 
brings  a  cold  blight  over  the  warm  and 
expanding  affections  of  youth,  and  turns 
the  bright  elysium  of  life,  for  a  season, 
into  darkness  and  desolation.  All  this 
is  not  to  be  described  as  if  it  were  a 
mere  picture ;  just  enough,  perhaps,  but 
to  be  considered  no  otherwise  than  as  a 
matter  of  youthful  feeling,  soon  to  pass 
away  and  to  leave  no  results.  This  state 
of  mind  has  results.  And  the  most 
common  and  dangerous  is  a  fatal  reck- 
lessness. The  undisciplined  and  too 
often  selfish  heart  says,  "  I  do  not  care  ; 
I  do  not  care  what  others  say  or  think 
of  me  ;  I  do  not  care  how  they  treat  me. 
Those  who  are  loved  and  praised  and 
fortunate  are  no  better  than  I  am  ;  the 
world  is  unjust  ;  the  world  knows  me 
not  ;  and  I  care  not  if  it  never  knows 
me.  I  will  wrap  myself  in  my  own  gar- 
ment ;  let  them  call  it  the  garment  of 
pride  or  reserve,  it  matters  not ;  I  have 
feelings,  and  my  own  breast  shall  be 
their  depository."  Perhaps  this  reck- 
lessness goes  farther,  and  the  misguided 
youth  says,  "  I  will  plunge  into  pleasure  ; 
I  will  find  me  companions,  though  they 
be  bad  ones  ;  I  will  make  my  friends 
care  for  me  in  one  way,  if  they  will  not 
in  another  ;"  or  he  says,  perhaps,  "  No- 
body cares  for  me,  and  therefore  it  is 
no  matter  what  I  do." 

My  young  friends,  have  you  ever 
known  any  of  these  various  trials  of 
youth  ?  And,  if  you  have,  do  you  think 
that  you  can  safely  pass  tiirough  them 
with  no  better  guidance  than  your  own 
hasty  and   headstrong  passions  ?     Oh  ! 


ii8 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


believe  it  not.  Passion  is  never  a  safe 
impulse ;  but  passion  soured,  irritated, 
and  undisciplined,  is  least  of  all  to  be 
trusted.  If  in  this  life  only  you  have 
hope,  if  no  influence  from  afar  take  hold 
of  your  minds,  if  no  aims  stretching  out 
to  boundless  and  everlasting  improve- 
ment strengthen  and  sustain  you,  if  no 
holy  conscience,  no  heavenly  principle, 
sets  up  its  authority  among  your  way- 
ward impulses,  you  are,  indeed,  of  all 
beings  most  to  be  pitied.  Unhappy  for 
you  is  all  this  ardor,  this  kindling  fervor 
of  emotion,  this  throng  of  conflicting 
passions,  this  bright  or  brooding  imagi- 
nation, giving  a  false  coloring  and  magni- 
tude to  every  object  ;  unhappy  for  you, 
and  all  the  more  unhappy,  if  you  do  not 
welcome  the  sure  guidance,  the  strong 
control  of  principle,  of  piety,  of  prayer. 

But  let  us  advance  to  another  stage 
of  life  and  of  feeling;  to  the  maturity 
of  life.  And  I  shall  venture  to  say  that 
where  the  mind  really  unfolds  with 
growing  years ;  where  it  is  not  absorbed 
in  worldly  gains  or  pleasures,  so  as  to 
be  kept  in  a  sort  of  perpetual  child- 
hood ;  where  there  is  real  susceptibihty 
and  reflection,  there  is  apt  to  steal  over 
us,  without  religion,  a  spirit  of  misan- 
thropy and  melancholy.  I  have  often 
observed  it,  and  without  any  wonder  ; 
for  it  seems  to  me  as  if  a  thoughtful 
and  feehng  mind,  without  any  trust  in 
the  great  providence  of  God,  without 
any  communion  of  prayer  with  a  Father 
in  heaven,  or  any  religious,  any  holy 
sympathy  with  its  earthly  brethren,  or 
any  cheering  hope  of  their  progress, 
must  become  reserved,  distrustful,  mis- 
anthropic, and  often  melancholy. 

Youth,  though  often  disappointed,  is 
yet  always  looking  forward  ;  and  it  is 
looking  forward  with  indefinite  and  un- 
checked anticipation.  But  in  the  pro- 
gress of  life  there  comes  a  time  when 
the  mind  looks  backward  as  well  as 
forward  ;  when  it  learns  to  correct 
the  anticipations  of  the  future  by  the 
experience  of  the  past.  It  has  run 
through  the  courses  of  acquisition, 
pleasure,  or  ambition,  and  it  knows  what 


I 


they   are,    and    what    they   are    wo; 
The  attractions    of   hope  have  not, 
deed,  lost  all  their  power,  but  they  have 
lost  a  part  of  their  charm. 

Perhaps  even  the  disappointment  of 
youth,  though  it  has  more  of  passion 
and  grief  in  it,  is  not  so  bitter  and  sad 
as  that  of  maturer  life,  when  it  says, 
"  Well,  and  this  is  all.  If  I  should  add 
millions  to  my  store  ;  if  I  should  reap 
new  honors,  or  gain  new  pleasures,  it 
will  only  be  what  I  have  experienced 
before  ;  I  know  what  it  is  ;  I  know  it 
all.  There  is  no  more  in  this  life  ;  I 
know  it  all."  Ah  !  how  cold  and  cheer- 
less is  that  period  of  human  experience  ; 
how  does  the  heart  of  a  man  die  within 
him,  as  he  stands  thus  in  the  very  midst 
of  his  acquisitions  ;  how  do  his  very 
honors  and  attainments  teach  him  to 
mourn  ;  and  to  mourn  without  hope,  if 
there  is  no  spiritual  hope  !  If  the  great 
moral  objects  of  this  life,  and  the  im- 
mortal regions  of  another  life,  are  not 
spread  before  him,  then  is  he  most  mis- 
erable. Yes,  I  repeat,  his  very  success, 
his  good  fortune,  brings  him  to  this. 
There  are  untoward  circumstances,  I 
know ;  there  are  afflictions  that  may 
lead  a  man  to  religion  ;  but  what  I  now 
say  is,  that  the  natural  progress  of  every 
reflecting  mind,  however  prosperous  its 
fortunes,  that  the  inevitable  develop- 
ment of  the  growing  experience  of  life, 
unfolds,  in  the  very  structure  of  every 
human  soul,  that  great  necessity,  the 
necessity  of  religion. 

This  world  is  dark,  and  must  be  dark, 
without  the  light  of  religion  ;  even  as 
the  material  orb  would  be  dark  without 
the  light  of  Heaven  to  shine  upon  it. 
As  if 

"  The   bright  Sun  were  extinguished,  and   the 

stars 
Did  wander  darliling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless  and  pathless ;   and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless 

air ; " 

SO  would  the  soul,  conscious  of  its  own 
nature,  be,  without  the  light  of  God's 
presence  shining  around  it,  without 
those  truths  that  beam  like  the  eternal 


i 


RELIGION   THE   GREAT   SENTIMENT   OF   LIFE. 


119 


stars  from  the  depths  of  heaven  ;  with- 
out those  inrtuences,  invisible  and  far 
off.  like  the  powers  of  gravitation,  to 
hold  it  steadily  in  its  orbit,  and  to  carry 
it  onward  with  unerring  guidance  in  its 
bright  career.  And  no  philosopher,  no 
really  intellectual  being,  ever  broke  from 
the  bonds  of  all  religious  faith,  without 
finding  his  course  dreary,  "blind  and 
blackening"  in  the  spiritual  firmament. 
His  soul  becomes,  in  the  expressive 
language  of  Scripture,  "  like  a  wander- 
ing star,  or  a  cloud  without  water."  No 
mean  argument  is  this,  indeed,  for  the 
great  truths  of  religion.  But  whether 
it  is  so  or  not,  it  is  a  fact.  I  know,  in- 
deed, that  many  persons  possessed  of 
sense  and  talent  in  this  world's  affairs 
do  live  without  religion,  and  ordinarily 
without  any  painful  consciousness  of 
wanting  it.  But  what  do  men  of  mere 
sense  and  talent  in  this  world's  affairs 
know  of  the  insatiable  and  illimitable 
desires  of  the  mind  ?  What —  what  by 
very  definition,  as  the  votaries  of  worldly 
good,  are  they  pursuing.-'  Why,  it  is 
some  object  about  as  far  distant,  in  the 
bounded  horizon  of  their  vision,  as  that 
which  the  painted  butterfly  is  pursuing: 
some  flower,  some  bright  thing  a  little 
before  them  ;  bright  honor,  or  dazzling 
gold,  or  gilded  pleasure.  But  let  any 
mind  awake  to  its  real  and  sublime 
nature  ;  let  it  feel  the  expanding,  the 
indefinite  reaching  forth  of  those  origi- 
nal and  boundless  thoughts  which  God 
has  made  it  to  feel  ;  let  it  sound  those 
depths,  soar  to  those  heights,  compass 
those  illimitable  heavens  of  thought, 
through  which  it  was  made  to  range ; 
and  then  let  that  mind  tell  me,  if  it  can, 
that  it  wants  no  religion;  that  it  wants 
no  central  principle  of  attraction,  no 
infinite  object  of  adoration,  and  love, 
and  trust.  Nay,  if  any  mind,  whatever 
its  pretensions,  should  tell  me  this,  I 
should  not  hesitate,  in  my  own  judg- 
ment, to  pronounce  its  acquisitions 
shallow,  or,  at  any  rate,  partial,  or,  at 
the  best,  technical  and  scholastic.  For 
it  is  not  true,  my  brethren,  that  intellec- 
tual weakness  most  stands  in  need  of 


religion,  or  is  most  fitted  to  feel  the 
need  of  it  ;  but  it  is  intellectual 
strength.  I  hold  no  truth  to  be  more 
certain  than  this:  that  every  mind,  in 
proportion  to  its  real  development  and 
expansion,  is  dark,  is  disproportioned 
and  unhappy,  without  religion.  If  in 
this  life  alone  it  has  hope,  it  is  of  all 
minds,  most  miserable. 

I  have  spoken  of  youth  and  manhood 
as  developing  the  need  of  religion. 
Does  age  any  less  need  it  ?  Wiiere 
can  that  want  exist  if  not  in  the  aged 
heart  ?  It  is  not  alone  that  its  pulses 
are  faint  and  low  ;  it  is  notalone  that 
so  many  of  its  once  cherished  objects 
have  departed  from  it ;  it  is  not  that 
the  limbs  are  feeble,  the  eye  dim,  and 
the  ear  dull  of  hearing  ;  it  is  not  that  the 
aged  frame  is  bent  towards  that  earth 
into  which  it  is  soon  to  sink  and  find  its 
last  rest ;  but  what  is  the  position  of  an 
old  man  ?  Where  does  he  stand  ?  One 
life  is  passed  through  ;  one  season  of 
being  is  almost  spent;  youth  has  found, 
long  since,  the  goal  of  its  career  ;  man- 
hood, at  length,  is  gone  ;  and  he  stands 
—  where,  and  upon  what  ?  What  is  it 
that  spreads  before  him  ?  Is  it  a  re- 
gion of  clouds  and  shadows  ?  Is  all  be- 
fore him  dread  darkness  and  vacuity, 
an  eternal  sleep,  a  boundless  void  ? 
Thus  would  it  be  without  religion,  with- 
out fajth.  But  how  must  he,  who  stands 
upon  that  shore  of  all  visible  being,  from 
whence  he  can  never  turn  back, — how 
must  he  long  for  some  sure  word  of 
promise,  for  some  voice  that  can  tell 
him  of  eternal  life,  of  eternal  youth  :  of 
regions  far  away  in  the  boundless  uni- 
verse of  God,  where  he  may  wander  on 
and  onward  forever!  Age,  with  faith. 
is  but  the  beginning  of  life,  the  _vouth  of 
immortality  ;  the  times  and  seasons  of 
its  being  are  yet  before  it  ;  its  gathered 
experience  is  !)ut  an  education  to  pre- 
pare it  for  higher  scenes  and  services  ; 
but  age  without  faith  is  a  wreck  upon 
the  shore  of  life,  a  ruin  upon  the  beet- 
ling cliffs  of  time;  tottering  to  its  fall, 
and  about  to  be  engulfed,  and  lost  for- 
ever ! 


120 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


1  have  thus  attempted  to  show  that 
religion  is  the  great  sentiment  of  each 
period  of  life.  Let  me  now  extend  the 
same  observation  to  those  epochs  in  life 
which  are  occasioned  by  changes  in  that 
material  creation  which  surrounds  us. 

There  are  sentiments  appropriate  to 
the  dying  and  to  the  reviving  year. 
What  are  they }  How  striking  is  the 
answer  which  is  given  in  ail  literature 
and  poetry  !  Men  are  able,  no  doubt,  to 
walk  through  the  round  of  the  seasons 
without  much  reflection  ;  but  the  mo- 
ment any  sentiment  is  awakened,  it  is 
the  sentiment  of  religion  ;  it  is  a  thought- 
fulness  about  God's  wisdom  and  benefi- 
cence, about  life  and  death  and  eternity. 
Thus  it  is  that  every  poet  of  the  seasons, 
every  poet  of  nature,  is  devout  ;  devout 
in  his  meditations  when  he  writes,  if  not 
devout  in  his  habits  always. 

And  what  man,  in  thoughtful  mood, 
can  walk  forth  in  the  still  and  quiet  sea- 
son of  autumn,  and  tread  upon  the 
seared  grass  that  is  almost  painfully  au- 
dible to  the  serious  emotions  of  his  heart, 
and  listen  to  the  fall  of  the  leaf  that 
seems,  idle  as  it  is,  as  if  it  were  the  foot- 
step of  some  predestined  event,  and  hear 
the  far  echo  of  the  hills  and  the  solemn 
wind  dirge  of  the  dyingyear,  and  not  med- 
itate in  that  hour ;  and  not  meditate  u|)on 
things  above  the  world  and  above  all 
its  grosser  cares  and  interests  ?  "  The 
dead,  the  loved,  the  lost,"  will  come  to 
him  then;  the  world  will  sink  like  a 
phantom-shadow  ;  and  eternity  will  be  a 
presence ;  and  heaven,  through  the  se- 
rene depths  of  those  opening  skies,  will 
be  to  him  a  vision. 

But  again,  a  change  cometh  !  The 
seals  of  winter  are  broken  ;  and  lo  !  the 
green  herb  and  the  tender  grass,  and 
bird  and  blossom  come  forth  ;  the  clouds 
dissolve  into  softness,  and  open  the  azure 
depths  beyond  ;  and  man  goeth  forth 
from  imprisoning  walls,  and  opens  his 
bosom  to  the  warmth  and  the  breeze, 
and  feels  his  frame  expand  with  gladness 
and  exultation.  Then  what  is  he,  if 
from  the  kindling  joy  of  his  heart  arises 
no  incense  of  gratitude  .''     It  is  the  hour 


of  nature's,  and  ought  to  be  of  man's, 
thanksgiving.  The  very  stones  would 
cry  out ;  the  green  fields  and  the  re- 
joicing hills  would  cry  out  against  him, 
if  he  were  not  grateful.  The  sentiment 
of  the  spring-time  is  the  sentiment  of 
religious  gratitude  ! 

Let  us  look  at  other  changes.  There 
is  a  sentiment  of  the  morning.  The 
darkness  is  rolled  away  from  the  earth  ; 
the  iron  slumber  of  the  world  is  broken  ; 
it  is  the  daily  resurrection-hour  of  re- 
joicing millions.  God  hath  said  again, 
"  Let  there  be  light  ; "  and  over  the 
mountain-tops  and  over  the  waves  of 
ocean  it  comes,  and  streams  in  upon  the 
waking  creation.  Each  morning  that 
signal-light,  calling  to  action,  is  at  thy 
window  ;  duly  it  cometh,  as  with  a  mes- 
sage, saying,  "Awake,  arise!"  Thou 
wakest ;  from  dreamy  slumbers,  from 
helpless  inactivity  ;  and  what  dost  thou 
find  .''  Hast  thou  lost  anything  of  thy- 
self in  that  slumber  of  forgetfulness  '? 
Hath  not  all  been  kept  for  thee  ?  Hath 
there  not  been  a  watch  over  thy  sleep  ? 
Thou  wakest;  and  each  limb  is  filled 
with  life  ;  each  sense  holds  its  station  in 
thy  wonderful  frame  ;  each  faculty,  each 
thought,  is  in  its  place;  no  dark  insanity, 
no  dreary  eclipse,  hath  spread  itself  over 
thy  soul.  What  shall  the  thoughts  of 
that  hour  be,  but  wondering  and  adoring 
thoughts  ?  Well  are  a  portion  of  our 
prayers  called  matins.  Morning  pray- 
ers—  morning  prayers;  orisons  in  the 
first  light  of  day,  from  the  bended  soul, 
if  not  from  the  bended  knee  ;  were  not 
the  morning  desecrated  and  denied,  if  a 
part  and  portion  of  it  were  not  prayer  ? 

And  there  is  a  sentiment  of  the  even- 
tide ;  when  the  sun  slowly  sinks  from 
our  sight ;  when  the  shadows  steal  over 
the  earth  ;  when  the  shining  hosts  of  the 
stars  come  forth  ;  when  other  worlds 
and  other  regions  of  the  universe  are  un- 
veiled in  the  infinitude  of  heaven.  Then 
to  meditate,  how  reasonable,  I  had  al- 
most said  how  inevitable,  is  it!  How 
meet  were  it  then,  that  in  every  house 
there  should  be  a  vesper  hymn  !  I  have 
read  of  such  a  scene  in  a  village,  in  some 


I 


RELIGION    THE   GREAT   SENTIMENT   OF   LIFE. 


121 


country,  —  I  think  it  was  in  Italy, — 
where  the  traveller  heard,  as  the  day 
went  down,  and  amidst  the  gathering 
shadows  of  the  still  evening,  first  from 
one  dwelling  and  then  from  another,  the 
voices  of  song  —  accompanied  with  sim- 
ple instruments,  flute  and  flageolet;  it 
was  the  vesper  hymn.  How  beautiful 
were  it,  in  village  or  city,  for  dwelling 
thus  to  call  to  dwelling,  saying,  "  Great 
and  marvellous  are  thy  works.  Lord  God 
Almighty  ;  just  and  true  are  thy  ways  ! 
God  of  the  morning  !  God  of  the  even- 
ing !  we  praise  thee  :  goodness  and 
mercy  hast  thou  caused  to  follow  us  all 
our  days." 

Thus  have  I  attempted  to  show  that 
religion  is  the  great  sentiment  of  life. 
It  is  our  life.  Our  life  is  bound  up  with 
it,  and  in  it ;  and  without  it,  life  would 
be  both  miserable  and  ignoble. 

I  will  only  add,  in  fine,  that  religion 
alone  affords  to  us  the  hope  of  a  future 
life,  and  that  without  this  our  present 
being  is  shorn  of  all  its  grandeur  and 
hope. 

Whether  we  look  at  our  own  death  or 
at  the  death  of  others,  this  consideration, 
this  necessity  of  a  faith  that  takes  hold 
of  eternity,  presses  upon  us.  I  know 
very  well  what  the  common  and  worldly 
consolation  is.  I  know  very  well  the 
hackneved  proverb,  that  "time  is  the 
curer  of  grief ;  "  but  I  know  very  well, 
too,  that  no  time  can  suppress  the  sigh 
that  is  given  to  the  loved  and  lost. 
Time,  indeed,  lightens  the  constant 
pressure  of  grief  rather  than  blunts  its 
edge  ;  and  still  more  than  either,  per- 
haps, does  it  smooth  over  the  outward 
aspect  of  that  suffering:  but  often  when 
all  is  outwardly  calm  and  even  bright, 
does  the  conscious  heart  say.  "  I  hear 
a  voice  you  cannot  hear  ;  I  see  a  sign 
you  cannot  see;"  and  it  pays  the  sad 
and  dear  tribute  of  bereaved  love.  No, 
the  memory  of  the  beloved  ones  parts 
not  from  us  as  its  shadow  passes  from 
our  countenance.  And  who  is  there, 
around  whose  path  such  memories 
linger,  that  will  not  say,  "  I  thank  God, 


through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ ; "  through 
him  who  is  the  revealed  "  resurrection 
and  life  ;  "  through  him  who  said,  "  He 
that  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die  "  ?  For  now,  blessed  be  God, 
we  mourn  not  as  those  who  have  no 
hope.  But  surely,  dying  creatures  as 
we  are,  and  living  in  a  dying  world,  if 
in  this  life  only  we  had  hope,  we  should 
of  all  beings  be  most  miserable. 

In  fine,  my  view  of  life  is  such,  that 
if  it  were  not  for  my  faith  and  hope,  I 
should  very  little  care  what  became  of 
it.  Let  it  be  longer  or  shorter,  it  would 
but  little  matter,  if  all  was  to  end  when 
life  ended;  if  all  my  hopes  and  aspi- 
rations and  cherished  joys  were  to  be 
buried  with  me  forever  in  the  tomb. 
Oh,  that  life  of  insect  cares  and  pur- 
suits, and  of  insect  brevity!  the  mind 
that  God  has  given  me  could  only  cast 
a  sad  and  despairing  look  upon  it,  and 
then  dismiss  it  as  not  worth  a  further 
thought.  But  no  such  sad  and  shocking 
incongruity  is  there,  thanks  be  to  God, 
in  the  well-ordered  course  of  our  being. 
The  harmonies  that  are  all  around  us, 
in  all  animal,  in  all  vegetable  life,  in 
light  and  shade,  in  mountain  and  valley, 
in  ocean  and  stream,  in  the  linked  train 
of  the  seasons,  in  the  moving  and  dread 
array  of  all  the  heavenly  hosts  of  worlds  ; 
the  harmonies  of  universal  nature,  but 
above  all,  the  teachings  of  the  Gospel, 
assure  us  that  no  such  shocking  incon- 
gruity and  disorder  are  bound  up  in  the 
frame  of  our  nature. 

No ;  it  is  true  ;  that  which  we  so  much 
need  to  support  us  is  true ;  God  doth 
look  down  upon  our  h7(7nble  path  wilh 
(he  eye  of  paternal  nvisdoni  atid  love; 
this  universe  is  ftill  of  spiritual  influ- 
ences to  help  us  in  the  great  conflict  of 
life  J  there  is  a  world  beyond  in  which 
we  may  assuredly  trust.  The  heart,  full 
of  weighty  interests  and  cares,  of  swell- 
ing hopes  and  aspirations,  of  thoughts 
too  big  for  utterance,  is  not  given  us 
merely  that  we  may  bear  it  to  the  grave 
and  bury  it  there.  From  that  sleeping 
dust  shall  rise  the  free  spirit  to  endless 


I  22 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


life.  Thanks,  —  let  us  again  say  and  for- 
ever say,  —  thanks  be  to  God,  who  giv- 
eth  us  this  victory  of  an  assured  hope 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 


XIX 


ON   THE   RELIGION   OF   LIFE. 

EcCLESiASTES  iii.  II :  "  He  hath  made  everything 
beautiful  in  its  time." 

In  my  last  discourse  oa  human  Life 
I  spoke  of  religion  as  the  great,  appro- 
priate, and  pervading  sentiment  of  life. 
TJic  7'eligion  of  life,  by  which  I  mean 
a  different  thing  :  the  religion,  the  sanc- 
tity, the  real,  spiritual  consecration  nat- 
urally and  properly  belonging  to  all  the 
appointed  occupations,  cultivated  arts, 
lawful  amusements,  and  social  bonds  of 
life,  —  this  is  the  subject  of  my  present 
discourse. 

By  most  religious  systems  this  life, 
the  life,  that  is,  which  the  world  is  lead- 
ing, and  has  been  leading  through  ages, 
is  laid  under  a  dark  and  fearful  ban. 
'''■No  religion^''  is  the  summary  phrase 
which  is  written  upon  almost  its  entire 
history.  Though  it  is  held  by  these  very 
systems  that  the  world  was  made  for 
religion,  made,  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
culture  of  religion  in  the  hearts  of  its 
inhabitants;  yet  it  is  contended  that 
this  purpose  has  been  almost  entirely 
frustrated. 

First,  the  heathen  nations,  by  tliis  the- 
ory, are  cut  off  from  all  connection  with 
real  religion.  Next,  upon  the  mass  of 
Christian  nations,  as  being  unregenerate 
and  utterly  depraved,  the  same  sentence 
is  passed.  I  am  not  disposed,  on  this 
subject,  to  exact  the  full  measure  of  in- 
ference from  any  mere  theory.  Men's 
actual  views  are  often  in  advance  of 
their  creeds.  But  is  it  not  very  evident, 
as  a  third  consideration,  that  the  pre- 
vailing views  of  the  world's  life  very 
well  agree  with  the  prevailing  creeds  ? 
Is  it  not  the  common  feeling  that  man- 
kind in  the  mass,  in  the  proportion  of 
thousands  to  one,  have  failed  to  attain 


to  anything  of  true  leligion;  to  any,  the 
least  of  that  which  fulfils  the  real  and 
great  design  of  the  Creator?  Is  it  not 
commonly  felt  that  the  mass  of  men's 
pursuits,  of  their  occupations,  of  their 
pleasures,  is  completely  severed  from 
this  great  purpose  .''  In  labor,  in  mer- 
chandise, in  the  practice  of  law  and 
of  medicine,  in  literature,  in  sculpture, 
painting,  poetry,  music,  is  it  not  the  con- 
stant doctrine  or  implication  of  the  pul- 
pit that  there  is  no  religion,  no  spiritual 
virtue,  nothing  accordant  with  the  Gos- 
pel of  Christ  ?  Men,  amidst  their  pur- 
suits, may  attain  to  a  divine  life  ;  but  are 
not  the  pursuits  themselves  regarded  as 
having  nothing,  strictly  speaking,  to  do 
with  such  a  life,  as  having  in  them  no 
elements  of  spiritual  good,  as  having  in 
them  no  tendency  to  advance  religion 
and  goodness  in  the  world  ? 

This,  certainly,  upon  the  face  of  it,  is 
a  very  extraordinary  assumption.  The 
pursuits  in  question  are  —  some  of  them 
necessary ;  others  useful ;  and  all  nat- 
ural ;  that  is  to  say,  they  are  develop- 
ments, and  inevitable  and  predestined 
developments,  of  the  nature  vvliich  God 
has  given  us.  And  yet  it  is  maintained 
and  believed  that  they  have  no  tendency 
to  promote  his  great  design  in  making 
the  world ;  that  they  have  nothing  in 
them  allied  to  his  purpose  ;  that,  at  the 
most,  they  are  only  compatible  with  it, 
and  that  the  actual  office  which  they  dis- 
charge in  the  world  is  to  lead  men  away 
from  it.  The  whole  Heaven-ordained  ac- 
tivity, occupation,  care,  ingenuity  of  hu- 
man life  is  at  war  with  its  great  purpose. 
And  if  any  one  would  seek  the  welfare 
of  his  soul,  he  is  advised  to  leave  all  ; 
the  farmer,  his  plough  ;  the  merchant, 
his  ships  ;  the  lawyer,  his  briefs  ;  and  the 
painter  his  easel ;  and  to  go  to  a  revival- 
meeting,  or  a  confessional,  or  to  retire 
to  his  closet.  I  need  not  say  that  I  am 
not  here  objecting  to  meditation,  to  dis- 
tinct, tiiOLightful,  and  solemn  meditation, 
as  one  of  the  means  of  piety  and  virtue; 
but  I  do  protest  against  this  ban  and  ex- 
clusion, which  are  thus  virtually  laid  upon 
the  beneficent  and  religious  instrumen- 


THE   RELIGION   OF   LIFE. 


123 


talities  of  a  wise  and  gracious  Provi- 
dence. 

On  the  contrary,  I  maintain  that  every- 
thing is  beautiful  in  its  time,  in  its  place, 
in  its  appointed  office;  that  everything 
which  man  is  put  to  do,  naturally  helps 
to  work  out  his  salvation  ;  in  other 
words,  that  if  he  obey  the  genuine  prin- 
ciples of  his  calling,  he  will  be  a  good 
man  ;  and  that  it  is  only  through  disobe- 
dience to  the  Heaven-appointed  tasks, 
either  by  wandering  into  idle  dissipation 
or  by  violating  their  beneficent  and  lofty 
spirit,  that  he  becomes  a  bad  man. 
Yes,  if  man  would  yield  himself  to  the 
great  training  of  Providence  in  the  ap- 
pointed action  of  life,  we  should  not 
need  churches  nor  ordinances  ;  though 
they  might  still  be  proper  for  the  expres- 
sion of  religious  homage  and  gratitude. 

Let  us  then  look  at  this  action  of  life, 
and  attempt  to  see  what  is  involved  in 
it,  and  whether  it  is  all  alien,  as  is  com- 
monly supposed,  to  the  spirit  of  sacred 
truth  and  virtue. 

I.  And  the  first  sphere  of  visible  ac- 
tivity which  presents  itself  is  labor;  the 
business  of  life,  as  opposed  to  what  is 
commonly  called  study.  I  have  before 
spoken  of  the  moral  ministration  of  la- 
bor ;  but  let  us,  in  connection  with  this 
subject,  advert  to  it  again. 

My  subject  in  this  discourse  is  the 
religion  of  life;  and  I  now  say  that  there 
is  a  religion  of  toil.  It  is  not  all  drudg- 
ery, a  mere  stretching  of  the  limbs  and 
straining  of  the  sinews  to  tasks.  It 
has  a  meaning.  It  has  an  intent.  A 
living  heart  pours  hfe-blood  into  the  toil- 
ing arm.  Warm  affections  mingle  with 
weary  tasks. 

I  say  not  how  pure  those  affections  are, 
or  how  much  of  imperfection  may  mix 
with  them;  but  I  say  that  they  are  of  a 
class,  held  by  all  men  to  be  venerable  and 
dear;  that  they  partake  of  a  kind  of 
natural  sanctity.  They  are,  in  other 
words,  the  home  affections.  The  labor 
that  spreads  itself  over  tilled  acres  all 
points,  for  its  centre,  to  the  country 
farm-house.  The  labor  that  plies  its 
task  in  busy  cities  has  the  same  central 


point,  and  thither  it  brings  daily  supplies. 
And  when  I  see  the  weary  hand  bearing 
that  nightly  offering;  when  I  see  the 
toiling  days-man  carrying  to  his  home 
the  means  of  support  and  comfort  ;  that 
offering  is  sacred  to  my  thought,  as  a 
sacrifice  at  a  golden  shrine.  Alas  ! 
many  faults  there  are,  amidst  the  toils  of 
life  ;  many  hasty  and  harsh  words  are 
spoken  ;  but  why  do  those  toils  go  on  at 
all  ?  Why  are  they  not  given  up  entirely, 
weary  and  hard  and  exasperating  as  they 
often  are  ?  Because  in  that  home  is  sick- 
ness, or  age,  or  protected  though  help- 
ing woman,  to  be  provided  for.  Because 
that  there  is  helpless  infancy  or  gentle 
childhood,  that  must  not  want. 

Such  are  the  labors  of  life  ;  and 
though  it  is  true  that  mere  selfishness, 
mere  solitary  need,  would  prompt  to 
irregular  and  occasional  exertion,  or 
would  push  some  ambitious  persons,  of 
covetous  desires,  to  continued  and  per- 
severing effort,  yet  I  am  persuaded 
that  the  selfish  impulses  would  never 
create  that  scene  of  labor  which  we  be- 
hold around  us. 

Let  us  next  look  at  the  studious  pro- 
fessions. 

And  I  must  confess  that  I  have  often 
been  struck  with  surprise  that  a  physi- 
cian could  be  an  undevout  man.  His 
study,  the  human  frame,  is  the  most 
wonderful  display  of  divine  wisdom  in 
the  world  ;  the  most  astonishing  proof 
of  contrivance,  of  providence.  Fearfully 
and  wonderfully  is  it  made  ;  and  if  he 
who  contemplates  it  is  not  a  reverent 
and  Heaven-adoring  man,  he  is  false  to 
the  very  study  that  he  calls  his  own. 
He  reads  a  page,  folded  from  the  eyes 
of  most  men,  a  page  of  wondrous  hiero- 
glyphics ;  that  handwriting  of  nerves 
and  sinews  and  arteries  ;  darkly  he  reads 
it,  with  a  feeling  enforced  upon  him  that 
there  is  a  wisdom  above  and  beyond  him ; 
and  if  he  is  not  a  religiously  inquiring 
and  humble  man,  it  seems  to  me  tiiat  he 
knows  not  what  he  reads.  Then  again 
it  is  his  office  to  visit  scenes  where  he 
is  most  especially  taught  the  frailty  of 
life,  the  impotence  of  man,  and  the  need 


124 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


of  a  divine  helper  ;  where  the  strong  man 
is  bowed  down  by  an  invisible  blow  to 
debility,  to  delirium,  to  utter  helpless- 
ness ;  where  the  dying  stretch  out  their 
hands  to  heaven  for  aid,  and  to  immor- 
tality for  a  reliance  ;  where  affliction, 
smitten  to  the  dust  and  stript  of  all 
earthly  supports,  plainly  declares  that 
no  sufficient  resource  is  left  for  it  but 
Almighty  Goodness.  I  do  not  say  that 
there  is  anything  in  the  physician's  call- 
ing which  necessarily  makes  him  a  re- 
ligious and  good  man  ;  but  1  do  say  that 
if  he  obeys  the  true  spirit  of  his  calling, 
he  must  be  led  to  the  formation  of  such 
a  character  as  the  inevitable  result. 

Turn    next   to    the    vocation    of    the 
lawyer  ;  and  what  is  it  ?    It  is  to  con- 
tribute hjs  aid  to  the  establishment  and 
vindication  of  justice  in  the  world.     But 
what  is  justice  ?    It  is   rectitude,  right- 
eousness.    It  is  the  right  between  man 
and  man  ;  and  as  an  absolute  quality, 
it    is  the  high    attribute  of  God.     The 
lawyer  may  fall  below  this  aim  and  view 
of  his  vocation  ;  but  that  is  not  the  fault 
of  his   vocation.     His  vocation   is  most 
moral,  most  religious  ;  it  connects  him, 
most  emphatically,  with  God  ;  he  is  the 
minister  of   Almighty   justice.     In   the 
strictest  construction  of  things,  the  cler- 
gyman is  not  more  truly  God's  minister 
than  he  is.     I  know  that  the  prevaihng 
view  is  a  different  one.     I  know  that  the 
world    looks    upon    this    profession    as 
altogether  irreligious,  or  altogether  un- 
religious,  at  the  best.     To  say  that  the 
lawyer,  however  legitimately  employed, 
is  most  religiously  employed,  sounds  in 
most   ears    like    mockery,    I    suppose. 
But  let  us  look  at  his  function,  and  let  us 
put  it  in   the  most  doubtful   light.     Ke 
goes  up  to  the  court  of  justice  to  plead 
the  cause  of  his  client.     All  the  day  long 
he  is  engaged  with  examining  witnesses, 
sifting  evidence,  and  wrangling,  if  you 
please,  for  points  of  evidence  and  con- 
struction   and    law.     He    may    commit 
mistakes,    no   doubt.      He  may  err   in 
temper  or  in  judgment.     But  suppose 
that  his  leading  aim.  his  wish,  is  to  ob- 
tain justice.     And  it  is  a  very  supposable 


thing,  even  though  he  be  on  the  wrong 
side.     He  goes    into  the  case,   and  he 
goes  up  to  the  court,   not  knowing  what 
the  right  is,  what  the  evidence  is.     He 
strenuously   handles  and  sifts  the  evi- 
dence,   to    help   on    towards    the    right 
conclusion.     Or  if  you  say  it  is  to  help 
his   view  of  the  case,  still  his  function 
ministers  to  the  same  thing.     For  the 
conclusion  is  not  committed  to  him  ;   it 
lies  with  the  judge  and  the  jury  ;  his  office 
is  ministerial  ;  and   he  is  to  put  forward 
every  fair  point  on  his  side,   as   his  op- 
ponent will  on  the  other  side,  because 
these  are  the  very   means,   nay,  the   in- 
dispensable   means,    for    coming    to    a 
righteous  decision.     And  I  say  that  if 
he  does  this   fairly  and  honestly,   with  a 
feeling  of  true  self-respect,  honor,  and 
conscience  ;  with  a  feeling   that  God's 
justice  reigns  in  that  high  tribunal ;  then 
he  is  acting  a  religious  part ;  he  is  lead- 
ing, that  day,  a  religious  life.     If  right- 
eousness, if  justice,  is  any  part  of  religion, 
he  is  doing  so.     No  matter  whether  dur- 
ing all  that  day  he  has  once  appealed, 
in  form  or  in  terms,  to   liis   conscience 
or  not ;  no  matter  whether  he  has  once 
spoken  of  religion  and  of  God  or  not ;  if 
there  has  been  the  inward  appeal,  the 
inward  purpose,  the  conscious  intent  and 
desire,  that  justice,  sacred  justice,  should 
triumph,  he  has  that  day  led  a  good  and 
religious  life  :  and  certainly  he  has  been 
making  a  most  essential  contribution  to 
that  religion  of  life  and  of  society,   the 
cause  of  equity  between  man  and  man, 
of  truth  and  righteousness  in  the  world. 
There  are  certain  other  pursuits  of  an 
intellectual  character,  which  require  to 
be  noticed  in  this  connection  ;  those,  I 
mean,  of  literature  and  the  arts.     And 
the  question    here,  let   it  be   borne  in 
mind,  is  not  whether  these  pursuits  are 
always  conducted  upon  the  highest  prin- 
ciples ;  but   whether   they  are  in  their 
proper  nature,  and  in  their  justest  and 
highest  character,  religious  and  good  ; 
whether   between   these   functions   and 
religion   there   is   any   natural  affinity  ; 
whether  or  not  in  their  legitimate  ten- 
dency they  are  helping  to  work  out  the 


THE   RELIGION   OF   LIFE. 


125 


world's  salvation  from  vice  and  sin  and 
spiritual  misery.  And  certainly,  to  him 
who  is  looking  with  any  anxiety  to  the 
great  moral  end  of  Providence,  this  is 
a  very  serious  question.  For  in  these 
forms  of  literature  and  art  the  highest 
genius  of  the  world  is  usually  revealed. 
The  cost  of  time  and  money  to  which 
they  put  the  world  is  not  a  small  con- 
sideration. The  labored  works  of  art 
and  the  means  lavished  to  obtain  them  ; 
the  writing,  printing,  selling,  and  reading 
of  books. — all  this  presents  one  of  the 
grandest  features  of  our  modern  civiliza- 
tion. But  the  cost  of  mental  labor  is 
more  than  this  ;  it  is  of  the  very  life- 
blood  of  the  world.  This  great  power 
of  cotnmnnication  -with  men  is  not  only 
working,  and  putting  in  requisition, 
much  of  the  labor  and  time  of  the  world  ; 
but  it  is  often  working  painfully,  and 
is  wasting  the  noblest  strength,  in  its 
strenuous  toils.  In  silent  and  solitary 
places  genius  is  often  found  consuming 
away  in  the  fires  which  it  has  kindled. 
And  now  the  quesdon  is :  On  what  altars 
are  these  priceless  offerings  laid  .-* 

Let  it  be  considered,  then,  in  answer 
to  this  question,  how  few  statues,  paint- 
ings, or  books  have  any  bad  design. 
Point  me  to  one  in  an  hundred,  to  one 
in  a  thousand  or  ten  thousand,  that  rec- 
ommends vice.  What,  then,  do  they  in- 
culcate ?  Surely  it  is  virtue,  sanctity, 
the  grandeur  of  the  spiritual  part  of 
man.  What  do  we  see  in  these  works  ? 
It  is,  in  sculpture,  the  fearful  beauty  of 
the  god  of  Light,  or  the  severe  majesty 
of  the  Hebrew  lawgiver,  or  the  solemn 
dignity  of  the  Christ.  It  is,  in  painting, 
some  form  of  moral  loveliness,  some 
saint  in  the  rapture  of  devotion,  or  a 
Christian,  constant,  serene,  forgiving, 
victorious  in  the  agonies  of  martyrdom. 
It  is,  in  writing,  in  fiction,  in  poetry,  in 
the  drama,  some  actor  or  sufferer  nobly 
sustaining  himself  amidst  temptations, 
difficulties,  conflicts,  and  sorrows,  hold- 
ing on  his  bright  career  through  clouds 
and  storms  to  the  goal  of  virtue  and  of 
heaven  !  Of  course,  I  do  not  say  that 
there  are  no  moral  defects  in  these  rep- 


resentations ;  but  most  certain  it  is, 
nevertiieless,  that  the  highest  literature 
and  art  of  every  age  embody  its  highest 
spiritual  ideal  of  excellence.  And  even 
when  we  descend  from  their  higher 
manifestations  and  find  them  simply 
amusing,  there  is  nothing  in  this  that  is 
hostile  to  religion.  Men  must  have  rec- 
reation ;  and  literature  and  art  furnish 
that  which  is  most  pure,  innocent,  and 
refining.  They  are  already  drawing 
away  multitudes  from  coarser  indul- 
gences, and  from  places  of  low  and  vile 
resort.  And  the  theatre,  were  it  purged 
from  certain  offensive  appendages,  might 
be  one  of  tlie  most  admirable  ministra- 
tions conceivable,  to  the  recreation  and 
entertainment  of  the  people.  Nay,  a 
great  actor,  as  well  as  a  great  dramatist, 
in  the  legitimate  walk  of  his  art,  may  be 
a  most  effective  and  tremendous  preach- 
er of  virtue  to  the  people. 

But,  to  go  again  to  the  main  point ; 
I  must  strenuously  maintain  that  books, 
to  be  of  religious  tendency,  to  be  min- 
isters to  the  general  piety  and  virtue, 
need  not  be  books  of  sermons,  nor 
books  of  pious  exercises,  nor  books  of 
prayers.  These  all  have  their  great  and 
good  office  to  discharge  ;  but  whatever 
inculcates  pure  sentiment,  whatever 
'touches  the  heart  with  the  beauty  of 
virtue  and  the  blessedness  of  piety,  is 
in  accordance  with  religion  ;  and  this  is 
the  Gospel  of  literature  and  art.  Yes, 
and  it  is  preached  from  many  a  wall,  it 
is  preached  from  many  a  book,  ay,  from 
many  a  poem  and  fiction  and  review 
and  newspaper ;  and  it  would  be  a  pain- 
ful error,  and  a  miserable  narrowness, 
not  to  recognize  these  wide-spread 
agencies  of  Heaven's  providing,  not  to 
see  and  welcome  these  many-handed 
coadjutors  to  the  great  and  good  cause. 
Christianity  has,  in  fact,  poured  a  meas- 
ure of  its  own  spirit  into  these  forms  ; 
and  not  to  recognize  it  there  is  to  deny 
its  own  specific  character  and  claim. 
There  are  religious  books,  indeed,  which 
may  be  compared  to  the  solid  gold  of 
Christianity ;  but  many  of  its  fairest 
gems  have  their  setting  in  literature  and 


126 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


art ;  and  if  it  is  a  pitiable  blindness  not 
to  see  its  beautiful  spirit  even  when  it 
is  surrounded  by  ignorance  and  poverty, 
what  must  it  be  not  to  recognize  it  when 
it  is  set  in  the  richest  framework  that 
human  genius,  imagination,  and  art  can 
devise  for  it  ? 

There  is  one  of  the  arts  of  expression 
which  I  have  not  mentioned  ;  which 
sometimes  seems  to  me  a  finer  breath- 
ing-out of  the  soul  than  any  other,  and 
which  certainly  breathes  a  more  imme- 
diate and  inspiring  tone  into  the  heart 
of  the  world  than  any  other  ;  I  mean 
music.  Eloquent  writing  is  great ;  elo- 
quent speaking  is  greater  ;  but  an  im- 
promptu burst  of  song,  or  strain  of 
music,  like  one  of  old  Beethoven's 
voluntaries,  I  am  inclined  to  say,  is 
something  greater.  And  now,  when  this 
wonderful  power  spreads  around  its 
spell  almost  like  inspiration  ;  when, 
celebrating  heroism,  magnanimity,  pity, 
or  pure  love,. it  touches  the  heart  with 
rapture  and  fills  the  eye  with  tears  ;  is 
it  to  be  accounted  among  things  profane 
or  irreligious .''  Must  it  be  heard  in 
church,  to  be  made  a  holy  thing  ?  Must 
the  words  of  its  soul-thrilling  utterance 
be  the  technical  words  of  religion,  grace, 
godliness,  righteousness,  in  order  to 
mean  anything  divine  ?  No,  the  voca- 
tion of  the  really  great  singer,  breathing 
inspirations  of  truth  and  tenderness  into 
the  mind,  is  as  holy  as  the  vocation  of 
the  great  preacher.  In  our  dwellings, 
and  in  concert-rooms,  ay,  and  in  opera- 
houses, —  so  the  theme  be  pure  and 
great,  —  there  is  preaching,  as  truly  as 
in  church  walls. 

My  brethren,  give  me  your  patience, 
if  I  must  suppose  that  what  I  am  saying 
needs  it.  Do  but  consider  what  the 
great  arts  of  mental  and  moral  com- 
munication express.  Are  they  not  often- 
times the  very  same  qualities  that  you 
revere  in  religion  ?  Are  goodness,  pity, 
magnanimous  self-sacrifice,  and  heroic 
virtue,  less  divine,  because  they  are  ex- 
pressed in  literature,  in  painting,  or  in 
song  ?  And  when  you  are  moved  to 
admiration,  to  tears,  at  some  great  ex- 


ample of  heroism  or  self-sacrifice,  —  be 
it  by  music  or  dramatic  representation, 
—  and  when  the  same  thing  moves  you 
in  preaching,  are  you  entirely  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  cases,  and  to  say 
that  the  one  feeling  is  profane  and  the 
other  holy  .'' 

Observe  that  I  do  not  ask  you  to  re- 
vere religion  less,  but  to  see  and  to  wel- 
come new,  and  perhaps  before  unthought- 
of,  instruments  and  agencies  in  the  great 
field.  You  fear,  perhaps,  that  they  are 
not  altogether  pure.  Then,  I  say,  cut 
off  and  cast  away  the  bad  part ;  I  plead 
not  for  that ;  but  none  the  less  accept 
the  good.  Nay,  and  I  might  ask.  Is  re- 
ligious teaching  itself  all  pure,  all  right? 
Indeed,  I  think  that  religion  and  relig- 
ious teaching  have  been  as  much  per- 
verted and  abused  as  labor,  literature, 
or  art. 

It  is  every  way  most  injurious  and  un- 
just to  brand  everything  as  irreligious 
that  is  not  specifically  devoted  to  relig- 
ion ;  to  den}',  and  as  it  were  to  forbid,  to 
work  any  good  work,  those  who  "  follow 
not  after  us."  Our  Saviour  rebuked 
his  disciples  in  such  a  case  ;  saying,  for- 
bid them  not;  "he  that  is  not  against 
me  is  for  me."  It  is  a  bigotry  totally  un-  - 
worthy  of  the  generous  and  glorious  Gos- 
pel, to  hold  in  utter  distrust  and  dese- 
cration all  the  beneficent  activities  of 
the  world,  all  its  kindly  affections,  all  the 
high  purposes  and  sentiments  that  live 
both  in  its  physical  and  mental  toils,  be- 
cause they  do  not  come  within  the  nar- 
row pale  of  a  technical  religion  ;  because 
they  are  not  embraced  in  the  mystic 
secret  of  what  is  called  religions  experi- 
ence. All  men  are  experiencing  more 
or  less  what  the  Christian  is  experien- 
cing. If  his  experience  is  higher  and 
more  perfect,  is  that  a  reason  why  he 
shall  disdain  and  reject  everything  that 
is  like  it  in  others  ?  As  well  might  the 
sage,  the  philosopher,  repudiate  and 
scorn  all  the  common  sense  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  If  he  does  so,  we 
call  him  a  bigoted  and  a  scholastic  phi- 
losopher. And  if  the  Christian  does  so, 
we  must  call  him  a  bigoted  and  mystic 


I'HE    RELIGION   OF   LIFE, 


127 


Christian.  And,  let  me  add,  that  if  he 
were  a  generous  and  lofty-minded  Chris- 
tian, I  cannot  conceive  what  could  be 
more  distressing  and  mournful  to  him, 
than  to  hold  all  human  existence,  with 
the  exception  of  his  little  peculiarity,  to 
be  a  dark  and  desolate  waste  ;  to  see  all 
besides  as  a  gloomy  mass  of  ignorance, 
error,  sin,  and  sorrow.  It  is  the  reproduc- 
tion, on  Christian  ground,  of  the  old  Jew- 
ish exclusion  and  bigotry. 

II.  Let  us  now  extend  our  view  to 
another  department  of  human  life,  recrea- 
tion :  and  let  us  see  whether  we  cannot 
embrace  this  within  the  great  bond  of 
religion  ;  whether  we  cannot  reclaim  an- 
other lost  territory  to  the  highest  service 
of  man. 

The  isles  of  refreshment ;  the  gar- 
dens and  bowers  of  recreation  ;  the 
play-grounds  for  sport ;  somewhere 
must  they  lie  embosomed  in  this  great 
world  of  labor ;  for  man  cannot  always 
toil.  Place  for  mirth  and  gayety,  and 
wit  and  laughter,  somewhere  must  it  be 
found  ;  for  God  hath  made  our  nature  to 
develop  these  very  things.  Is  not  this 
sufficient  to  vindicate  the  claim  of  recrea- 
tion to  be  part  of  a  good  and  religious 
life? 

But  let  us  look  at  the  matter  in  another 
light.  Suppose  the  world  of  men  were 
created,  and  created  in  full  maturity,  but 
yesterday,  and  suppose  it  to  be  a  world 
of  beiuiis,  religio'js,  devout,  and  devoutly 
grateful  and  good.  The  first  employ- 
ment that  engages  it,  as  a  matter  of  ne- 
cessity and  of  evident  appointment  too, 
is  labor.  But  after  some  days  or  weeks 
of  toil  it  becomes  acquainted  with  a 
new  fact.  It  finds  that  incessant  toil  is 
imi:)racticable  ;  that  it  is  breaking  down 
both  mind  and  body ;  in  fact,  that  neither 
body  nor  mind  was  made  for  it.  In  short, 
the  necessity  of  recreation  becomes 
manifest.  What,  then,  under  this  view 
of  the  case,  would  men  do  ?  Social, 
and  socially  inclined,  especially  in  their 
lighter  engagements,  would  they  not  very 
naturally  say,  "  Let  us  devise  games  and 
sports,  let  us  have  music  and  dancing  ; 
let  us  listen  to  amusing  recitations  or 


dramatic  stories  of  life's  gayety  or  gran- 
deur ;  and  let  us  obey  these  tendencies 
and  wants  of  our  nature,  in  ever-kept, 
grateful  veneration  and  love  of  Him  who 
has  made  us"?  And  if  all  this  were 
followed  out,  in  primeval  innocence,  with 
a  religious  devoutness  and  gratitude,  I 
suppose  that  every  objection  to  it  would 
be  removed  from  the  minds  of  the  most 
scrupulous. 

The  objection,  then,  lies  against  the 
abuse  of  these  things.  But  what  is  the 
proper  moral  business  of  such  an  ob- 
jection ?  Is  it  to  extirpate  the  things  in 
question?  It  cannot.  Games,  gayeties, 
sports,  spectacles,  there  will  be,  as  long 
as  man  have  limbs  or  eyes  or  ears.  It 
is  no  factitious  choice  which  the  world 
has  made  of  its  amusements.  It  chose 
them  because'it  wanted  them.  The  de- 
velopment here  is  as  natural  as  it  is  in 
the  arts.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  ex- 
tirpating music  and  painting,  as  of  driv- 
ing the  common  amusements  out  of  the 
world.  Shall  the  religious  objection, 
then,  since  it  cannot  destroy,  proceed  to 
vilify  tiiese  amusements  ?  What!  vilify 
an  ordinance  of  nature,  a  necessity  of 
man,  a  thing  that  cannot  be  helped  ! 
Is  this  the  wisdom  of  religion  ;  to  de- 
grade what  it  cannot  destroy  ;  to  make 
of  that  which  it  cannot  prevent,  the 
worst  that  can  be  made  ;  to"  banish  alike 
from  its  protection  and  remedy  that 
which  it  cannot  banish  from  the  world? 
There  lies  the  garden  of  recreation, 
close  by  the  field  of  labor  !  and  they 
cannot  be  severed  ;  and  men  must  and 
will  pass  from  one  to  the  other  ;  and  is 
it  the  office  of  religion  to  curse  that  gar- 
den, to  pronounce  it  unholy  ground,  and 
so  to  give  it  up  to  utter  levity  or  license  ? 
Nay,  can  anything  be  plainer  than  that 
it  is  the  business  of  religion  to  reform 
the  amusements  of  the  day?  Reform,  I 
believe,  is  the  only  measure  that  can  be 
taken  with  the  tlieatre  ;  for  that  which 
has  its  root  in  the  natural  tastes,  customs, 
and  literature  of  all  civilized  ages  is  not 
likely  to  be  eradicated.  But  how  is  any- 
thing to  be  reformed  ?  By  invective, 
by   opprobrium,    by   heaping   contempt 


128 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


upon  it?  By  casting  it  out  from  the 
pale  of  good  influences,  by  withdrawing 
good  men  from  all  contact  with  it,  by 
consigning  it  over  to  the  irreligion, 
frivolity,  and  self-indulgence  of  the 
world  ?  Surely  not.  And  therefore  I 
am  anxious  to  show  that  recreation 
must  come  within  the  plan  of  good  life, 
and  hence  to  show  that  it  is  not  to  be 
snatched  as  a  forbidden  pleasure  ;  not 
to  be  distorted  by  the  hand  of  reckless 
license  ;  but  to  be  welcomed,  ay,  and 
consecrated,  by  calm,  conscientious,  ra- 
tional enjoyment. 

The  objection  I  am  considering  is, 
that  the  common  and  chosen  recreations 
of  the  world  are  abused.  If  they  were 
pure  and  innocent,  it  would  have  noth- 
ing to  say.  But  what  is  not  abused  ? 
'Is  not  business,  is  not  religion  itself, 
abused?  Are  they  therefore  to  be  de- 
nounced and  driven  away  from  the  sight 
of  man  ?  The  objection,  carried  out, 
would  reduce  the  whole  world  to  dead 
silence  and  inaction.  But  this  cannot 
be  tolerated.  We  must  work  ;  and  we 
must  do  business  ;  and  we  must  relax 
into  gayety  and  sportiveness  when  our 
work  is  done.  Improvements  may  be 
introduced  into  each  sphere  of  action, 
and  have  been  all  along,  tlirough  ages  ; 
but  the  sphere  must  remain ;  and  it 
must  remain  »essentially  the  same.  You 
can  no  more  get  men  to  amuse  them- 
selves in  some  entirely  new  manner, 
than  you  can  get  them  to  do  business, 
or  to  draw  deeds,  or  to  labor  upon  the 
arts,  in  some  entirely  new  manner.  I 
tell  the  ascetic  religionist  that  there  will 
be  gayety  and  laughter;  there  will  be 
assemblies  and  music  and  dancing;  ay, 
and,  as  I  think,  cards  and  theatres,  as 
long  as  the  world  stands.  Whether  he 
like  it  or  not  ;  whether  /like  it  or  not ; 
it  cannot  be  helped. 

Now  there  are  abuses  of  these  things. 
What  are  we  to  say  of  the  abuses  ? 
"  Let  them  crush  down  and  destroy  the 
things  themselves,"  do  v/e  say?  But 
they  cannot.  Then  let  them  be  cut  off. 
There  is  really  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
Elevate,  refine,  purify  the  public  amuse- 


ments. Let  religion  recognize  and  re- 
strain them.  Let  it  not,  as  is  too 
common,  drive  them  to  license  and  ex- 
travagance ;  but  let  it  throw  around  them 
its  gentle  and  holy  bonds,  to  make  them 
pure,  cheerful,  healthful ;  healthful  to 
the  great  ends  of  life.  What  a  blessed 
thing  for  the  world  were  it,  if  its  amuse- 
ments could  thus  be  rescued,  redeemed, 
and  brought  into  the  service  of  its  virtue 
and  piety  !  What  a  blessed  thing  for  the 
weary  world,  for  the  youthful  world,  for 
the  joyous  world,  if  the  steps  of  its  recrea- 
tion, trodden  in  cheerful  innocence  and 
devout  gratitude,  could  be  ever  leading 
it  to  heaven ! 

I  have  now  considered  two  great  de- 
partments of  life  ;  labor,  physical  and 
mental,  and  recreation.  My  design  has 
been,  to  rescue  them  from  the  common 
imputation  of  being  necessarily  or  alto- 
gether worldly  or  irreligious  ;  to  resist 
the  prevailing  notion,  that  all  true  relig- 
ion, all  true  spiritual  goodness,  is  gath- 
ered up  in  certain  and  (so-called)  sacred 
professions,  peculiarities,  and  places  ;  to 
show  that  in  allthe  Fleaven-ordained  pur- 
suits and  conditions  of  life  there  are 
elements  of  good ;  that  the  Spirit  is 
breathing  its  gracious  influence  through 
the  world ;  that  there  is  a  religion  of  life, 
unrecognized  in  our  ordinary  religious 
-systems,  but  real  and  true,  and  either 
worthy  of  our  welcome  and  admiration, 
or,  when  defective  or  wrong,  worthy  of 
our  endeavor  to  correct  and  improve  it. 

1 1 1.  But,  once  more,  there  is  a  religion 
of  society. 

This  topic,  let  me  observe,  is  essen- 
tially distinct  from  those  which  I  have 
already  discussed.  It  is  true  that  our 
labor  and  recreation  are  mostly  social ; 
but  in  the  social  bond  there  is  some- 
thing more  than  the  business  or  the 
amusement  which  takes  advantage  of  it. 
It  has  a  holiness,  a  grandeur,  a  sweet- 
ness of  its  own.  The  world,  indeed,  is 
encircled  by  that  bond.  And  what  is  it  ? 
In  business,  there  is  something  more 
than  barter,  exchange,  price,  payment ; 
there  is  a  sacred  faith  of  man  in  man. 
When  you  know  one  in  whose  integrity 


A 


THE   RELIGION   OF  LIFE. 


129 


vou  repose  perfect  confidence ;  when 
you  feel  that  he  will  not  swerve  from 
conscience  for  any  temptation  ;  that  in- 
tegrity, that  conscience,  is  the  image  of 
God  to  you ;  and  when  you  believe  in  it, 
it  is  as  generous  and  great  an  act  as  if 
vou  believe  in  the  rectitude  of  heaven. 
In  gay  assemblies  for  amusement  again  ; 
not  instruments  of  music,  not  rich  ap- 
parel, not  sumptuous  entertainments, 
are  the  chief  things  ;  but  the  gushing 
and  mingling  affections  of  life.  I  know 
what  is  said,  and  may  be  truly  said,  of 
selfishness  and  pride  and  envy  in  these 
scenes  ;  but  I  know,  too,  that  good  affec- 
tions go  up  to  these  gathering  places, 
or  they  would  be  as  desolate  as  the 
spoil-clad  caves  and  dens  of  thieves  and 
robbers.  Look  at  two  kind-hearted  ac- 
quaintances meeting  in  those  places,  or 
meeting  in  the  market  or  on  the  ex- 
change ;  and  see  the  warm  pressure  of 
the  hand,  the  kindling  of  the  eye,  the 
suffusiofi  of  the  whole  countenance  with 
heartfelt  gladness;  and  tell  me  if  there 
is  not  a  religion  between  those  hearts ; 
and  true  love  and  worshipping,  in  each 
other,  of  the  true  and  good.  It  is  not 
policy  that  spreads  such  a  charm  around 
that  meeting,  but  the  halo  of  bright  and 
beautiful  affection.  It  hangs,  like  the 
soft  enfolding  sky,  over  all  the  world, 
over  all  places  where  men  meet,  and  toil 
or  walk  together;  not  over  lovers'  bow- 
ers and  marriage  altars  alone,  not  over 
the  homes  of  purity  and  tenderness  alone, 
—  yet  these  are  in  the  world, — but 
over  all  tilled  fields,  and  busy  work- 
shops, and  dusty  highways,  and  paved 
streets.  There  is  not  a  trodden  stone 
upon  these  sidewalks,  but  it  has  been 
an  altar  of  such  offerings  of  mutual  kind- 
ness. There  is  hot  a  wooden  pillar  nor 
an  iron  railing,  against  which  throbbing 
hearts  have  not  leaned.  True,  there  are 
other  elements  in  the  stream  of  life  that 
is  flowing  through  these  channels.  But 
will  any  one  dare  to  deny  that  this  ele- 
ment is  here  and  everywhere;  honest, 
heartfelt,  disinterested,  inexpressible  af- 
fection ?  If  he  dare,  let  him  do  so,  and 
then  confess  that  he  is  a  brute  or  a  fiend, 


and  not  a  man.     But  if  this  element  is 
here,  is  everywhere,  what  is  it } 

To  answer  this  question,  let  us  ask. 
What  is  God.'  And  the  Apostle  an- 
swers, '"God  is  love."  And  is  not  this 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  love; 
true,  pure  love.''  Deny  it,  and  bear  upon 
your  head  the  indignation  of  all  man- 
kind. But  admit  it,  and  what  do  you 
admit .''  That  God's  love  is  poured  into 
human  hearts.  Yes,  into  imman  hearts  I 
Oh!  sad,  sad- — frail,  erring,  broken, 
are  they  often  ;  yet  God's  spirit  is 
breathing  through  them  ;  else  were  they 
despoiled,  desolate,  crushed,  beyond  re- 
covery, beyond  hope.  It  is  that  same 
spirit  of  love  that  enshrines  the  earth 
and  enrobes  the  heavens  with  beauty  ; 
and  if  there  were  not  an  eye  of  love  to 
see  it,  a  heart  of  love  to  feel  it,  all  na- 
ture would  be  the  desolate  abode  of 
creatures  as  desolate. 

I  know  full  well,  alas  !  that  there  are 
other  things  in  life  besides  love.  I 
know  that  in  city  streets,  not  far  re- 
moved from  us,  are  depths  beneath 
depths  of  sorrow  and  sin  ;  that  in  cellars 
beneath  cellars,  and  in  stories  above 
stories,  are  crowded  together  poverty 
and  wretchedness  and  filth  and  vileness. 
Oh !  desolate  and  dreary  abodes  ;  where 
through  the  long  bright  day  only  want 
and  toil  and  sorrow  knock  at  all  your 
gates,  only  blows  of  passion  and  shrieks 
of  children,  and  cursings  of  drunken- 
ness, and  oaths  of  the  profane,  measure 
out  the  heavy  hours!  —  are  there  no 
hearts  to  bleed  for  you  .''  Are  there  no 
energies  of  love  to  interpose  for  you  ? 
Shall  the  stream  of  glad  and  prosperous 
life  flow  so  near  you,  and  ncuer  come 
to  cleanse  out  your  impurities  and  heal 
your  miseries  ?  Nay,  in  that  stream  of 
glad  and  joj-ous  life  I  know  that  there 
are  ingredients  of  evil ;  the  very  ingredi- 
ents, indeed,  that  prevent  a  consumma- 
tion so  blessed.  I  know  that  amidst  gay 
equipages  selfishness  is  borne  ;  and  tliat 
amidst  luxurious  entertainments  pride 
is  nursed  and  sensuality  gorged  ;  and 
that  through  fair  and  fair-seeming  as- 
semblies envy   steals,  and   hatred   and 


I30 


ON   HUMAN   LIFE. 


revenge  spread  their  wiles ;  and  that 
many  a  bad  passion  casts  its  shade 
over  the  brightest  atmosphere  of  social 
life.  All  this  I  know.  I  do  not  refuse 
to  see  the  evil  that  is  in  life.  But  tell 
me  not  that  all  is  evil.  I  still  see  God 
in  the  world.  I  see  good  amidst  the 
evil.  I  see  the  hand  of  mercy  often 
guiding  the  chariot  of  wealth  to  the 
abodes  of  poverty  and  sorrow.  I  see 
truth  and  simplicity  amidst  many  wiles 
and  sophistries.  There  is  a  habit  of 
berating  fashionable  life,  which  is  often 
founded  more  in  ignorance  than  ill-will. 
Those  who  know  better,  know  that 
there  is  good  everywhere.  I  see  good 
hearts  beneath  gay  robes  ;  ay,  and  be- 
neath tattered  robes,  too.  I  see  love 
clasping  the  hand  of  love  amidst  all  the 
envyings  and  distortions  of  showy  compe- 
titions ;  and  I  see  fidelity,  piety,  sympa- 
thy, holding  the  long  night-watch  by  the 
bedside  of  a  suffering  neighbor,  amidst 
all-surrounding  poverty  and  misety. 
God  bless  the  kindly  office,  the  pitying 
thought,  the  loving  heart,  wherever  it-tp' ! 
—  and  it  is  everywhere  !  ' .    ' 

Why,  my  brethren,  do  I  insist  upori 
this  ?  Why  do  I  endeavor  to  spread  life 
before  you  in  a  new  light ;  in  a  light  not 
recognized  liy  most  of  our  religious  sys- 
tems ?  I  will  endeavor,  in  few  words,  to 
tell  you. 

I  am  made  to  be  affected,  in  many  re- 
spects, by  the  consciousness  of  what  is 
passing  around  me,  but  especially  in  my 
happiness  and  my  improvement.  I  am 
more  than  an  inhabitant  of  the  world  ;  I 
am  a  sympathizing  member  of  the  great 
human  community.  Its  condition  comes 
as  a  blessing,  or  weighs  as  a  burden, 
upon  my  single  thought.  It  is  a  discour- 
agement or  an  excitement  to  all  that  is 
good  and  happy  within  me.  If  I  dwell  in 
this  world  as  in  a  prison  ;  if  the  higher 
faith,  the  religion  of  my  being,  compels 
me  to  regard  it  in  this  light ;  if  all  its 
employments  are  prison  employments, 
mere  penal  tasks  or  drudgeries  to  keep  its 
tenants  out  of  mischief;  if  all  its  ingen- 
ious handicrafts  are  but  prison  arts  and 
contrivances  to  while  away  the  time  ;  if 


all  its  relations  are  prison  relations,  re- 
lations of  dislike  or  selfishness,  or  of 
compact  and  cunning  in  evil  ;  —  if  the 
world  is  such  a  place,  it  must  be  a 
gloomy  and  unholy  place,  a  dark  abode, 
a  wilderness  world  :  yes,  though  its  walls 
were  built  of  massive  gold  and  its  dome 
were  spread  with  sapphire  and  studded 
with  diamond-stars,  I  must  look  upon  it 
with  sadness ;  I  must  look  upon  its 
inhabitants  with  coldness,  distrust,  and 
disdain.  It  is  a  picture  which  I  have 
drawn  ;  but  it  is  mainly  a  picture  of  the 
world  as  viewed  by  the  prevailing  religion 
of  our  time.  Nay  more ;  from  this 
prison  it  deems  that  thousands  are  daily 
carried  to  execution  —  plunged  into  a 
lake  of  fire  —  there  to  burn  forever. 
And  if  the  belief  of  its  votaries  actually 
came  up  to  its  creed,  gayety  and  joyous- 
ness  in  such  a  world  would  be  more 
misplaced  and  shocking  a  thousand 
times  than  they  would  be  in  the  gloom- 
iest penitentiary  that  ever  was  builded. 
Is  this  fair  and  bright  world — is  God's 
world,  such  a  place?  If  it  is,  I  am  sure 
that  it  was  not  made  for  any  rational 
and  reflective  happiness  ;  but  mountain 
to  mountain,  and  continent  to  continent, 
and  age  to  age,  should  echo  nothing  but 
sighs  and  groans. 

But  if  this  world,  instead  of  being  a 
prison,  is  a  school;  if  all  its  appointed 
tasks  are  teachings;  if  all  its  ordained 
employments  are  fit  means  for  improve- 
ment, and  all  its  proper  amusements  are 
the  good  recreations  of  virtuous  toil  and 
endeavor  ;  if,  however  perverse  and  sin- 
ful men  are,  there  is  an  element  of  good 
in  all  their  lawful  pursuits,  and  a  diviner 
breathing  in  all  their  lawful  affections  ; 
if  the  ground  whereon  they  tread  is  holy 
ground  ;  if  there  is  a  natural  religion  of 
life,  answering,  with  however  many  a 
broken  tone,  to  the  religion  of  nature  ;  if 
there  is  a  beauty  and  glory  of  humanity, 
answering,  with  however  many  a  mingled 
shade,  to  the  loveliness  of  soft  landscapes 
and  embosoming  hills  and  the  overhang- 
ing glory  of  the  deep  blue  heavens  ;  then 
all  is  changed.  And  it  is  changed  not 
more  for  happiness  than  it  is  for  virtue. 


THE   VOICES   OF   THE   DEAD. 


131 


For  then  do  men  find  that  they  may  be 
virtuous,  improving,  religious,  in  their 
employments  ;  that  this  is  precisely  what 
their  employments  were  made  for. 
Then  will  they  find  that  all  their  social 
relations  —  friendship,  love,  family  ties 
—  were  made  to  be  holy.  Then  will  they 
find  that  they  may  be  religious,  not  by 
a  kind  of  protest  and  resistance  against 
their  several  vocations,  but  by  conformity 
to  their  true  spirit ;  that  their  vocations 
do  not  exclude  religion,  but  demand  it  for 
their  own  perfection ;  that  they  may  be 
religious  laborers,  whether  in  field  or 
factory;  religious  physicians  and  law- 
yers ;  religious  sculptors,  painters,  and 
musicians  ;  that  they  may  be  religious 
in  all  the  toils  and  amusements  of  liie  ; 
that  their  life  may  be  a  religion  ;  the  broad 
earth  its  altar ;  its  incense,  the  very 
breath  of  life  ;  and  its  fires  kindled,  ever 
kindled,  by  the  brightness  of  heaven. 


XX. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Hebrews  xi.  4:  "And  by  it  he  being  dead  yet 
speaketh." 

This  is  a  record  of  virtue  that  existed 
six  thousand  years  ago  ;  but  which  yet 
liveth  in  its  memory,  and  speaketh  in 
its  example.  "  Abel,"  it  is  written,  "  of- 
fered unto  God  a  more  excellent  sacri- 
fice than  Cain,  by  which  he  obtained 
witness  that  he  was  righteous,  God  tes- 
tifying of  his  gifts  ;  and  by  it  he  being 
dead  yet  speaketh."  How  enduring 
is  the  memorial  of  goodness  !  It  is  but 
a  sentence,  which  is  read  in  a  moment ; 
it  is  but  a  leaf  from  the  scroll  of  time  ; 
and  yet  it  is  borne  on  the  breath  of 
ages  ;  it  takes  the  attributes  of  univer- 
sality and  eternity ;  it  becomes  a  heri- 
tage, from  family  to  family,  among  all 
the  dwellings  of  the  world. 

Ijut  it  is  not  Abel  alone,  the  accepted 
worshipper  and  martyred  brother,  that 
thus  speaks  to  us.  The  world  is  filled 
with  the  voices  of  the  dead.  They  speak 
not  from  the  public  records  of  the  great 
world  only,  but  from  the  private  history 


of  onr  own  experience.  They  speak 
to  us  in  a  thousand  remembrances,  in  a 
thousand  incidents,  events,  associations. 
They  speak  to  us,  not  only  from  their 
silent  graves,  but  from  the  throng  of  life. 
Though  they  are  invisible,  yet  life  is 
filled  with  their  presence.  They  are 
with  us,  by  the  silent  fireside  and  in  the 
secluded  chamber  ;  they  are  with  us  in 
the  paths  of  society  and  in  the  crowded 
assemblies  of  men.  They  speak  to  us 
from  the  lonely  wayside,  and  they  speak 
to  us  from  the  venerable  walls  that  eclio 
to  the  steps  of  a  multitude  and  to  the 
voice  of  prayer.  Go  where  we  will, 
the  dead  are  with  us.  We  live,  we  con- 
verse, with  those  who  once  lived  and 
conversed  with  us.  Their  well-remem- 
bered tone  mingles  with  the  whispering 
breezes,  with  the  sound  of  the  falling 
leaf,  with  the  jubilee  shout  of  the  spring- 
time. The  earth  is  filled  with  their 
shadowy  train. 

But  there  are  more  substantial  expres- 
sions of  the  presence  of  the  dead  with 
the  living.  The  earth  is  filled  with  the 
labors,  the  works,  of  the  dead.  Almost 
all  the  literature  in  the  world,  the  dis- 
coveries of  science,  the  glories  of  art, 
the  ever-enduring  temples,  the  dwelling- 
places  of  generations,  the  comforts  and 
improvements  of  life,  the  languages,  the 
maxims,  the  opinions  of  the  living,  the 
very  fr^^mework  of  society,  the  institu- 
tions of  nations,  the  fabrics  of  empire,  — 
all  are  the  works  of  the  dead  :  by  these, 
they  who  are  dead  yet  speak.  Life  ; 
busv,  eager,  craving,  importunate,  ab- 
sorbing life  ;  yet  what  is  its  sphere  com- 
pared with  the  empire  of  death  !  What, 
in  other  words,  is  the  sphere  of  visible, 
compared  with  the  vast  empire  of  in- 
visible, life  ?  A  moment  in  time  ;  a 
speck  in  immensity  ;  a  shadow  amidst 
enduring  and  unchangeable  realities  ;  a 
breath  of  existence  amidst  the  ages  and 
regions  of  undying  life!  They  live  — 
they  live  indeed,  whom  we  call  dead. 
They  live  in  our  thoughts  ;  they  live  in 
our  blessings  ;  they  live  in  our  life  ; 
"death  hath  no  power  over  them." 

Let  us  then  meditate  upon  those,  the 


132 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


mighty  company  o£  our  departed  brreth- 
ren,  who  occupy  such  a  space  in  the 
universe  of  being.  Let  us  meditate 
upon  their  relation,  their  message,  their 
ministry,  to  us.  Let  us  look  upon  our- 
selves in  this  relation,  and  see  what  we 
owe  to  the  dead.  Let  us  look  upon  the 
earth,  and  see  if  death  hath  not  left  be- 
hind its  desolating  career  some  softer 
traces,  some  holier  imprint,  than  of  de- 
struction. 

L  What  memories,  then,  have  the 
dead  left  among  us,  to  stimulate  us  to 
virtue,  to  win  us  to  goodness  ? 

The  approach  to  death  often  prepares 
the  way  for  this  impression.  The  effect 
of  a  last  sickness  to  develop  and  perfect 
the  virtues  of  our  friends  is  often  so 
striking  and  beautiful  as  to  seem  more 
than  a  compensation  for  all  the  suffer- 
ings of  disease.  It  is  the  practice  of 
the  Catholic  Church  to  bestow  upon  its 
eminent  saints  a  title  to  the  perpetual 
homage  of  the  faithful  in  the  act  of  can- 
onization. But  what  is  a  formal  decree, 
compared  with  the  effect  of  a  last  sick- 
ness, to  canonize  the  virtue  that  we  love, 
for  eternal  remembrance  and  admira- 
tion ?  How  often  does  that  touching 
decay,  that  gradual  unclotliing  of  the 
mortal  body,  seem  to  be  a  putting  on  of 
the  garments  of  immortal  beauty  and 
life  !  That  pale  cheek,  that  placid  brow, 
that  sweet  serenity  spread  over  the 
whole  countenance  ;  that  spiritual,  al- 
most supernatural  brightness  of  the 
eye,  as  if  light  from  another  world  al- 
ready shone  through  it ;  that  noble  and 
touching  disinterestedness  of  the  parting 
spirit,  which  utters  no  complaint,  which 
breathes  no  sigh,  which  speaks  no  word 
of  fear  nor  apprehension  to  wound  its 
friend,  which  is  calm,  and  cheerful,  and 
natural,  and  self-sustained,  amidst  daily 
declining  strength  and  the  sure  approach 
to  dej^th  ;  and  then,  at  length,  when 
concealment  is  no  longer  possible,  that 
last  firm,  triumphant,  consoling  dis- 
course, and  that  last  look  of  all  mortal 
tenderness  and  immortal  trust ;  what 
hallowed  memories  are  these  to  soothe, 
to  purify,  to  enrapture  surviving  love  ! 


Death,  too,  sets  a  seal  upon  the  ex- 
cellence that  sickness  unfolds  and  con- 
secrates. There  is  no  living  virtue, 
concerning  which,  such  is  our  frailty, 
we  must  not  fear  that  it  may  fall  ;  or  at 
least  that  it  may  somewhat  fail  from  its 
steadfastness.  It  is  a  painful,  it  is  a 
just  fear,  in  the  bosoms  of  the  best  and 
purest  beings  on  earth,  tl^at  some  dread- 
ful lapse  7nay  come  over  them,  or  over 
those  whom  they  hold  in  the  highest 
reverence.  But  death,  fearful,  mighty 
as  its  power,  is  yet  a  power  that  is  su!)- 
ject  to  virtue.  It  gives  victory  to  virtue. 
It  brings  relief  to  the  heart,  from  its 
profoundest  fear.  It  enables  us  to  sa\ , 
'■  Now  all  is  safe  I  The  battle  is  fought ; 
the  victory  is  won.  The  course  is  fin- 
ished ;  the  race  is  run  ;  the  faith  is 
kept  :  henceforth,  it  is  no  more  doubt 
nor  danger,  no  more  temptation  nor 
strife  ;  henceforth  is  the  reward  of  the 
just,  the  crown  which  the  Lord,  the 
righteous  Judge,  will  give  ! "  Yes,  death, 
dark  power  of  earth  though  it  seem, 
does  yet  ensphere  virtue,  as  it  were, 
in  heaven.  It  sets  it  up  on  high,  for 
eternal  admiration.  It  fixes  its  places 
never  more  to  be  changed  ;  as  a  star  to 
shine  onward,  and  onward,  through  the 
depths  of  the  everlasting  ages  ! 

In  life  there  are  many  things  which 
interfere  with  a  just  estimate  of  the  vir- 
tues of  others.  There  are,  in  some 
cases,  jealousies  and  misconstructions, 
and  there  are  false  appearances  ;  there 
are  veils  upon  the  heart  that  hide  its  most 
secret  workings  and  its  sweetest  affec- 
tions from  us  ;  there  are  earthly  clouds 
that  come  between  us  and  the  excellence 
that  we  love.  So  that  it  is  not,  perhaps, 
till  a  friend  is  taken  from  us,  that  we 
entirely  feel  his  value  and  appreciate 
his  worth.  The  vision  is  loveliest  at  its 
vanishing  away  ;  and  we  perceive  not, 
perhaps,  till  we  see  the  parting  wing, 
that  an  angel  has  been  with  us  I 

Yet  if  we  are  not,  from  any  cause,  or 
in  any  degree,  blind  to  the  excellence  we 
possess,  if  we  do  feel  all  the  value  of  the 
treasure  which  our  affections  hold  dear  ; 
yet,  I  say,  how  does  that  earthly  excel- 


THE   VOICES    OF   THE   DEAD. 


•  JJ 


fence  take  not  only  a  permanent  but  a 
saintly  character  as  it  passes  beyond 
the  bounds  of  mortal  frailty  and  imperfec- 
tion !  How  does  death  enshrine  it,  for  a 
homage  more  reverential  and  holy  than 
is  ever  given  to  living  worth  !  So  that 
the  virtues  of  the  dead  gain,  perhaps, 
in  the  power  of  sanctity  what  they  lose 
in  the  power  of  visible  presence;  and 
thus,  —  it  may  not  be  too  much  to  say,  — 
thus  the  virtues  of  the  dead  benefit  us 
sometimes  as  much  as  the  examples  of 
living  goodness. 

How  beautiful  is  the  ministration  by 
which  those  who  are  dead  thus  speak 
to  us,  thus  help  us,  comfort  us,  guide, 
gladden,  bless  us  !  How  grateful  must 
it  be  to  their  thoughts  of  us,  to  know 
that  we  thus  remember  them  ;  that  we 
remember  them,  not  with  mere  admira- 
tion, but  in  a  manner  that  ministers  to  all 
our  virtues  !  What  a  glorious  vision 
of  the  future  is  it,  to  the  good  and  pure 
who  are  yet  living  on  earth,  that  the  vir- 
tues which  they  are  cherishing  and  man- 
ifesting, the  good  character  which  they 
are  building  up  here,  the  charm  of  their 
benevolence  and  piety,  shall  live,  when 
they  have  laid  down  the  burden  and  toil 
of  life,  shall  be  an  inspiring  breath  to  the 
fainting  hearts  that  are  broken  from  them, 
a  wafted  odor  of  sanctity  to  hundreds 
and  thousands  that  shall  come  after 
them !  Is  it  not  so  ?  Are  there  not 
those,  the  simplest  story,  the  frailest 
record,  of  whose  goodness  is  still  and 
ever  doing  good  ?  But,  frail  records, 
we  know  full  well,  frail  records  they  are 
7wt.  which  are  in  our  hearts.  And  can 
we  have  known  those,  wliom  it  is  a  joy 
as  well  as  a  sorrow  to  think  of,  and  not 
be  better  for  it  ?  Are  there  those,  once 
our  friends,  now  bright  angels  in  some 
blessed  sphere  ;  and  do  we  not  some- 
times say,  "  Perhaps  that  pure  eye  of 
affection  is  on  me  now,  and  I  will  do 
nothing  to  wound  it  "  ?  No,  surely,  it 
cannot  be  that  the  dead  will  speak  to  us 
in  vain.  Their  memories  are  all  around 
us  ;  their  footsteps  are  in  our  paths  ;  the 
memorials  of  them  meet  our  eye  at  every 
turn  ;  their  presence  is  in  our  dwellings  : 


their  voices  are  in  our  ears  ;  they  speak 
to  us,  —  in  the  sad  reverie  of  contempla- 
tion, in  the  shaip  pang  of  feeling,  in  the 
cold  shadow  of  memory,  in  the  bright 
light  of  hope  —  and  it  cannot  be  that 
they  will  speak  in  vain. 

II.  Nay,  the  very  world  we  live  in,  is 
it  not  consecrated  to  us  by  the  memory 
of  the  dead  .''  Are  not  the  very  scenes  of 
life  made  more  interesting  to  us  by  being 
connected  with  thoughts  that  run  back- 
ward far  beyond  the  range  of  present 
life  'i  This  is  another  view,  of  the  ad- 
vantage and  effect  with  which  those  who 
are  "dead  yet  speak  to  us." 

If  we  were  beings  to  whom  present,  im- 
mediate, instant  enjoyment  were  every- 
thing ;  if  we  were  animals,  in  other 
words,  with  all  our  thoughts  prone  to 
the  earth  on  which  we  tread,  the  case 
would  be  different ;  the  conclusion  would 
be  different.  But  we  are  beings  of  a 
deeper  nature,  of  wider  relations,  of 
higher  aspirations,  of  a  loftier  destiny. 
And  being  such,  I  cannot  hesitate  to 
say  for  myself  that  I  would  not  have 
everything  which  1  behold  on  earth,  tlie 
work  of  the  present,  living  generation. 
The  world  would  be,  comparatively,  an 
ordinary,  indifferent  place,  if  it  contained 
nothing  but  the  workmanship,  the  handi- 
craft, the  devices  of  living  men.  No,  I 
would  see  dwellings,  which  speak  to  me 
of  other  things  than  earthly  convenience 
or  fleeting  pleasure  ;  which  speak  tome 
the  holy  recollections  of  lives  which  were 
passed  in  them,  and  have  passed  away 
from  them.  I  would  see  temples  in 
which  successive  generations  of  men 
have  prayed.  I  would  see  ruins,  on 
whose  mighty  walls  is  inscribed  the 
touching  story  of  joy  and  sorrow,  love, 
heroism,  patience,  which  lived  there, 
there  breathed  its  first  hope,  its  last  sigh, 
ages  ago.  I  would  behold  scenes,  which 
offer  more  than  fair  landscape  and  living 
stream  to  my  eye  ;  which  tell  me  of  in- 
spired genius,  glorious  fortitude,  mar- 
tyred faith,  that  studied  there,  suffered 
there,  died  there.  I  would  behold  tlie 
earth,  in  fine,  when  it  is  spread  before 
me,  as  more  than  soil  and  scenery,  rich 


134 


ON    HUMAN   LIFE. 


and  fair  though  they  be  ;  I  would  behold 
the  earth  as  written  over  with  histories  ; 
as  a  sublime  page  on  which  are  recorded 
the  lives  of  men  and  empires. 

The  world,  even  of  nature,  is  not  one 
laughing,  gay  scene.  It  is  not  so  in 
fact  ;  it  appears  not  so  in  the  light  of 
our  sober,  solemn,  Christian  teachings. 
The  dark  cloud  sometimes  overshadows 
it  ;  the  storm  sweeps  through  its  pleasant 
valleys  ;  the  thunder  smites  its  everlast- 
ing hills  ;  and  the  holy  record  hath  said, 
''  Thorns  and  thistles  shall  it  bring  forth 
to  thee."  It  has  been  said  that  all  the 
tones  in  nature  are,  to  use  the  musical 
phrase,  on  the  minor  key.  That  is  to  say, 
they  are  plaintive  tones.  And  although 
the  fact  is  probably  somewhat  exagger- 
ated,when  stated  so  strongly  and  unquali- 
fiedly, yet  to  a  certain  extent  it  is  true. 
It  is  true  that  that  tone  always  mingles 
with  the  music  of  nature.  In  the  winds 
that  stir  the  mountain  pine,  as  well  as 
in  the  wailing  storm  ;  in  the  soft-falling 
shower,  and  in  the  rustling  of  the  au- 
tumn leaves  ;  in  the  roar  of  ocean,  as  it 
breaks  upon  the  lonely  sea-beach  ;  in 
the  thundering  cataract,  that  lifts  up  its 
eternal  anthem  amidst  the  voices  of 
nature  ;  and  so  likewise  in  those  in- 
articulate interpretations  of  nature,  the 
bleating  of  flocks,  the  lowing  of  herds, 
and  even  in  the  song  of  birds,  there  is 
usually  something  plaintive  ;  something 
that  touches  the  sad  and  brooding  spirit 
of  thought.  And  the  contemplation  of 
nature  in  all  its  forms,  as  well  of  beauty 
as  of  sublimity,  is  apt  to  be  tinged  with 
melancholy.  And  all  the  higher  mus- 
ings, the  nobler  aspirations,  of  the  mind 
possess  something  of  this  character.  I 
doubt  if  there  were  ever  a  manifestation 
of  genius  in  the  world  that  did  not  bear 
something  of  this  trait. 

It  can  scarcely  be  the  part  of  wisdom, 
then,  to  refuse  to  sympathize  with  this 
spirit  of  nature  and  humanity.  And  it 
can  be  no  argument  against  a  contem- 
plation of  this  world  as  having  its  abodes 
sanctified  by  the  memory  of  the  de 
parted,  as  having  its  brightness  softly 
veiled   over  by  the  shadow   of   death  ; 


it  can  be  no  argument  against  such  con- 
templation, that  it  is  somewliat  sober 
and  sad.  I  feel,  then,  that  the  dead  have 
conferred  a  blessing  upon  me,  in  helping 
me  to  think  of  the  world  thus  rightly  ;  in 
thus  giving  a  hue  of  sadness  to  the  scenes 
of  this  world,  while  at  the  same  time  they 
have  clothed  it  with  every  glorious  and 
powerful  charm  of  association.  This 
mingled  spirit  of  energy  and  humility, 
of  triumph  and  tenderness,  of  glorying 
and  sorrowing,  is  the  very  spirit  of 
Christianity.  It  was  the  spirit  of  Jesus, 
the  conqueror  and  the  sufferer.  Death 
was  before  him  ;  and  yet  his  thoughts 
were  of  triumph.  Victory  was  in  his 
view  ;  and  yet,  what  a  victory  !  No 
laurel  crown  was  upon  his  head ;  no 
flush  of  pride  was  upon  his  brow;  no  ex- 
ultation flashed  from  his  eye  ;  for  his 
was  a  victory  to  be  gained  over  death 
and  through  death.  No  laurel  crown  sat 
upon  his  head  — but  a  crown  of  thorns  ; 
no  flush  of  pride  was  on  his  brow  —  but 
meekness  was  enthroned  there  ;  no  ex- 
ultation flashed  from  his  eye  —  but  tears 
flowed  from  it.     "Jesus  wept." 

Come,  then,  to  us,  that  spirit  at  once  of 
courage  and  meekness  ;  of  fortitude  and 
gentleness  ;  of  a  life  hopeful  and  happy, 
but  thoughtful  of  death  ;  of  a  world 
bright  and  beautiful,  but  passing  away  ! 
So  let  us  live,  and  act,  and  think,  and 
feel ;  and  let  us  thank  the  good  provi- 
dence, the  good  ordination  of  heaven, 
that  has  made  the  dead  our  teach- 
ers. 

III.  But  they  teach  us  more.  They 
not  only  leave  their  own  enshrined  and 
canonized  virtues  for  us  to  love  and  imi- 
tate, they  not  only  gather  about  us  the 
glorious  and  touching  associations  of  the 
past,  to  hallow  and  dignify  this  world  to 
us,  and  to  throw  the  soft  veil  of  memory 
over  all  its  scenes  ;  but  they  open  a 
future  world  to  our  vision,  and  invite  us 
to  its  blessed  abodes. 

They  open  that  world  to  us  by  giving, 
in  their  own  deaths,  a  strong  proof  of  its 
existence. 

The  future,  indeed,  to  mere  earthly 
views,   is  often  "a  land  of  darkness  as 


THE   VOICES   OF   THE   DEAD. 


135 


darkness  itself,  and  of  the  shadow  of 
death  without  any  order,  and  where  the 
light  is  as  darkness."  Truly,  death  is 
"without  any  order."  There  is  in  it 
such  a  total  disregard  to  circumstances, 
as  shows  that  it  cannot  be  an  ultimate 
event.  That  must  be  connected  with 
something  else,  that  cannot  be  final, 
which,  considered  as  final,  puts  all  the 
calculations  of  wisdom  so  utterly  at 
defiance.  The  tribes  of  animals,  the 
classes  and  species  of  the  vegetable 
creation,  come  to  their  perfection  and 
then  die.  But  is  there  any  such  order 
for  human  beings  ?  Do  the  generations 
of  mankind  go  down  to  the  grave  in 
ranks  and  processions  ?  Are  the  human, 
like  the  vegetable,  races  suffered  to 
stand  till  they  have  made  provision  for 
their  successors,  before  they  depart  } 
No  ;  without  order,  without  discrimina- 
tion, without  provision  for  the  future  or 
remedy  for  the  past,  the  children  of  men 
depart.  They  die  —  the  old,  the  young ; 
the  most  useless,  and  those  most  needed  ; 
the  worst  and  the  best,  alike  die  ;  and 
if  there  be  no  scenes  beyond  this  life,  if 
there  be  no  ciVcumstances  nor  allotments 
to  explain  the  mystery,  then  all  around 
us  is,  as  it  was  to  the  doubting  spirit  of 
Job,  '"a  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  it- 
self." The  blow  falls  like  the  thunder- 
bolt beneath  the  dark  cloud  ;  but  it  has 
not  even  the  intention,  the  explanation, 
that  belongs  to  that  dread  minister. 
The  stroke  of  death  must  be  more  reck- 
less than  even  the  lightning's  flash  ;  yes, 
that  solemn  visitation  that  cometh  with 
so  many  dread  signs,  —  the  body's  disso- 
lution, the  spirit's  extremity,  the  wind- 
ing up  of  the  great  scene  of  life,  has  not 
even  the  meaning  that  belongs  to  the 
blindest  agents  in  nature,  if  there  be  no 
reaction,  no  revelation  hereafter  !  Can 
this  be  ?  Doth  God  take  care  for  things 
animate  and  inanimate,  and  will  he  not 
care  for  us  .'' 

Let  us  look  at  it  for  a  moment.  I 
have  seen  one  die  —  the  delight  of  his 
friends,  the  pride  of  his  kindred,  the 
hope  of  his  country  :  but  he  died!  How 
beautiful  was  that  offering  upon  the  altar 


of  death  !  The  fire  of  genius  kindled  in 
his  eye  ;  the  generous  affections  of  youth 
mantled  in  his  cheek;  his  foot  was  upon 
the  threshold  of  life;  his  studies,  his 
preparations  for  honored  and  useful  life, 
were  completed ;  his  breast  was  filled 
with  a  thousand  glowing,  and  noble,  and 
never  yet  expressed  aspirations :  but 
he  died  !  He  died  ;  while  another,  of 
a  nature  dull,  coarse,  and  unrefined, 
of  habits  low,  base,  and  brutish,  of  a 
promise  that  had  nothing  in  it  but 
shame  and  misery,  —  such  an  one,  I  say, 
was  suffered  to  encumber  the  earth. 
Could  this  be,  if  there  were  no  other 
sphere  for  the  gifted,  the  aspiring,  and 
the  approved,  to  act  in  ?  Can  we  believe 
that  the  energy  just  trained  for  action, 
the  embryo  thought  just  bursting  into 
expression,  the  4eep  and  earnest  passion 
of  a  noble  nature  just  swelling  into  the 
expansion  of  every  beautiful  virtue, 
should  never  manifest  its  power,  should 
never  speak,  should  never  unfold  itself .-' 
Can  we  believe  that  all  this  should  die  ; 
while  meanness,  corruption,  sensuality, 
and  every  deformed  and  dishonored 
power,  should  live .''  No,  ye  goodly  and 
glorious  ones!  ye  godlike  in  youthful 
virtue!  ye  die  not  in  vain  :  ye  teach,  ye 
assure  us,  that  ye  are  gone  to  some 
world  of  nobler  life  and  action. 

I  have  seen  one  die;  she  was  beautiful ; 
and  beautiful  were  the  ministries  of  life 
that  were  given  her  to  fulfil.  Angelic 
loveliness  enrobed  her,  and  a  grace  as 
it  It  were  caught  from  heaven  breathed 
in  every  tone,  hallowed  every  affection, 
shone  in  everyaction  —  invested  as  a  halo 
her  whole  existence,  and  made  it  a  light 
and  blessing,  a  charm  and  a  vision  of 
gladness,  to  all  around  her:  but  she 
died  !  Friendship,  and  love,  and  pa- 
rental fondness,  and  infant  weakness 
stretched  out  their  hand  to  save  her ; 
but  they  could  not  save  her  :  and  she 
died  !  What !  did  all  that  loveliness  die  ? 
Is  there  no  land  of  the  blessed  and  the 
lovely  ones  for  such  to  live  in  ?  Forbid 
it,  reason,  religion  !  —  bereaved  affection 
and  undying  love  !  forbid  the  thought  I 
It   cannot   be  that   such    die    in    God's 


136 


ON    HUMAN    LIFE. 


counsel,    who  live  even  in  frail   human 
memory  forever ! 

I  have  seen  one  die  —  in  the  maturity 
of  every  power,  in  the  earthly  perfection 
of  every  faculty;  when  many  tempta- 
tions had  been  overcome,  and  many  hard 
lessons  had  been  learned ;  when  many 
experiments  had  made  virtue  easy,  and 
had  given  a  facility  to  action  and  a 
success  to  endeavor  ;  when  wisdom  had 
been  learnt  from  many  mistakes,  and  a 
skill  had  been  laboriously  acquired  in 
the  use  of  many  powers  ;  and  the  being 
I  looked  upon  had  just  compassed  that 
most  useful,  most  practical  of  all  knowl- 
edge, how  to  live,  and  to  act  well  and 
wisely  :  yet  I  have  seen  such  an  one  die  ! 
Was  all  this  treasure  gained,  only  to  be 
lost?  Were  all  these  faculties  trained, 
only  to  be  thrown  into  utter  disuse  ? 
Was  this  instrument,  the  intelligent  soul, 
the  noblest  in  the  universe,  was  it  so 
laboriously  fashioned,  and  by  the  most 
varied  and  expensive  apparatus,  that  on 
the  very  moment  of  being  finished  it 
should  be  cast  away  forever  ?  No,  the 
dead,  as  we  call  them,  do  not  so  die. 
They  carry  our  thoughts  to  another  and 
a  nobler  existence.  They  teach  us,  and 
especially  by  all  the  strange  and  seem- 
ingly untoward  circumstances  of  their 
departure  from  this  life,  that  they,  and 
we,  shall  live  forever.  They  open  the 
future  world,  then,  to  our  faith. 

They  open  it  also,  and  in  fine,  to  our 
affections.  No  person  of  reflection  and 
piety  can  have  lived  long  without  begin- 
ning to  find,  in  regard  to  the  earthly 
objects  which  most  interest  him,  his 
friends,  that  the  balance  is  gradually  in- 
cUning  in  favor  of  another  world.  How 
many,  after  the  middle  period  of  life, 
and  especially  in  declining  years,  must 
feel,  if  the  experience  of  life  has  had 
any  just  effect  upon  them,  that  the  ob- 
jects of  their  strongest  attachment  are 
not  here.  One  by  one,  the  ties  of  earthly 
affection  are  cut  asunder  ;  one  by  one, 
friends,  companions,  children,  parents, 
are  taken  from  us  ;  for  a  time,  perhaps, 
we  are  "in  a  strait  betwixt  two,"  as 
was  the  apostle,  not  deciding  altogether 


whether  it  is  better  to  depart ;  but  shall 
we  not,  at  length,  say  with  the  disciples, 
when  some  dearer  friend  is  taken,  "  Let 
us  go  and  die  with  him  "  .'' 

The  dead  have  not  ceased  their  com- 
munication with  us,  though  the  visible 
chain  is  broken.  If  they  are  still  the  same, 
they  must  still  think  of  us.  As  two 
friends  on  earth  may  know  that  they 
love  each  other,  without  any  expression, 
without  even  the  sight  of  each  other;  as 
they  may  know,  though  dwelling  in  dif- 
ferent and  distant  countries,  without  any 
visible  chain  of  communication,  that 
their  thoughts  meet  and  mingle  together, 
so  may  it  be  with  two  friends  of  whom 
the  one  is  on  earth  and  the  otlier  is  in 
heaven.  Especially  where  there  is  such 
an  union  of  pure  minds  that  it  is  scarcely 
possible  to  conceive  of  separation,  that 
union  seems  to  be  a  part  of  their  very 
being  :  we  may  beUeve  that  their  friend- 
ship, their  mutual  sympathy,  is  beyond 
the  power  of  the  grave  to  break  up. 
"  But  ah  !  "  we  say,  "  if  there  were  only 
some  manifestations ;  if  there  were  only 
a  glimpse  of  that  blessed  land  ;  if  there 
were,  indeed,  some  messenger  bird,  such 
as  is  supposed  in  some  countries  to 
come  from  the  spirit  land,  how  eagerly 
should  we  question  it ! "  In  the  words 
of  the  poet,  we  should  say,  — 

"  But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain, 

Can  those  who  have  loved,  forget  ? 
We  call  —  but  t/uy  answer  not  again  — 

Do  they  love,  do  they  love  us  yet? 
We  call  them  far,  through  the  silent  night. 

And  they  speak  not  from  cave  nor  hill ; 
We  know,  we  know,  that  their  land  is  bright, 

But  say,  do  they  love  there  still .''  " 

The  poetic  doubt,  we  may  answer 
with  plain  reasoning  and  plainer  Scrip- 
ture. We  may  say,  in  the  language  of 
reason,  if  they  lr<>e  there,  they  love  there. 
We  may  answer  in  the  language  of  Jesus 
Christ,  "  He  that  livelh,  and  believeth  in 
me,  shall  never  die."  And  again:  "  Have 
ye  not  read,"  saith  our  Saviour,  "that 
which  was  spoken  unto  you  by  God, 
saying,  I  am  the  God  of  Abraham,  and 
the  God  of  Isaac,  and  the  God  of  Jacob? 
God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of 


I 


THE   VOICES   OF   THE   DEAD. 


137 


the  living."  Then  it  is  true  that  they 
live  there ;  and  they  yet  speak  to  us. 
From  that  bright  sphere,  from  that  calm 
region,  from  the  bowers  of  life  immortal, 
they  speak  to  us.  They  say  to  us,  "  Sigh 
not  in  despair  over  the  broken  and  de- 
feated e.xpectations  of  earth.  Sorrow 
not  as  those  who  have  no  hope.  Bear 
calmly  and  clieerfully  thy  lot.  Brighten 
the  chain  of  love,  of  sympathy  ;  of  com- 
munion with  all  pure  minds  on  earth 
and  in  heaven.  Think,  oh,  think  of 
the  mighty  and  glorious  company  that 
fill  the  immortal  regions  !  Light,  life, 
beauty,  beatitude,  are  here.  Come, 
children  of  earth  !  come  to  the  bright 
and  blessed  land ! "  I  see  no  lovely 
features,  revealing  themselves  through 
the  dim  and  shadowy  veils  of  heaven. 
I  see  no  angel  forms  enrobed  with  the 
bright  clouds  of  eventide.  But  "  I 
hear  a  voice,  saying.  Write,  blessed  are 
the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord,  for  they 
rest  —  for  they  rest  from  their  labors, 
and  their  works,  works  of  piety  and  love 
recorded  in  our  hearts  and  kept  in  eter- 
nal remembrance,  —  their  works  do  follow 
them."  Our  hearts,  their  workmansliip, 
do  follow  them.  We  will  go  and  die 
with  them.  We  will  go  and  live  with 
them  forever ! 

Can  I  leave  these  meditations,  my 
brethren,  without  paying  homage  to  that 
rehgion  which  has  brought  life  and  im- 
mortahty  to  liglit  ;  without  calling  to 
mind  that  simple  and  touching  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  great  apostle,  "  I  thank 
God  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ"? 
Ah  !  how  desolate  must  be  the  affections 
of  a  people  that  spurn  this  truth  and 
trust  !  I  have  wandered  among  the 
tombs  of  such  a  people  ;  I  have  wan- 
dered through  that  far-famed  cemetery 
that  overlooks  from  its  mournful  brow 
the  gay  and  crowded  metropolis  of 
France  ;  but  among  the  many  inscrip- 
tions upon  those  tombs  I  read  scarcely 
one;  I  read, —  to  state  so  striking  a 
fact  with  numerical  exactness,  —  I  read 
not  more  than  four  or  five  inscriptions 
in  the  whole  Pere  la  Chaise,  which 
made    any    consoling    reference    to    a 


future  life.  I  read,  on  those  cold  mar- 
ble tombs,  the  lamentations  of  bereave- 
ment, in  every  affecting  variety  of 
phrase.  On  the  tomb  of  youth,  it  was 
written  that  "its  broken-hearted  par- 
ents, who  spent  their  days  in  tears  and 
their  nights  in  anguish,  had  laid  down 
here  their  treasure  and  their  hope." 
On  the  proud  mausoleum  where  friend- 
ship, companionship,  love,  had  deposited 
their  holy  relics,  it  was  constantly  writ- 
ten, "  Her  husband  inconsolable  ;  "  ''  His 
disconsolate  wife ;  "  "A  brother,  left 
alone  and  unhappy,"  has  raised  this 
monument ;  but  seldom,  so  seldom  that 
scarcely  ever,  did  the  mournful  record 
close  with  a  word  of  hope ;  scarcely  at 
all  was  it  to  be  read  amidst  the  marble 
silence  of  that  world  of  the  dead,  that 
there  is  a  life  beyond  ;  and  that  surviv- 
ing friends  hope  for  a  blessed  meeting 
again  where  death  comes  no  more  ! 

Oh  death  !  dark  hour  to  hopeless  un- 
belief !  hour  to  which,  in  that  creed  of 
despair,  no  hour  shall  succeed!  being's 
last  hour !  to  whose  appalling  darkness 
even  the  shadows  of  an  avenging  retri- 
bution were  brightness  and  relief  ; 
death  !  what  art  thou  to  the  Christian's 
assurance  ?  Great  hour  of  answer  to 
life's  prayer ;  great  hour  that  shall 
break  asunder  the  bond  of  life's  mystery  ; 
hour  of  release  from  life's  burden  ;  hour 
of  reunion  with  the  loved  and  lost ;  what 
mighty  hopes  hasten  to  their  fulfilment 
in  thee  I  What  longings,  what  aspira- 
tions,—  breathed  in  the  still  night  be- 
neath the  silent  stars  ;  what  dread 
emotions  of  curiosity ;  what  deep  medi- 
tations of  joy  ;  what  hallowed  imaginings 
of  never  experienced  purity  and  bliss ; 
what  possibilities,  shadowing  forth  un- 
speakable realities  to  the  soul,  all  verge 
to  their  consummation  in  thee  !  O 
death  !  the  Christian's  death  !  what  art 
thou  but  the  gate  of  life,  the  portal  of 
heaven,  the  threshold  of  eternity  .'' 

Thanks  be  to  God ;  let  us  say  it, 
Christians  !  in  the  comforting  words  of 
holy  .Scripture  :  "thanks  be  to  God,  who 
giveth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ ! "     What  hope  can  be  so 


^^^ 


1.^.8 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF    RELIGION. 


precious  as  the  hope  in  him  ?  What 
emblems  can  speak  to  bereaved  affec- 
tion or  to  dying  frailty  like  those  em- 
blems at  once  of  suffering  and  triumph, 
which  proclaim  a  crucified  and  risen 
Lord  ;  which  proclaim  that  Jesus  the 
Forerunner  has  passed  through  death 
to  immortal  life  ?  Well,  that  the  great 
truth  should  be  signahzed  and  sealed 
upon  our  heart  by  a  holy  rite  !     Well, 


that  amidst  mortal  changes,  and  hasting 
to  the  tomb,  we  should,  from  time  to 
time,  set  up  an  altar,  and  say,  "  By  this 
Heaven-ordained  token  do  we  know  that 
we  shall  live  forever  "  !  God  grant  the 
fulfilment  of  this  great  hope  —  what 
matter  all  things  beside?  —  God  grant 
the  fulfilment  of  this  great  hope,  through 
Jesus  Christ  ! 


ON    THE    NATURE   OF    RELIGION. 


XXL 

ON  THE  IDENTITY  OF  RELIGION 
WITH  GOODNESS,  AND  WITH  A 
GOOD  LIFE. 

I  John  iv.  20  :  "  If  a  man  say,  I  love  God,  and 
hateth  his  brother,  he  is  a  liar  ;  for  he  that  loveth 
not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love 
God  whom  he  hath  not  seen?" 

If  there  is  any  mission  for  the  true 
teacher  to  accomplish  in  this  age,  it  is 
to  identify  religion  with  goodness  ;  to 
show  that  they  are  the  same  thing, 
manifestations,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
same  principle  ;  to  show,  in  other  words 
and  according  to  the  Apostle,  that  no 
man  is  to  be  accounted  a  lover  of  God, 
who  is  not  a  lover  of  his  brother.  It 
is,  I  say  again,  to  identify  religion  with 
morals,  religion  with  virtue  ;  vvith  jus- 
tice, truth,  integrity,  honesty,  generosity, 
disinterestedness  ;  religion  with  the 
highest  beauty  and  loveliness  of  charac- 
ter. This,  I  repeat,  is  the  great  mission 
and  message  of  the  true  teacher  to-day. 
What  it  may  be  some  other  day,  what 
transcendental  thing  may  be  waiting  to 
be  taught,  I  do  not  know  ;  but  this,  I 
conceive,  is  the  practical  business  of  re- 
ligious instruction  now.  Let  me  not  be 
misunderstood,  as  if  I  were  supposed  to 
say  that  this  or  any  other  mere  doctrine 
were  the  ultimate  end  of  preaching. 
That  is,  to  make  men  holy.  But  how 
shall  any  preaching  avail  to  make  men 


holy,  unless  it  do  rightly  and  clearly 
teach  them  what  it  is  to  be  holy  ?  If 
they  mistake  here,  all  "their  labor  to  be 
religious,  all  their  hearing  of  the  word. 
Sabbath  keeping,  praying,  and  striving, 
will  be  in  vain.  And  therefore  I  hold 
that  to  teach  this,  and  especially  to  show 
that  religion  is  not  something  else  than  a 
good  heart,  but  is  that  very  thing  ;  this, 
I  say,  is  the  burden  of  the  present  time. 
I  use  now  an  old  prophetic  phrase, 
and  I  may  remark  here  that  every  time 
has  its  burden.  In  the  times  of  the  Old 
Testament  the  burden  of  teaching  was, 
to  assert  the  supremacy  and  spirituality 
of  God  in  opposition  to  Idolatry.  In  the 
Christian  time,  it  was  to  set  forth  that 
universal  and  impartial,  and  that  most 
real  and  true  love  which  God  has  for 
his  earthly  creatures,  in  opposition  to 
Jewish  peculiarity  and  Pagan  indiffer- 
ence and  all  human  distrust  ;  a  love 
declared  by  one  who  came  from  the 
bosom  of  the  Father,  sealed  in  his  blood, 
and  thus  bringing  nigh  to  God  a  guilty, 
estranged,  and  unbelieving  world.  The 
burden  of  the  Reformation  time,  was  to 
assert  the  freedom  of  religion  ;  to  bring 
it  out  from  the  bondage  of  human  author- 
ity into  the  sanctuary  of  private  judgment 
and  sacred  conscience.  But  now,  relig- 
ion having  escaped  from  Pagan  idolatry 
and  Jewish  exclusion  and  papal  bondage, 
and  survived  many  a  controversy  since, 
has  encountered  a  deeper  question  con- 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION   WITH    GOODNESS. 


139 


cerning  its  own  nature.  What  especially 
is  religion  itself  ?  This,  I  say,  is  the  great 
question  of  the  present  day.  It  under- 
lies all  our  controversies.  It  is  that 
which  gives  the  main  interest  to  every 
controversy.  For  whetheF  the  contro- 
versy be  about  forms  or  creeds,  the  vital 
question  is  whether  this  or  that  ritual  or 
doctrine  ministers  essentially  to  true  re- 
ligion; so  that  if  a  man  embraces  some 
other  system,  he  is  fatally  deficient  of 
the  vital  means  of  salvation.  And  this 
brings  us  to  the  question.  What  is  true 
religion  itself  ? 

This  question,  as  I  have  intimated, 
presses  mainly  upon  a  single  point,  which 
I  will  now  state  and  argue  as  a  contested 
point ;  namely,  whether  religion,  in  its  es- 
sence, consists  in  a  principle  of  rectitude, 
of  goodness  in  a  simple  and  true  love  of 
the  true  and  divine,  or  whether  it  consists 
in  something  else  ;  or,  in  other  words  — 
whether  it  consists  in  certain  intelligible 
affections,  or  in  something  to  the  mass  of 
men  unknown  and  unintelligible. 

This  question  craves  some  explana- 
tion, both  that  you  may  understand  what 
it  is,  and  may  perceive  tliat  it  is  a  ques- 
tion ;  and  I  must  bespeak  your  patience. 

In  entering  upon  these  points,  let  us 
consider,  in  the  first  place,  what  is  the 
ground  on  which  the  general  assertion 
in  our  text  proceeds. 

There  is,  then,  but  one  true  principle 
in  the  mind,  and  that  is  the  love  of 
the  true,  the  right,  the  holy.  There  is 
but  one  character  of  the  soul  to  which 
God  has  given  his  approbation,  and  with 
which  he  has  connected  the  certainty  of 
happiness  here  and  hereafter.  There  is 
something  in  the  soul  wiiich  is  made 
tlie  condition  of  its  salvation;  and  that 
something  is  one  thing,  though  it  has 
many  forms.  It  is  sometimes  called 
grace  in  the  heart ;  sometimes,  holiness, 
righteousness,  conformity  to  the  char- 
acter of  God  ;  but  the  term  for  it  most 
familiar  in  popular  use  is  religion.  The 
constant  question  is,  when  a  man's  spir- 
itual safety  or  well-being  is  the  point  for 
consideration,  when  he  is  going  to  die, 
and  men  would  know  whether  he  is  to  be 


happy  hereafter,  has  he  got  religion  ?  or, 
has  he  been  a  religious  man.''  I  must 
confess  that  I  do  not  like  this  use  of  the 
term.  I  am  accustomed  to  consider  re- 
ligion as  reverence  ^nd  love  towards 
God ;  and  to  consider  it,  therefore,  as  only 
one  part  of  rectitude  or  excellence.  But 
you  know  that  it  commonly  stands  for 
the  whole  of  that  character  which  God 
requires  of  us.  Now  what  I  am  saying 
is,  that  diis  character  is,  in  principle,  oue 
(king.  It  is,  being  right ;  and  being 
right  is  but  one  thing.  It  has  many 
forms,  but  only  one  essence.  It  may 
be  the  love  of  God,  and  then  it  is  piety. 
It  may  be  the  love  of  men,  and  then  it  is 
philanthropy.  But  the  love  of  God,  and 
the  love  of  man  as  bearing  his  image, 
are  in  essence  the  same  thing.  Or,  to 
discriminate  with  regard  to  this  second 
table  of  the  law  :  it  may  be  a  love  of  men's 
happiness,  and  then  it  is  the  very  image 
of  God's  benevolence  ;  or  it  may  be  the 
love  of  holiness  in  men,  of  their  good- 
ness, justice,  truth,  virtue,  and  then  it  is 
a  love  of  the  same  things  that  form,  when 
infinitely  exalted,  the  character  of  God. 
All  these  forms  of  excellence,  if  they 
cannot  be  resolved  into  one  principle, 
are  certainly  parts  of  one  great  conscious- 
ness, the  consciousness  of  right ;  they 
at  any  rate  have  the  strictest  alliance  ; 
they  are  inseparably  bound  together  as 
of  one'  whole  ;  the  very  nature  of  true 
excellence  in  one  form  is  a  pledge  for 
its  existence  in  every  other  form.  He 
who  has  the  right  principle  in  him  is  a 
lover  of  God,  and  a  lover  of  good  men, 
and  a  lover  of  all  goodness  and  purity, 
and  a  laborer  for  the  happiness  of  all 
around  him.  The  tree  is  one,  though 
the  branches  and  the  leaves  and  the  blos- 
soms be  many  and  various  ;  all  spring 
from  one  vital  germ;  so  that  the  Apos- 
tle, in  our  text,  will  not  allow  it  to  be 
said  that  a  man  is  a  lover  of  God,  who 
does  not  love  his  brethren  of  the  human 
family. 

Now  it  may  surprise  you  at  first  to 
hear  it  asserted  that  this  apparently 
reasonable  account  of  the  matter  does 
not  accord  with  the  popular  judgment. 


140 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION, 


To  this  point  of  explanation,  therefore, 
I  must  invite  your  attention,  lest  I  seem 
to  fight  as  one  that  beateth  the  air. 

It  is  true,  then,  that  it  is  admitted  in 
general  that  the  Christian,  the  object 
of  God's  favor  here  and  hereafter,  must 
be  a  good  man  ;  a  just,  honest,  pure, 
benevolent  man.  These  admissions  are 
general  and  vague.  We  must  penetrate 
into  this  matter  with  some  more  dis- 
criminating inquiry.  What  is  it,  spe- 
cifically, that  makes  a  man  spiritually  a 
Christian,  and  entitles  him  to  hope  for 
future  happiness  t  The  common  answer 
is,  it  is  religion,  it  is  piety,  it  is  grace  in 
the  heart,  it  is  being  converted,  it  is  be- 
ing in  Christ,  and  being  a  new  creature. 
These  phrases  I  might  comment  upon, 
if  I  had  time,  and  I  might  show  that 
they  have  a  very  true  and  just  meaning. 
But  what  is  the  meaning  that  they  ac- 
tually convey  to  most  hearers  ?  What 
is  this  inmost  and  saving  principle  of 
religion,  this  grace  or  godliness,  this 
spirit  of  the  regenerated  man  ?  Is  it  not 
something  peculiar  to  the  regenerate, — 
not  something  more  of  goodness  in  them 
than  in  other  men,  but  something  differ- 
ent in  them  from  goodness  in  others  ? 
Is  it  not  something  possessed  by  them 
alone,  unshared  with  the  rest  of  the 
world,  unknown,  completely  unknown, 
and  in  fact  inconceivable  to  the  great 
body  of  mankind  ?  Are  not  the  saints, 
God's  people  as  they  are  called,  sup- 
posed to  have  some  secret  of  experience 
wrapped  up  in  them,  with  which  the 
stranger  intermeddleth  not ;  of  which 
the  world  knoweth  nothing  ?  I  do  not 
wish  to  have  this  so  understood  if  it  is 
not  true.  But  if  it  is  true,  it  is  too  seri- 
ous a  point  to  be  tampered  with  or  treated 
with  any  fastidious  delicacy.  I  say,  then, 
plainly  and  earnestly,  is  it  not  true  ?  If 
you  ask  most  men  around  you  what 
is  that  gracious  state  of  the  heart  which 
is  produced  by  the  act  of  regeneration, 
will  they  not  say  that  they  do  not  know  ? 
And  all  that  they  can  say  about  it,  pro- 
vided they  have  any  serious  thoughts, 
will  it  not  be  this  :  that  they  hope  they 
shall  know  some   time  or  other .''     But 


they  know  what  truth,  kindness,  honesty, 
self-denial,  disinterestedness,  are.  They 
know,  or  suppose  that  they  know,  what 
penitence,  sorrow  for  doing  wrong,  is. 
Gratitude  to  God,  also,  the  love  of  God, 
they  deem,  is  no  enigma  to  them.  They 
certainly  have  some  idea  of  these  qual- 
ities. I  do  not  say  how  much  by  ex- 
perience they  know  of  all  these  things  - 
but  I  say  they  have  some  idea  of  what 
these  things  mean.  If,  then,  they  are 
told,  and  if  they  believe,  that  all  this 
does  not  reach  to  the  true  idea  of  re- 
ligion, it  follows  that  religion  must  be, 
in  their  account,  some  enigma  or  mys- 
tery ;  it  is  some  inconceivable  effect  of 
divine  grace,  or  moving  of  gracious  af- 
fections in  the  heart  ;  it  must  be  some- 
thing different  from  all  that  men  are 
wont  to  call  goodness,  excellence,  love- 
liness. 

But  to  make  this  still  plainer,  if  need 
be  ;  what,  let  it  be  asked,  are  most  men 
looking  for  and  desiring,  when  they 
seek  religion  1  In  a  revival  of  religion, 
as  it  is  termed,  what  is  the  anxious  man 
seeking  .''  Is  it  not  something  as  com- 
pletely strange  and  foreign  to  his  ordi- 
nary experience  as  would  be  the  effect 
of  the  myster)'  called  Animal  Magnet- 
ism ?  A  man  is  declining  into  the  vale 
of  years,  or  he  is  lying  upon  the  bed  of 
death,  and  he  wants  religion,  wants  that 
something  which  will  prepare  him  for  a 
happy  hereafter.  He  has  got  beyond 
the  idea  that  the  priest  can  save  him, 
or  that  extreme  unction  can  save  him,  or 
that  any  outward  rite  can  save  him.  He 
knows  that  it  must  be  something  in  his 
own  soul.  And  now,  what  shall  it  be  1 
What  does  he  set  himself  to  do,  or  to 
seek?  What  is  the  point  about  which 
his  anxious  desires  are  hovering  ?  "  Oil ! 
that  that  thing  could  be  wrought  in  me, 
on  which  all  depends  !  I  know  not  what 
it  is  ;  but  I  want  it ;  I  pray  for  it."  And 
this  something  that  is  to  be  clone  in  him 
is  something  that  can  be  done  in  a  mo- 
ment !  Can  anything  be  plainer,  then, 
than  this  which  I  am  saying  ;  that  he  is 
not  looking  to  the  increase  and  strength- 
ening and  perfection  of  truth,  kindness, 


THE   IDENTITY   OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


141 


disinterestedness,  humilit}-,  gratitude  to 
God,  to  save  him  ;  not  for  the  increase 
and  strengthening  of  anything  that  is 
already  in  him  ;  but  for  the  lodgment  in 
him  of  something  new  that  will  save 
him.  He  does  not  set  himself,  in  seek- 
ing religion,  about  the  cultivation  of 
known  affections,  but  about  the  attain- 
ment of  unknown  affections. 

Look  again,  for  further  proof,  at  the 
language  of  the  popular  rtligion,  whether 
heard    from  the  pulpit  or  coming  from 
the  press.     What  is  more  common  tnan 
to  hear  morality  decried,  and  the  most 
lovely  virtue  disparaged,  in  comparison 
with  something  called  grace  in  tiie  heart .'' 
Morality  is  allowed  to  be  a  very  good 
thing  for  this  world,  but  no  preparation 
for  the   next;  or  it  is  insisted  on  as  a 
consequence  of  grace,  but  is  considered 
as  no  part  of  grace  itself ;  or  if  it  is  ad- 
mitted that  by  an  infusion  of  grace,  mo- 
rality may  become  a  holy  thing,  still,  by 
this  supposition,  the  grace  maintains  its 
position   as    tlie   distinct,   peculiar,   and 
primal  essence  of  virtue.     Observe,  that 
I    do   not    say   that    anybody    preaches 
.against   kindness,    honesty,    and   truth- 
telling,   absolutely.      Nay,   they   are    in- 
sisted on.    But  in  what  character.''   Why, 
as  evidences  of  that  other  thing,  called 
religion   or  grace.     They   are   not  that 
thing,  nor  any  part  of  it ;  but  only  evi- 
dences of  it.     And  observe,  too,  that  if 
it  were  only  said  that  much  that  is  called 
morality  and  kindness  is  not  real  moral- 
ity or  kindness  ;   that  the  ordinary  stand- 
ard of  virtue  is  too  low  and  needs  to  be 
raised  ;  to  that  discrimination  I  should 
have  nothing  to  object.     But  the  point 
maintained  is,  that  nothing  that  is  called 
simple  kindness  or  morality  ever  comes, 
or  ever  can  by  any  increase  come,  up  to 
the  character  of  saving  virtue. 

There  is  one  further  and  decisive  con- 
sideration which  I  am  reluctant  to  men- 
tion, but  which  I  will  suggest,  because 
it  is,  first  of  all,  necessary  that  I  should 
clearly  make  out  the  case  upon  which 
my  discourse  proceeds.  The  Church 
has  ever  been  accustomed  to  hold  that 
the  virtues  of  heretics  are  nothing:  worth. 


Now  suppose  a  case.     Here  is  a  body 
of    men    called    heretics  ;   ■  Protestants 
they  were  once,  —  Church   of  England 
men,  Puritans,  Presbyterians.     No  age 
has  wanted    the    instance.      Here  is  a 
body  of  men,  I  say,  called  heretics.    To 
all  human  \  iew  they  are  as  amiable,  af- 
fectionate, and  true-hearted,  as  honest, 
diligent,  and    temperate,   as    any    other 
people.     They  profess  to  reverence  re- 
ligion, too  ;   they  build  churches,  meet 
together  for  worship  ;  and  their  worship 
seems   as    hearty   and    earnest    as   any 
other.      By   any   standard   of   judging, 
save  that  of  theology,  they  appear  to  be 
as  good  and  devout  men  as  any  other. 
Now,  what  does  the  popular  theology, 
what  does  the  pulpit,  say  of  them  t  Why, 
this,  briefly  and  summarily,  —  that  they 
have  no  I'eligion.     They  may  be   very 
good    men,   very  amiable,  kind,  honest, 
and   true,  and,  after  their  manner,  de- 
vout; but  they  have  no  religion.     Is  not 
the  case  clear  ?     Must  not  religion  be  a 
secret  in  the  bosom  of  these  confident 
judges  .?     They  must   know  what  it  is  ; 
but  others  do  not  know  and  cannot  find 
out.     We  must  sit  down  in  silence  and 
despair,  for  we  can  know  nothing  about 
it.    Or  if  we  say  anything,  there  is  noth- 
ing for  us  but  to  say  with  Job,  "  No 
doubt,  ye  are  the  men,  and  wisdom  shall 
die  with  you ! "     But  this,  at   least,  is 
clear:  wiiatever  this  religion  is,  of  which 
they  speak  ;   whether  it  consist  in  a  cer- 
tain belief,  or  in  some  secretly  imparted 
grace,  it  must   be   something   different 
from  all  that  men  generally  understand 
by  goodness  and  devotion. 

In  short,  the  prevailing  idea  of  re- 
ligion is,  unquestionably,  that  it  is  some 
heavenly  visitant  to  the  soul  ;  some 
divine  guest  that  takes  up  its  abode 
there  ;  some  essence  or  effluence,  not 
merely  proceeding  from  God  as  its 
cause,  which  it  does,  but  partaking  of 
unknown  attributes  ;  something  that 
comes  into  the  soul  from  without,  and 
is  sustained  there  by  a  foreign  influence  ; 
something  that  is,  at  a  certain  time,  cre- 
ated in  the  heart,  and  is  totally  unlike 
•anything  that  was  there  before ;  some- 


142 


ON   THE   NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


1 


thing  that  is  ingrafted  upon  our  nature, 
and  does  not,  in  any  sense,  grow  out  of 
it ;  something,  in  fine,  that  is  put  into 
us,  and  does  not,  in  any  sense,  spring 
out  of  us  ;  is  not  07'igi}ially  the  result 
of  any  culture  or  care  of  ours,  is  not 
wrought  out  of  any  materials  found  in 
us,  not  reducible  to  any  ordinary  laws 
of  cause  and  effect ;  but  is  -the  result  of 
a  special  and  supernatural  working  of 
divine  power  brought  to  bear  upon  us. 
This  doctrine,  as  I  have  latterly  stated 
it,  is  undoubtedly  modified  by  some  of 
the  new  schools  of  theology  that  are 
rising  around  us  ;  and  this  whole  idea 
of  religion  is,  doubtless,  rejected  by 
some  orthodox  persons,  as  it  was  com- 
pletely rejected  in  the  old  English  the- 
ology of  Paley  and  Bishop  Butler  ;  but 
it  is  nevertheless  very  generally  taught 
in  this  country,  and  it  is  the  faith,  or 
rather  the  fear  and  trouble,  of  the  multi- 
tude. 

Nor  do  I  know  of  any  recent  modifi- 
cation of  the  prevailing  theology,  that 
materially  affects  the  point  now  before 
us.  When  I  say  that,  according  to  that 
theology,  religion  is  not  wrought  out  of 
any  materials  found  in  us,  it  may  be 
thought  that  I  do  injustice  to  the  views 
of  some  of  its  adherents.  They  hold, 
perhaps,  that  the  necessary  powers  are 
within  us  ;  and  simply  maintain  that 
they  have  never  been  rightly  exercised, 
and  that  without  a  special  impulse  from 
above,  they  never  will  be.  On  this  sup- 
position, the  moral  faculties  of  our  na- 
ture stand  like  machinery,  waiting  for 
the  stream  of  influence  that  is  to  move 
them.  In  the  unregenerate  nature  they 
have  never  been  moved,  or  have  never 
been  rightly  moved  ;  and  they  never  will 
be,  by  any  power  among  them  or  inher- 
ent in  them.  That  motion,  or  that  right 
motion,  when  it  comes,  will  be  religion. 
But  on  this  supposition,  is  not  religion 
a  thing  still  and  equally  unknown  ?  Can 
the  unregenerate  man  foresee,  can  he 
conjecture,  what  that  motion  will  be  ? 
Can  anybody  understand  what  it  is, 
saving  and  excepting  the  converted  man 
himself  .'' 


I  suppose  that  this  conclusion  is  in- 
controvertible ;  and  I  presume  that  al- 
most every  convert  to  the  popular  forms 
of  religion  would  be  found  to  say :  ''  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  it  is  that  I  have 
got  ;  I  cannot  tell  you  what  religion  is  ; 
but  I  know  by  experience  what  it  is  ; 
and  that  is  enough  for  me." 

This  view  of  religion  I  propose  to 
make  the  subject  of  some  free  discussion. 
It  demands  the  most  serious  consider- 
ation ;  and  I  do  not  remember  that  it 
has  received  at  any  hand  the  attention 
that  it  deserves. 

I  shall  first  state  the  opposite,  and,  as 
I  conceive,  the  true  view  of  religion,  and 
briefly  show  why  it  is  true  :  and  I  shall 
then  proceed  to  consider  more  at  large 
the  consequences  that  must  result,  and 
do  result,  from  the  prevailing,  and,  as  I 
conceive,  the  false  view. 

And  here  let  me  distinctly  observe, 
that  I  am  not  about  to  consider  these 
consequences  as  matters  foreign  and 
indifferent  to  ourselves.  They  belong 
to  us,  indeed,  as  they  concern  the  general 
state  of  religion  in  the  world.  But  they 
concern  us  yet  more  nearly,  as  they  enter 
more  or  less  into  the  state  of  our  own 
minds.  No  age  can  escape  the  influence 
of  the  past.  The  moral  history  of  the 
world  is  a  stream  that  is  not  to  be  cut 
off  at  a  single  point.  In  us,  doubtless, 
are  to  be  found  the  relics  of  all  past 
creeds,  of  all  past  errors. 

But  before  I  proceed  to  these  conse- 
quences, I  am  briefly  to  state  and  defend 
what  I  conceive  to  be  the  true  view  of 
religion  as  a  principle  in  the  mind. 

For  statement,  then,  I  say,  in  the  first 
place,  that  all  men  know  what  God  re- 
quires of  them,  what  affections,  what  vir- 
tues, what  graces,  what  emotions  of 
penitence  and  piety ;  in  the  second  place, 
that  all  men  have  a  capacity  for  these 
affections  and  some  exercise  of  them, 
however  slight  and  transient ;  and  in  the 
third  place,  that  what  God  requires, 
what  constitutes  the  salvation  of  the  soul, 
is  the  culture,  strengthening,  enlarge- 
ment, predominance,  of  these  very  affec- 
tions ;  that  he  who  makes  that  conscience  • 


THE   IDENTITY   OF   RELIGION   WITH   GOODNESS. 


143 


and  rectitude  and  self-denial  and  peni- 
tence and  sacred  love  of  God  which  he 
already  perceives  and  feels,  or  has  felt 
in  himself,  iiovvever  imperfectly,  —  he 
who  makes  tliese  affections  the  fixed, 
abiding,  and  victorious  habits  of  his  soul, 
is  accepted  with  God.  and  must  be  happy 
in  time  and  in  eternity. 

This  is  the  statement;  and  for  defence 
of  this  view  of  religion  I  submit  its  own 
reasonableness  ;  nay,  and  I  contend  for 
its  absolute  certainty  as  a  matter  of 
Scriptural  interpretation. 

First,  its  reasonableness.  For  if  men, 
if  all  men,  do  not  know  what  religion  is, 
they  do  not  know  what  is  required  of 
them.  To  say  that  God  demands  that 
to  be  done  in  us  and  by  us  of  which  we 
have  no  conception,  or  no  just  concep- 
tion, is  to  make  a  statement  wliich  carries 
with  it  its  own  refutation.  To  make  a 
mystery  of  a  comviaiidment,  is  a  solecism 
amounting  to  absolute  self-contradiction. 
Again,  we  could  not  know  what  are  the 
affections  that  are  required  of  us,  unless 
it  were  by  some  experience  of  them. 
It  is  philosophically  impossible;  it  is,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  impossible  that  we 
should.  No  words,  no  symbols,  could 
teach  us  what  moral  or  spiritual  emotion 
is,  unless  we  had  in  ourselves  some 
feeling  of  what  it  is,  any  more  than 
they  could  teach  a  blind  man  what  it  is 
to  see,  or  a  deaf  man  what  it  is  to  hear. 
Excellence,  holiness,  justice,  disinter- 
estedness, love,  are  words  which  never 
could  have  any  meaning  to  us,  if  the 
originals,  the  germs  of  those  qualities, 
were  not  within  us.  Let  any  person  ask 
himself  what  he  understands  by  love, 
the  love  of  man  or  of  God,  and  how  he 
obtained  the  idea  of  that  affection,  and 
he  will  find  that  he  understands  it,  be- 
cause he  feels  it,  or  has,  some  time  or 
other,  felt  it.  Once  more;  I  have  said 
that  these  feelings  of  benevolence  and 
piety,  cultivated  into  the  predominant 
habit  of  the  soul,  are  the  very  virtues 
and  graces  that  are  required  of  us.  And 
is  not  this  obviously  true  ?  We  all  know 
by  something  of  experience  what  it  is 
to  love  these  around  us ;  to  wish  them 


well ;  to  be  kindly  affectioned  and  mer- 
cifully disposed  towards  them.  And  we 
all  have  had  some  transient  emotions  at 
least  of  gratitude  and  love  to  the  Infinite 
Father.  Now  if  all  these  affections  were 
to  fill  our  hearts,  and  shine  in  our  lives 
always,  what  would  this  be,  but  that 
character  in  which  all  true  religion  and 
happiness  are  bound  up? 

Thus  reasonable  is  the  ground  which 
we  are  defending.  But  I  have  said 
also  that  it  is  certain  from  the  principles 
that  must  govern  us  in  the  interpretation 
of  Scripture.  The  Bible  addresses  itself 
to  the  world,  and  demands  a  certain  char- 
acter. In  describing  that  character  it 
adopts  terms  in  common  use.  It  tells 
us  that  we  must  be  lovers  of  God  and 
lovers  of  men  ;  that  we  must  be  gentle, 
forbearing,  and  forgiving  ;  true,  pure, 
and  faithful.  Now  if  it  does  not  mean 
by  these  words  as  to  their  radical  sense 
what  we  all  mean  by  tliem  ;  if  it  uses 
them  in  an  altogetlier  extraordinary 
and  unintelligible  manner,  then,  in  the 
first  place,  it  teaches  nothing  ;  and  next, 
it  leads  us  into  fatal  error.  The  conclu- 
sion is  inevitable.  What  the  Bible  pre- 
supposes to  be  a  riglit  knowledge  of  re- 
ligion is  a  right  knowledg'e. 

I  am  not  denying  that  we  are  to  grow 
in  this  knowledge  through  experience  ; 
and  that,  from  our  want  of  this  enlight- 
ening experience,  much  is  said  to  us 
in  the  Scriptures  of  our  own  blindness  : 
much  of  the  new  light  that  will  break  in 
upon  us,  with  theyv/// experience  of  the 
power  of  the  Gospel.  But  to  a  world 
totally  blind,  wrapped  in  total  darkness, 
and  having  no  conception  of  what  light 
is,  the  Bible  would  not  have  spoken  of 
light.  The  word  stands  for  an  idea. 
If  the  idea,  and  the  just  idea,  did  not 
exist,  the  word  would  not  be  used. 

There  is,  then,  a  light  in  the  human 
soul  amidst  all  its  darkness  ;  an  inward 
light ;  a  divine  light,  which,  if  it  were  in- 
creased instead  of  being  dimmed,  would 
shine  brighter  and  brighter  even  to  the 
perfect  day.  Let  any  man  have  taken 
the  best  feeling  that  ever  was  in  him — • 
some  feeling,  however  transient,  of  kind- 


144 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


ness  to  his  fellow,  or  some  emotion  of 
reverence  and  gratitude  to  his  Creator  ; 
let  him  liave  taken  that  feeling  and  all 
that  class  of  feelings,  and  cultivated  and 
carried  it  up  to  an  abiding  habit  of  mind, 
and  he  would  have  become  a  good  and 
pious  man.  This  change,  from  tran- 
sient to  habitual  emotions  of  goodness 
and  piety,  is  the  very  regeneration  that  is 
required  of  us.  The  being,  so  changed, 
would  be  "born  again,"  would  be  "a 
new  creature  ;"  old  things  witli  him  would 
have  passed  away,  and  all  things  would 
have  become  new." 

Now,  according  to  the  common  doc- 
trine, instead  of  this  slow,  thorough,  in- 
telligible, and  practical  change,  we  are 
to  look  for  a  new  and  unknown  element 
to  be  introduced  among  our  affections. 
A  man  feels  that  he  must  become  a 
Christian,  that  he  must  obtain  that 
character  on  which  all  happiness,  here 
and  hereafter,  depends.  And  now  what 
does  he  do  ?  Finding  in  himself  an 
emotion  of  good-will,  of  affection  for  his 
neighbor,  does  he  fasten  upon  that,  and 
say.  "  This  must  I  cherish  and  cultivate 
into  a  genuine  philanthropy  and  a  dis- 
interested love  "  ?  Feeling  the  duty  of 
being  honest,  does  he  say,  "  This  practi- 
cal conscience  must  I  erect  into  a  law"? 
Sensible,  in  some  gracious  hour,  of  the 
goodness  of  God  or  the  worth  of  a 
Saviour,  does  he  say,  "Let  me  keep  and 
bear  upon  my  heart  the  reverent  and 
sacred  impression  "  ?  No,  all  this  the 
popular  theology  repudiates,  and  repre- 
sents as  a  going  about  to  establish  our 
own  righteousness.  "  No,"  it  says,  "you 
must  feel  that  you  can  do  nothing  your- 
self; you  must  cast  yourself,  a  helpless, 
despairing  sinner,  upon  the  mercy  of 
God ;  you  must  not  look  to  the  powers 
of  a  totally  depraved  nature  to  help  you 
at  all ;  you  must  cast  yourself  wholly 
upon  Christ  ;  you  must  look  to  the  re- 
newing power  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  to 
the  creation  in  you  of  something  totally 
different  from  anything  that  is  in  you 
now." 

The  question  between  these  two  views 
of  religion   is  certainly   one  of  a  very 


serious  character ;  one  on  which  mo- 
mentous consequences  depend.  And  it 
is  a  question,  too,  which  concerns  not  one 
or  another  form  of  sectarian  faith  alone, 
but  the  entire  condition  of  Christianity 
in  the  world.  The  idea  of  religion  on 
which  I  have  dwelt  so  much  in  this  dis- 
course with  a  view  to  controvert  it  has 
penetrated  the  whole  mass  of  religious 
opinion.  No  body  of  Christians  has 
entirely  escaped  it;  not  even  our  own; 
though  our  characteristic  position,  as  I 
conceive,  at  the  present  moment,  is  one 
of  protest  against  it.  I  say  at  the  present 
moment.  We  have  gone  through  with  a 
speculative  controversy.  It  may  be  re- 
newed, no  doubt  ;  but  there  will  be  hard- 
ly anything  new  to  be  said  upon  it.  We 
Iiave  gone  through,  then,  with  the  argu- 
ment about  the  Trinity,  the  Atonement, 
Election,  and  such  speculative  matters; 
and  we  have  come  now  to  the  greater 
question,  What  is  religion  itself.''  And 
what  we  say  is,  that  religion  is  a  prin- 
ciple, deep-imbedded  in  the  conscience 
and  consciousness  of  all  mankind  ;  and 
that  from  these  germs  of  it,  which  are  to 
found  be  in  human  nature,  it  is  to  be 
cultivated  and  carried  up  to  perfection. 
What  is  maintained  on  the  contrary  is, 
that  religion,  the  true  and  saving  religion, 
is  a  principle  of  which  human  nature  is 
completely  ignorant  ;  that  to  make  a  man 
a  Christian,  is  to  implant  in  him  a  princi- 
ple, entirely  new,  and  before  unknown. 
Whether  it  be  called  a  principle,  or  a 
new  mode  of  spiritual  action,  for  some 
may  prefer  the  latter  description,  it  is 
the  same  thing  in  this  respect.  The  man 
unregenerate,  according  to  this  teaching, 
can  no  more  tell  what  he  is  to  feel  when 
made  regenerate,  than  a  man  can  antici- 
pate what  a  shock  of  electricity  will  be, 
or  what  will  be  the  effect  upon  his  sys- 
tem of  a  new  poison,  or  what  would  be 
the  experience  of  a  sixth  sense. 

The  establishment  of  this  point  is  so 
material  in  this  whole  discussion,  that  I 
shall  occupy  the  few  moments  that  re- 
main to  me,  with  the  attempt  to  relieve 
the  views  I  have  offered,  from  all  mis- 
apprehension. 


THE   IDENTITY   OF   RELIGION    \VITII   GOODNESS. 


I45 


Let  it  then  be  distinctly  observed,  in 
the  first  place,  that  the  question  is  not 
at  all  about  the  nature  or  necessity  or 
de<4ree  of  divine  influence.  Not,  what 
power  from  above  is  e.xerted  to  produce 
religion  in  the  soul,  but  what  the  religion 
is,  however  produced  ;  not  what  divine 
aid  is  given  to  human  endeavor,  but 
what  is  the  nature  and  result  of  that  en- 
deavor ;  not  what  grace  from  God,  but 
what  grace  in  man,  is  ;  this  is  the  ques- 
tion. Of  course,  we  believe  in  general 
that  all  true  religion,  in  common  with 
everything  else  good,  proceeds  from 
God.  And  for  myself,  I  firmly  believe 
that  it  pleases  the  Almighty  to  give 
special  assistance  to  the  humble  and 
prayerful  efforts  of  his  weak  and  tempt- 
ed creatures  ;  and  this,  not  only  when 
those  efforts  are  resolutely  commenced, 
but  in  every  successive  step  of  the  relig- 
ious course  ;  not  merely  nor  peculiarly 
in  the  hour  of  conversion,  but  equally 
in  the  whole  process  of  the  soul's  sanc- 
tification.  I  know  of  no  Scripture  war- 
rant for  supposing  that  this  divine 
influence  is  limited  to  any  particular, 
season,  or  is  concentrated  upon  any 
particular  exigency  of  the  soul's  experi- 
ence. 

In  the  next  place,  I  do  not  say  that 
the  notion  of  religion  as  a  mystery  or  an 
enigma  embraces  or  usurps  the  whole 
of  the  popular  idea  of  religion.  When 
I  shall  come  to  speak  of  the  injurious 
consequences  of  this  idea,  I  shall  main- 
tain that  an  enigma  cannot  be  the  ob- 
ject of  any  moral  admiration,  or  love,  or 
culture,  or  sensibility  ;  and  I  may  then 
be  asked  if  I  mean  to  say  that  there  is 
no  religious  goodness  or  earnestness 
among  those  who  embrace  this  idea. 
And  to  this,  I  answer  beforehand  and 
decidedly,  "  No,  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
this."  If  the  idea  were  not  modified 
nor  qualified  in  any  way,  if  no  other 
ideas  mixed  themselves  up  with  that  of 
a  mystic  religion,  this  would  be  the  re- 
sult. It  is  seldom  that  error  practically 
stands  alone.  Still  it  is  proper  to  single 
it  out,  and  to  consider  it  by  itself.  And 
I  do  maintain,  too,  that  this  error  pre- 

lo 


dominates  sufficiently  to  exert  the  most 
disastrous  influence  upon  the  religion 
of  the  whole  Christian  world.  ' 

The  whole  of  Christianity  as  it  is 
commonly  received,  is,  in  my  view, 
greatly  perverted,  corrupted,  and  enfee- 
bled by  this  error.  Christianity  is  not 
regarded  as  a  clearer  and  more  impres- 
sive exhibition  of  the  long-established, 
well-known,  eternal  laws  of  man's  spir- 
itual welfare,  but  as  the  bringing  in  of 
an  entirely  new  sclieme  of  salvation. 
The  common  interpretation  of  it.  instead 
of  recognizing  the  liberal  Apostolic  doc- 
trine, that  the  "  way  of  salvation  is 
known  to  all  men,  that  those  not  having 
the  written  law  are  a  law  to  themselves, 
and  that  in  every  nation  he  that  worships 
God  and  works  righteousness  "  is  ac- 
cepted of  him,  holds  in  utter  derogation 
and  sovereign  scorn  all  heathen  liglit 
and  virtue.  The  prevailing  idea  is, 
that  the  Gospel  is  a  certain  device  or 
contrivance  of  divine  wisdom,  to  save 
men ;  not  helping  them  in  the  way 
which  they  already  perceive  in  their 
own  consciousness,  but  superseding  all 
such  ways  and  laying  them  aside  en- 
tirely ;  not  opening  and  unfolding  new 
lights  and  encouragements  to  that 
way  by  revelations  of  God's  paternal 
mercy  and  pledges  of  his  forgiving 
love,  but  revealing  a  way  altogether 
new. 

Thus  the  Gospel  itself  is  made  a  kind 
of  mystic  secret.  I  cannot  allow  a  few 
of  the  more  intelligent  expounders  of  it 
to  reply,  as  if  that  were  sufficient,  that 
they  do  not  regard  it  in  this  light.  I 
ask  them  to  consider  what  is  \\\& general 
impression  conveyed  by  most  preachers 
of  Christianity.  They  may  be  offended 
when  we  say  that  vital  religion  is  com- 
monly represented  as  a  mystery,  an 
enigma,  to  the  mass  of  their  hearers. 
But  let  us  not  dispute  about  words. 
They  do  represent  it  as  something  cre- 
ated in  their  heart,  which  was  not  there 
before  ;  of  which  no  element  was  there 
before  ;  of  which  no  man's  previous  ex- 
perience ever  gives  him  any  information, 
any  conception.     If  this  is  not  a  mys- 


146 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


tery  to  mankind,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
tell  what  there  is  that  deserves  the 
name.  Suppose  the  same  thing  to  be 
applied  to  men's  general  knowledge. 
Men  know  many  things  ;  but  suppose 
it  were  asserted  that  in  all  their  know- 
ing there  is  not  one  particle  of  true 
knovA-ledge,  and  that  only  here  and  there 
one,  who  has  been  specially  and  di- 
vinely enlightened,  possesses  any  such 
knowledge.  Would  not  such  knowledge, 
then,  be  a  secret  shared  by  a  few,  and 
kept  from  the  rest  of  the  world  ? 
Would  it  not  be  a  profound  mystery 
to  the  mass  of  mankind  ?  Yes ;  and  a 
mystery  all  the  darker  for  the  seem- 
ing light  that  surrounded  it ! 

How  much  is  there  that  passes  in  the 
bo3om  of  society,  unquestioned  and  al- 
most unknown!  It  is  this  which  pre- 
vents us  from  seeing  the  momentous 
fact,  and  the  character  of  the  fact,  which 
I  have  now  been  attempting  to  strip 
bare  and  to  lay  before  you.  It  would 
seem  that  we  least  know  that  which  is 
nearest  to  us,  which  is  most  familiar 
and  most  certain,  which  is  mixed  up 
most  intimately  with  all  present  thought 
and  usage,  and  with  the  life  that  we 
daily  live.  A  thing  must  become  his- 
tory, it  would  seem,  before  we  can  fairly 
read  it.  This  is  commonly  allowed  to  be 
true  of  political  affairs  ;  but  it  is  just  as 
true  of  all  human  experience.  Thus,  if 
there  had  been  a  sect,  among  the  old 
philosophers,  which  pretended  to  hold 
the  exclusive  possession  of  all  science  ; 
if  certain  persons  had  stood  up  in  the 
ancient  time,  and  said,  "  That  which 
other  men  call  science  is  all  an  illusion  ; 
we  alone  truly  know  anything  ;  all  other 
men  are  but  fools  and  idiots  in  this  mat- 
ter ;  they  suppose  themselves  to  know, 
but  they  know  nothing  ;  they  use  words, 
and  make  distinctions,  and  write  books, 
as  if  they  knew,  but  they  know  nothing  ; 
they  do  not  even  know  what  knowing 
is  ;"  such  a  pretension  we  should  not 
hesitate  to  characterize  as  a  strange 
mixture  of  mysticism  and  arrogance. 
-But  the  same  assumption  in  regard  to 


religion  is  now  put  forth  among  our- 
selves ;  it  is  announced  every  week  from 
the  pulpit  ;  it  is  constantly  written  in 
books  ;  it  enters  into  every  argument 
about  total  depravity  and  regeneration 
and  divine  grace  ;  and  men  seem  to- 
tally insensible  to  its  enormity  ;  it  is 
regarded  as  a  mark  of  peculiar  wisdom 
and  sanctity  ;  the  men  who  take  this 
ground  are  the  accredited  Christian 
teachers  of  multitudes  ;  they  speak  as 
if  the  secret  of  the  matter  were  in  them, 
and  as  if  they  were  perfectly  entitled, 
in  virtue  of  a  certain  divine  illumination 
which  they  have  received,  to  pronounce 
all  other  religious  claims  to  be  ground- 
less and  false  ;  to  say  of  all  other  men 
but  the  body  of  the  elect,  "  They  think 
they  know  what  rehgion  is  ;  they  talk 
about  it  ;  they  make  disquisitions  and 
distinctions  as  if  they  knew,  but  they 
know  nothing  about  it  ;  they  do  not 
even  know  what  true  religious  knowing 
is."  And  all  the  people  say.  Amen. 
There  is  no  rebuke ;  there  is  no  ques- 
tioning ;  the  light  of  coming  ages  has 
not  yet  shone  upon  this  pretension  ;  and 
the  people  say.  It  is  all  very  right,  very 
true. 

I  pray  you,  in  fine,  not  to  regard  what 
I  have  now  been  saying  as  a  sectarian 
remonstrance.  Nay,  and  if  it  were  so, 
it  would  not  be  likely  to  be  half  strong 
enough.  There  is  a  heavy  indifference 
on  this  subject  of  rehgion  that  weighs 
down  remonstrance,  and  will  not  let  it 
rise  as  it  ought.  If  certain  shipmasters 
or  merchants  should  say  that  they  only 
understood  navigation;  if  certain  mech- 
anicians or  manufacturers  should  as- 
sert that  they  only  understood  their  art 
or  their  business  ;  if  certain  lawyers  or 
physicians  should  lay  exclusive  claim 
to  the  knowledge  of  law  or  medicine, — 
there  would  be  an  outburst  of  indigna- 
tion and  scorn  on  every  hand.  "  What 
presumption  !  what  folly  !  these  people 
are  deranged  !"  would  be  the  exclama- 
tion. But  men  may  make  this  claim  in 
religion  ;  a  few  persons  comparatively  in 
Christendom  may  say,  "We  only  have 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


147 


reliiiion  ;  we  alone  truly  know  what 
religion  is ; "  and  the  indifference  of 
society  replies,  "  No  matter  ;  let  tliem 
claim  it  ;  let  them  have  it  ;  "  as  if  the 
thing  were  not  worth  disputing  about. 
And  if  some  one  arouses  himself  to  ex- 
amine and  to  resist  this  claim,  indiffer- 
ence still  says,  '*  Tliis  is  but  a  paltry, 
sectarian  dispute." 

No,  sirs,  I  answer,  this  is  not  a  sec- 
tarian dispute.  It  is  not  a  sectarian 
remonstrance  that  is  demanded  here  ; 
but  the  remonstrance  of  all  human  ex- 
perience. Religion  is  the  science  of 
man's  intrinsic  and  immortal  welfare 
What  is  a  true  knowledge,  what  is  a  true 
experience,  here,  is  a  question  of  nothing 
less  than  infinite  moment.  All  that  a 
man  is  to  enjoy  or  suffer  forever,  de- 
pends upon  the  right,  practical  solution 
of  this  very  question.  Everywhere  else, 
in  business,  in  science,  in  his  profession, 
may  a  man  mistake  with  comparative 
impunity.  But  if  he  mistakes  here,  if 
he  does  not  know,  and  know  by  ex- 
perience, what  it  is  to  be  good  and  pure, 
what  it  is  to  love  God  and  to  be  con- 
formed to  his  image,  he  is,  in  spite  of  all 
that  men  or  angels  can  do  for  him,  a 
ruined  creature. 

Settle  it  then  with  yourselves,  my 
brethren,  what  true  religion,  true  good- 
ness, is.  I  will  attempt,  in  some  further 
discourses,  to  lead  you  to  the  inferences 
that  follow  from  this  discussion.  But  it 
is  so  fruitful  in  obvious  inferences,  that 
I  am  willing  for  the  present  to  leave  it 
with  you,  for  your  reflections.  But  this 
I  say  now.  Settle  it  with  yourselves 
what  true  religion  is.  If  it  is  a  mystery, 
then  leave  no  means  untried  to  become 
acquainted  with  that  mystery.  If  it  is 
but  the  cultivation,  the  increase,  in  you 
of  what  you  already  know  and  feel  to  be 
right,  then  address  yourselves  to  that 
work  of  self-culture,  as  men  who  know 
that  more  than  fortunes  and  honors 
depend  upon  it  ;  who  know  that  the 
soul,  that  heaven,  that  eternity,  depend 
upon  it. 


XXII. 

ON  THE  IDENTITY  OF  RELIGION 
WITH  GOODNESS,  AND  WITH  A 
GOOD  LIFE. 

I  John  iv.  20  :  "If  a  man  say,  I  love  God,  and  hateth 
his  brother,  he  is  a  liar;  for  he  that  loveth  not  his 
brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God 
whom  he  hath  not  seen.''' 

I  HAVE  presented,  in  my  last  dis- 
course, two  views  of  religion,  or  of  the 
supreme  human  excellence  ;  and  I  have 
offered  some  brief,  but,  as  I  conceive, 
decisive  considerations  to  show  which  is 
the  right  view.  The  one  regards  relig- 
ion or  the  saving  virtue,  as  a  new  creation 
in  the  soul  ;  the  other,  as  the  culture  of 
what  is  already  in  the  soul.  The  one 
contemplates  conversion  as  the  intro- 
duction of  an  entirely  new  element,  or 
of  an  entirely  new  mode  of  action,  into 
our  nature  ;  the  other,  as  a  strengthening, 
elevating,  and  confirming  of  the  con- 
science, the  reverence,  and  the  love  that 
are  already  a  part  of*  our  nature.  A 
simple  comparison  drawn  from  vegetable 
nature  will  show  the  difference.  Here 
is  a  garden  of  plants.  The  rational 
gardener  looks  upon  them  all  as  having 
in  them  the  elements  of  growth  and  per- 
fection. His  business  is  to  cultivate 
them.  To  make  the  comparison  more 
exact  -^  he  sees  that  these  plants  have 
lost  their  proper  beauty  and  shapeliness, 
that  they  are  distorted  and  dwarfed  and 
ciioked  with  weeds.  But  still  the  germs 
of  improvement  are  in  them,  and  his 
business  is  to  cultivate  them  But  now 
what  does  the  theological  gardener  say  ? 
"  No,  in  not  one  of  these  plants  is  to  be 
found  the  germ  of  the  right  production. 
To  obtain  this,  it  is  necessary  to  graft 
upon  each  one  a  new  principle  of 
life." 

Now  I  have  said,  that,  upon  the 
theory  in  question,  this  new  creation, 
this  new  element,  this  graft  upon  the 
stock  of  humanity,  is,  and  must  be  to 
the  mass  of  mankind,  a  mystery,  an 
enigma,  a  profound  secret.  And  is  not 
this  obviously  true  ?    Man,  in  a  state  of 


148 


ON    THE    NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


nature,  it  is  constantly  tau'^ht,  lias  not 
one  particle  of  the  true  saving  excellence. 
How,  then,  should  he  know  what  it  is? 
"  Very  true,"  says  the  popular  theorist; 
"  I  accept  the  conclusion ;  is  it  not 
written,  the  natural  man  receiveth  not 
the  things  of  God,  neither  can  he  know 
them,  because  they  ai;e  spiritually  dis- 
cerned?" That  is  to  say,  the  popular 
theorist  understands  by  the  natural  man, 
in  this  much  quoted  and  much  misunder- 
stood passage,  human  nature.  If  he 
construed  it  to  mean,  the  sensual  man,  I 
conceive  that  he  would  arrive  at  a  just 
exposition.  But  that  is  not  the  point  in 
question  now.  He  does  construe  it  to 
mean  human  nature  ;  this  is  constantly 
done.  Human  nature  being  nothing  but 
one  mass  of  unmingled  depravity,  hav- 
ing never  had  one  right  motion  or  one 
right  feeling,  can,  of  course,  have  no 
knowledge  of  any  such  motion  or  feel- 
ing. 

And  to  show  that  this  is  not  a  matter 
of  doctrine  only,  but  of  experience  too, 
let  me  spread  before  you  a  single  sup- 
position of  what  often,  doubtless,  takes 
place  in  fact.  A  man  of  generally  fair 
and  unexceptionable  life  is  lying  upon 
his  bed  of  death,  and  is  visited  and 
questioned,  with  a  view  to  his  spiritual 
condition.  Suppose  now  he  were  to 
say,  "  I  have  had  for  some  time  past, 
though  I  never  confessed  it  before,  a 
certain  unusual,  indescribable  feeling  in 
my  heart  on  the  subject  of  religion.  It 
came  upon  me,  for  I  remember  it  well,  in 
such  a  month  of  such  a  year;  it  was  a 
new  feeling  ;  I  had  never  felt  anything 
like  it  before.  Ever  since,  I  have  had 
a  hope  that  I  then  experienced  religion. 
Not  that  I  trust  myself,  or  anything  in 
myself  ;  I  cast  all  my  burden  upon 
Christ ;  nothing  but  Christ  —  nothing 
but  Christ,  is  the  language  upon  my 
lips  with  which  1  would  part  from  this 
world  ;  "  and  would  not  this  declaration, 
I  ask,  though  conveying  no  tone  intelli- 
gible or  definite  idea  to  the  most  of  those 
around  him,  be  held  to  be  a  very  satis- 
factory account  of  his  preparation  for 
futurity  ?    But    now    suppose    that    he 


should  express  himself  in  a  different 
manner,  and  should  utter  the  thoughts 
of  his  heart  thus  :  "  I  know  that  I  am 
far  from  perfect,  that  I  have,  in  many 
things,  been  very  unfaithful  :  I  see  much 
to  repent  of,  for  which  I  hope  and  im- 
plore God's  forgiveness.  But  I  do 
trust,  that  for  a  number  of  years  I  have 
been  growing  in  goodness  ;  that  I  have 
had  a  stronger  and  stronger  control  over 
my  passions.  Alas!  I  remember  sad 
and  mournful  years,  in  which  they  had 
dominion  over  me  ;  but  I  do  trust  that  I 
did  at  length  gain  the  victory  ;  and  that 
latterly  I  have  become,  every  year,  more 
and  more  pure,  kind,  gentle,  patient,  dis- 
interested, spiritual,  and  devout.  I  feel 
that  God's  presence,  in  which  I  am  ever 
happiest,  has  been  more  abidingly  with 
me  ;  and,  in  short,  I  hope  that  the  foun- 
dations of  true  happiness  have  been 
laid  deep  in  my  soul  ;  and  that  through 
God's  mercy,  of  which  I  acknowledge 
the  most  adorable  manifestation  and  the 
most  blessed  pledge  in  the  Gospel,  I 
shall  be  happv  forever."  And  now  i  ask 
you,  do  you  not  think  that  tliis  account, 
with  many  persons,  would  have  lost  just 
as  much  in  satisfactoriness  as  it  has 
gained  in  clearness  ?  Would  not  some 
of  the  wise,  the  guides  in  Israel,  go 
away,  shaking  their  heads,  and  saying, 
they  feared  it  would  never  do  ?  "  Too 
much  talk  about  his  own  virtues  ! "  they 
would  say;  "too  little  about  Christ!" 
with  an  air  itself  mysterious  in  that 
solemn  reference.  And  doubtless  if 
this  man  had  talked  more  mystically 
about  -Christ  and  grace  and  the  Holy 
Spirit,  it  would  have  been  far  more  sat- 
isfactory. And  yet  he  has  stated,  and 
clearly  stated,  the  essential  grounds  of 
all  human  welfare  and  hope. 

How  often  in  life,  to  take  another  in- 
stance, does  a  highly  moral  and  excellent 
man  say,  "  I  hope  I  am  not  a  bad  man  ; 
I  mean  to  do  right  ;  I  trust  I  am  not 
devoid  of  all  kind  and  generous  affec- 
tions towards  my  fellow-men,  or  of  all 
grateful  feelings  towards  my  Maker;  but 
then  I  do  not  profess  to  have  religion. 
I  do  not  pretend  that  I  am  a  Christian 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


M9 


in  any  degree."  Let  not  my  construction 
of  this  case  be  mistaken.  Doubtless  in 
many  such  persons  there  are  great  de- 
fects ;  nay,  and  defects  proceeding  partly 
from  the  very  error  which  I  am  com- 
bating. For  if  I  were  to  say  to  such 
persons,  "  Yes,  you  have  some  good  and 
pious  affections  in  you,  which  God  ap- 
proves, and  your  only  business  is,  to 
give  the  supremacy  to  these  very  affec- 
tions which  are  already  in  you  ;  "  I 
should  be  thought  to  have  lulled  his  con- 
science, fostered  his  pride,  and  ruined 
his  soul.  I  should  be  regarded  as  a 
worldly  moralizer,  a  preacher  of  smooth 
things,  a  follower  of  the  long-doomed 
heresy  of  Pelagius.  "  No,"  it  would  be 
said,  "  there  is  no  saving  virtue  in  that 
man  ;  there  is  nothing  in  him  that  can 
be  strengthened  or  refined  or  elevated 
or  confirmed  into  holiness  ;  there  is  no 
spark  to  be  fanned  into  a  flame,  no  germ 
to  be  reared  into  saving  life  and  beauty; 
all  these  things  are  to  be  flung  aside  to 
make  way  for  the  reception  of  some- 
thing altogether  new  ;  as  new  as  light 
to  the  blind,  or  as  life  to  the  dead.  That 
something,  when  it  comes,  will  be  what 
he  never  knew  before,  never  felt  before, 
never  bsfore  truly  saw  or  conceived  of  ; 
and  it  is,  undoubtedly,  though  that  is  an 
unusual  way  of  describing  it,  —  it  is,  to 
depraved  human  nature,  a  mystery." 

Tins  unquestionable  assumption  of 
the  popular  religion  I  shall  now  proceed 
freely  to  discuss  in  several  points  of 
view  ;  in  its  bearing  on  the  estimate  and 
treatment  of  religion,  on  its  culture,  and 
on  its  essential  vitality  and  power. 

In  the  present  discourse  I  shall  con- 
sider its  bearing  on  the  estimate  and  on 
the  treatment  of  religion. 

First,  the  general  estimate  of  the  na- 
ture, reasonableness,  and  beauty  of  re- 
ligion ;  what  can  it  be,  if  religion  is  a 
mystery,  an  enigma,  a  thing  unknown  ? 
We  may  feel  curiosity  about  a  mystery  ; 
and  I  have  seen  more  than  one  person 
seeking  religion  from  tliis  impulse;  be- 
cause they  would  know  what  it  can  be. 
This  is  uncommon,  doubtless  ;  but  taken 
in  any  view,  can  men  be  in  love  with  a 


mystery  ?  Can  they  feel  any  moral  ad- 
miration for  an  enigma .-'  Can  their 
affections  be  strongly  drawn  to  what  is 
completely  unknown  ?  Can  they  feel 
even  the  rectitude  of  that  of  which  they 
have  no  appreciation,  no  idea  ?  Cer- 
tainly not  ;  and  in  accordance  with  this 
view  is  the  old  Calvinistic  doctrine 
concerning  the  means  of  grace,  whicli 
utterly  denied  the  force  of  moral  suasion, 
and  held  that  there  is  no  natural  ten- 
dency in  preaching  to  change  the  heart ; 
that  the  connection  between  preaching 
and  regeneration  was  as  purely  arbitrary 
as  that  between  the  voice  of  Ezekiel 
over  the  valley  of  dry  bones  and  their 
resurrection  to  life. 

But  suppose  this  view  of  preaching 
be  modified,  and  that  a  man  designs  to 
impress  his  hearers  with  the  reasonable- 
ness and  beauty  of  religion,  and  so  to 
draw  their  hearts  to  it.  What,  let  us  ask 
him,  can  you  do,  upon  the  principle  that 
religion  is  utterly  foreign  to  human  na- 
ture, an  absolute  secret  to  humanity  ? 
You  have  denied  and  rejected  the  only 
means  of  rational  impression,  —  some 
knowledge  and  experience  in  the  hear- 
ers of  that  about  which  you  are  speak- 
ing to  them.  You  have  disannulled  the 
very  laws  and  grounds  of  penitence  ; 
for  how  can  men  feel  to  blame  for  not 
possessing  the  knowledge  of  a  secret  ? 
In  fine,  you  may  be  a  magician  to  men 
upon  this  principle  ;  but  I  do  not  per- 
ceive how  you  can  be  a  rational  preacher. 
You  may  say,  "  This,  of  which  I  speak 
to  you,  is  something  wonderful  ;  try  it ; 
you  have  no  idea  what  it  will  be  to  you  ; 
you  will  find  — "  you  cannot  say,  you 
see,  — but,  "  you  will  find  that  it  is  some- 
thing delightful  and  beautiful  beyond  all 
things."  And  have  we  never  witnessed 
a  preaching  which  seemed  to  work  upon 
the  hearers,  as  it  were,  by  a  kind  of  art 
magic :  solemn  and  affecting  tones,  a 
preternatural  air,  a  talking  as  of  some 
secret  in  heaven  ready  to  come  right 
down  into  the  hearts  of  the  hearers,  if 
they  will  :  an  awful  expostulation  with 
them  for  their  refusal  :  a  mysterious  in- 
fluence  drawn  around  the  place  ;  dark 


150 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


depths  oi  woe  here  ;  a  bright  haze  of 
splendor  there  ;  heaven  above,  hell  be- 
neath ;  and  the  sinner  suspended  be- 
tween them  by  a  parting  cord !  And 
how,  oh!  how,  was  he  now  to  escape? 
Mark  the  answer  ;  for  if  there  ever  was 
a  mystery,  here  is  one.  By  some  stu- 
pendous change  then  and  there  to  take 
place  ;  not  by  rationally  cultivating  any 
good  affections  ;  not  by  solemnly  re- 
solving to  do  so  ;  not  at  all  by  that  kind 
of  change  ;  but  by  a  change  instant,  im- 
mense, mysterious,  incomprehensible  ; 
a  change  that  would  wrap  up  in  that 
moment  the  destinies  of  eternity,  that 
should  gather  up  all  the  welfare  or  woe 
of  the  infinite  ages  of  being  into  the 
mysterious  bosom  of  that  awful  mo- 
ment ! 

Can  such  teaching  as  this  go  to  the 
silent  depths  of  real  and  rational  convic- 
tion ?  Did  Jesus  Christ  teach  in  this 
manner?  Think  how  natural,  how 
moral,  how  simple,  his  teachings  were. 
Think  how  he  taught  men  their  duty  in 
every  form  which  the  instant  occasion 
suggested.  Think  of  his  deep  sobriety, 
of  his  solemn  appeals  to  conscience 
rather  than  to  imagination,  to  what  was 
///  man  rather  than  what  was  out  of  him  ; 
and  then  answer  me.  Did  the  great 
Bible  preachers  teach  so?  Behold  the 
beauty  of  holiness,  they  say  ;  behold  the 
glory  of  the  Lord  ;  "know  and  see  that 
it  is  an  evil  thing  and  bitter  to  depart  " 
from  them.  "  Come,  ye  children,  and 
I  will  teach  you  the  fear  of  the  Lord. 
What  man  is  he  that  desireth  life  and 
loveth  many  days  that  he  may  see  good  ? 
Keep  thy  tongue  from  evil,  and  thy  lips 
from  speaking  guile.  Depart  from  evil 
and  do  good  ;  seek  peace  and  pursue  it. 
The  eyes  of  the  Lord  are  upon  such 
righteous  ones,  and  his  ears  are  open 
to  their  cry."  All  simple  ;  all  intelligi- 
ble ;  all  plain  and  level  to  the  humblest 
apprehension  ;  no  talking  of  a  mysteri- 
ous secret  here  ;  no  mysterious  talking 
any  way  ! 

It  is  very  difficult  to  speak  the  exact 
and  undisputed  truth  upon  any  point, 
amidst  the  endless  shapings  and  shadow- 


ings  of  language  and  opinion.  I  myself, 
who  protest  against  making  a  secret  of 
religion,  may  be  found  speaking  of  most 
men  as  very  ignorant  of  religion  i  of 
the  depths  of  the  Gospel  as  yet  to  be 
sounded  by  them ;  of  the  preciousness  of 
the  great  resource  as  yet  to  be  felt,  yet 
to  be  found  out  by  them.  But  I  am  well 
understood,  by  those  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  hear  me,  not  to  mean  anything 
which  is  radically  a  secret  of  humanity, 
but  simply  the  increase  and  consumma- 
tion in  the  soul  of  that  which  it  already 
knows  and  experiences.  The  change 
from  transient  and  unstable  to  habitual 
and  abiding  emotion  of  goodness  and 
piety  is  the  most  immense,  the  most  im- 
portant, the  most  glorious  on  earth  ;  and 
it  is  one,  of  which  those  who  are  igno- 
rant of  it  cannot  clearly  foresee  all  the 
blessed  fruits. 

Again,  it  is  very  difficult  to  describe 
what  is  deemed  a  great  error,  without 
seeming  to  do  it  harshly.  I  would  gladly 
avoid  this  imputation.  God  forbid  that 
I  should  speak  lightly  of  the  preach- 
ing of  good  and  earnest  men.  I  must 
speak  plainly  of  it.  I  must  remonstrate 
against  what  I  deem  to  be  its  errors. 
But  I  do  not  forget  that  with  all  error 
there  is  a  mixture  of  truth.  No  doubt 
there  are,  in  all  pulpits,  many  appeals, 
however  inconsistent  with  the  prevailing 
theology,  to  what  men  naturally  know 
and  feel  of  the  rectitude  and  beauty  of 
religion.  But  from  this  mass  of  teach- 
ing I  single  out  one  element  which,  I 
say,  is  not  accordant  with  truth  ;  which, 
I  must  say,  is  not  only  false,  but  fatal  to 
all  just  appreciation  of  religion.  ■ 

And  does  not  the  actual  state  of  things      I 
show  this  to  be   the  fact?     With  what 
eyes    are  men,  in  fact,  looking  upon    a 
religion  which  holds  itself  to  be  a  mystic 
secret  in  the  bosom  of  a  few  ?     Do  you 
not  know  that  the  entire  literature  and 
philosophy  of  the  age  are  in  a  state  of 
revolt  against  it  ?     Our  literature  has  its      M 
ideals  of  character,  its  images  of  virtue      « 
and  worth  ;  it  portrays  the  moral  beauty 
that  it  admires  :  but  is  there  one  trace  of      ^ 
this  mystic  religion  in  its  delineations  ?     fl 


THE   IDENTITY   OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


15' 


Our  philosop'.-.y,  our  moral  philosopliy 
especially,  whose  very  business  it  is  to 
decide  what  is  right,  calmly  treads  this 
religion  under  foot,  does  not  consider  its 
claims  at  all.  And  the  cultivators  of  lit- 
erature, of  science,  and  of  art,  witli  a 
multitude  of  thoughtful  and  intelligent 
men  besides  them  —  is  it  not  a  well- 
ascertained  fact  that  they  are  remarka- 
bly indifferent  to  this  kind  of  religion  ? 
Here  and  there  one  has  fallen  in  with  it ; 
luit  the  instance  is  rare.  But  if  religion 
were  presented  to  them  as  a  broad  and 
rational  principle,  we  might  expect  the 
reverse  to  be  the  fact.  Thoughtful  men, 
cultivators  of  literature  and  art,  arc  the 
very  men  whose  minds  are  most  con- 
versant with  images  of  moral  beauty. 
Show  them  that  all  true  moral  beauty 
is  a  part  of  religion ;  tell  them  that  a 
Christian  in  t!ie  true  sense  is  a  man  of 
principle,  of  truth  and  integrity,  of  kind- 
ness and  modesty,  of  reverence  and 
devotion  to  the  Supreme  Glory;  and 
they  must  feel  that  all  this  is  inter- 
esting. But  if  religion  is  some  myste- 
rious property  ingrafted  into  the  soul, 
differing  altogether  from  all  that  men 
are  wont  to  call  rectitude  and  beauty, 
must  not  all  intellect  and  taste,  and  all 
moral  enthusiasm,  and  all  social  generos- 
ity and  love,  shrink  from  it.''  In  truth, 
I  wonder  that  they  are  so  patient  as  they 
are;  and  nothing  but  indifference  about 
the  whole  matter  can  account  for  this 
patience.  When  the  preacher  rises  in 
his  pulpit  and  tells  the  congregation, 
that,  excepting  that  grace  which  is  found 
in  a  few,  all  their  integrity  and  virtue, 
all  their  social  love  and  gentleness,  all 
their  alms  and  prayers,  have  not  in  the 
sight  of  God  one  particle  of  true  goodness 
or  worth  ;  nothing,  I  say,  but  profound 
apathy  and  unbelief  can  account  for  their 
listening  to  the  sermon  with  anv  patience, 
with  an  instant's  toleration  of  the  crush- 
ing burden  of  that  doctrine.  Or  sup- 
pose this  doctrine  embodied  into  a  char- 
acter, and  then  how  does  it  appear.? 
Suppose  one  person  in  a  family  possess- 
ing this  mystic  grace;  in  no  other  respect, 
that  anybody  can   see,  better  than  the 


rest ;  no  more  amiable  nor  gentle  nor 
disinterested,  no  more  just  nor  for- 
bearing nor  loving :  and  suppose  this 
person  to  take  the  position  of  being  the 
only  one  in  that  family  that  is  approved 
of  God,  to  hold  all  the  rest  as  reprobate 
and  doomed  to  destruction  ;  is  it  possi- 
ble, I  ask,  to  feel  for  that  person,  in  that 
character,  any  respect,  or  admiration,  or 
love  ?  Nay,  I  have  known  persons  of  the 
greatest  defects  of  character,  and  even 
of  gross  vices,  to  take  this  ground  of  su- 
periority, in  virtue  of  a  certain  inward 
grace  which  they  conceive  has  been  ap- 
plied to  them.  And  I  say  not  this  for 
the  sake  of  opprobrium  ;  but  because 
this  ground  is,  in  fact,  a  legitimate  con- 
sequence of  the  doctrine  that  saving 
grace  in  the  heart  is  an  entirely  distinct 
and  different  tiling  from  what  men  ordi- 
narily call  virtue  and  goodness. 

But  further ;  what  is  the  state  of  feel- 
ing towards  religion  among  those  who 
accept  this  doctrine?  In  those  strong- 
holds of  theology  or  of  Church  institu- 
tion where  this  doctrine  is  intrenched, 
where  it  is  preserved  as  a  treasure  sacred 
from  all  profane  invasion,  or  held  as  a  bul- 
wark against  what  are  called  the  inroads 
of  insidious  error  ;  in  these  places,  I  say, 
what  is  the  feeling.?  If  religion  is  not 
any  known  or  felt  sentiment  or  affection 
of  human  nature  to  be  cultivated,  but  is 
a  spell  that  comes  upon  the  heart  of  one 
and  another,  and  nobody  can  tell  how  or 
when  it  will  come,  I  can  conceive  that 
there  may  be  much  fear  and  anxiety 
about  it ;  but  how  there  should  be  much 
true  freedom  or  genuine  and  generous 
love,  I  cannot  conceive.  I  do  not  pro- 
fess to  have  any  very  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  m.ind  of  such  a  congrega- 
tion ;  but  if  religion  does  not  press  as 
an  incubus  upon  tlie  minds  of  many 
tliere  ;  if  it  is  not  a  luigbear  to  the  young, 
and'  a  mystery  to  the  thoughtful,  and  a 
dull,  dead  weight  upon  the  hearts  of  the 
uninitiated  ;  if,  in  its  votaries,  it  is  not 
ever  swaying  between  the  extremes  of 
death-like  coldness  and  visionary  rapn 
ture ;  if  it  is  not  a  little  pent-up  hope 
of  salvation,  ratlier  than  a  generous  and 


152 


ON    THE    NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


quickening  principle  of  culture ;  if  the 
fire  in  the  secret  shrine  does  not  wither 
the  gentle  and  lofty  virtues ;  I  must 
confess  that  1  understand  nothing  of  the 
tendencies  of  human  nature.  There 
may  be  much  religiousness  in  such  a 
state  of  things  ;  but  much  of  this  has 
existed  in  many  a  state,  Heathen,  Ma- 
hometan, Catholic,  and  Protestant  too, 
without  much  of  true  religion.  I  do  not 
say  that  the  churches  consist  generally 
of  bad  people;  many  influences  unite  to 
form  the  character  ;  but  1  say  that  in  so 
far  as  any  churches  hold  their  religion 
to  be  some  special  grace  implanted  in 
them,  and  different  from  all  that  other 
men  feel  of  goodness  and  piety,  so  far 
their  assumption  tends  directly  to  make 
them  neglect  the  cultivation  of  all  true 
worth  and  nobleness  of  character.  And 
I  am  not  shaken  in  this  position  by  the 
admission  which  I  am  willing  to  make, 
that  there  are  probably  more  good  men, 
in  proportion,  in  the  churches  than  otit 
of  them  ;  for  profession  itself,  the  eye 
of  the  world  upon  them,  and  the  use  of 
certain  ordinances  are  powerful  influ- 
ences. They  are  powerful,  and  yet  they 
are  not  the  loftiest  influences.  They 
restrain  more  than  they  iinpel.  And 
the  very  morality  of  an  exclusive  religion 
is  apt  to  wear  features  hard,  stern,  un- 
genial,  and  unlovely. 

I  have  said,  in  the  opening  of  my  last 
discourse,  that  the  great  mission  of  the 
true  teacher  in  this  age  is  to  establish 
the  identity  of  religion  and  goodness. 
And  the  reason  is,  that  by  no  other 
means  can  religion  be  really  esteemed 
and  loved.  Feared  it  may  be  ;  desired 
it  may  be  ;  but  by  no  other  means,  I 
repeat,  can  it  be  truly  and  heartily  es- 
teemed and  loved. 

Now  consider  that  religion  stands  be- 
fore the  world  with  precisely  this  claim, 
the  claim  to  be,  above  all  other  things, 
reverenced  and  loved.  Nay,  it  demands 
this  love  on  pain  of  perdition  for  failure. 
Does  the  world  respond  to  this  claim  ? 
Does  public  sentiment  anywhere  yield  to 
it  ?  There  (7r^  things  that  unite  the  moral 
suffrages  of  mankind,  —  honesty,  integ- 


rity, disinterestedness,  pity  for  the  sor- 
rowful, true  love,  true  sanctity,  self-sacri- 
fice, martyrdom,  and  among  them  and 
above  them  all,  the  character  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Among  these,  does  Calvinistic 
piety  hold  any  place  ?  This  is  a  fair  and 
unexceptionable  question  in  the  sense 
in  which  I  mean  it.  I  am  not  speaking 
at  all  of  persons,  I  am  speaking  of  an 
idea.  Is  the  Calvinistic  idea  of  piety 
among  the  beautiful  and  venerable  ideals 
and  objects  of  the  world's  conscience,  of 
the  world's  moral  feeling  1  Surely  not. 
But  it  will  not  do  to  say  that  this  is  be- 
cause the  world  is  so  bad.  For  the  char- 
acter of  our  Saviour  is  among  those  ob- 
jects !  Bad  as  the  world  is,  yet  all  sects 
and  classes  and  communities,  all  Infidels 
and  Mahometans  and  Heathen,  have 
agreed,  without  one  single  solitary  whis- 
per of  contradiction,  that  this  character 
is  a  perfect  example  of  true,  divine  ex- 
cellence !  Does  the  Calvinistic  idea  of 
religion  draw  to  it  any  such  testimony  ? 
Then  what  clearer  evidence  can  there  be 
that  it  is  wrong? 

And  if  it  be  wrong,  if  it  is  an  error, 
what  terrible  and  awful  mischiefs  must 
follow  in  its  train  !  Mankind  required, 
as  the  supreme  duty,  to  love  that  which 
all  their  natural  sentiments  oblige  them 
to  dislike,  and  none  of  their  natural  pow- 
ers, in  fact,  enable  them  to  understand  ! 
What  peril  must  there  be  of  their  salva- 
tion in  such  a  case  1  What  a  calamitous 
state  of  things  must  it  be  for  their  high- 
est hopes  !  What  confusion,  what  em- 
broilment and  distraction,  to  all  their 
moral  convictions  !  Nothing  else  can 
account  for  that  blind  wandering  of  many 
souls  after  the  true  good,  which  we  see  ; 
for  that  wild  fanaticism,  wliich  has  taken 
the  place  of  sober  and  intelligent  seek- 
ing; for  that  distracted  running  up  and 
down  of  men  who  know  not  what  they 
are  to  get,  nor  how  to  get  it,  nor  what, 
in  any  way,  to  do;  and  yet  more,  for 
that  profound  and  dreadful  apathy  of 
many,  who  have  concluded  that  they  can 
do  nothing,  who  have  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  life  as  the  voyage  of  the  soul, 
and  have  resigned  themselves  to  wait  for 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


153 


some  chance  wave  of  excitement  to  bear 
them  to  the  wishecl-for  haven. 

Believe  me,  my  friends,  this  is  no  ab- 
stract matter.  It  touches  the  vital  ideas 
of  human  welfare.  It  concerns  what  is 
most  practical,  most  momentous.  In  all 
conoregations,  in  all  townships  and  vil- 
lages tiirough  the  land,  an  image  is  held 
up  of  religion,  an  idea  of  what  is  the 
supreme  excellence.  It  is  regarded  with 
doubt  and  fear  and  misgiving  ;  not  with 
love,  or  enthusiasm,  or  admiration.  It 
is  not  fair  loveliness  or  beauty ;  but  a 
dark  enigma.  It  is  not  the  supreme  ex- 
cellence, but  the  supreme  necessity.  It 
is  not  intelligently  sought,  but  blindly 
wished  for.  Alas  !  it  is  hard  enough  to 
get  men  to  pursue  the  true  excellence 
when  they  are  plainly  told  what  it  is. 
But  here  is  a  dread  barrier  on  the  very 
threshold,  and  they  cannot  proceed  a  sin- 
gle step.  They  can  do  nothing  till  they 
are  converted  ;  they  know  not  what  it  is  to 
be  converted  ;  and  they  wait  for  the  initia- 
tive to  come  from  heaven  ;  not  knowing, 
alas  !  that  to  be  converted  is,  with  heav- 
en's help,  to  begin  ;  to  take  the  first 
determined  step,  and  the  second,  and 
thus  to  go  onward  ;  to  begin  upon  the 
ground  of  what  they  actually  know,  and 
thus  to  go  on  to  perfection.  Religion, 
the  beauty  of  the  world  ;  that  which 
mingles  as  their  pervading  spirit  with 
the  glory  of  the  heavens  and  the  loveli- 
ness of  nature  ;  that  which  breathes  in 
the  affections  of  parents  and  children 
and  in  all  tlie  good  affections  of  society  ; 
that  which  ascends  in  humble  penitence 
and  prayer  to  the  throne  of  God,  —  this 
is  no  mystic  secret.  It  is  to  be  good 
and  kind,  penitent  and  pure,  temperate 
and  self-denying,  patient  and  prayerful ; 
modest  and  generous  and  loving,  as  thou 
knowest  how  to  be ;  loving,  in  reverent 
thoughts  of  the  good  God,  and  in  kind 
thoughts  of  all  his  children.  It  is  plain, 
noi  easy,  not  in  'that  sense  natural  ;  but 
natural  in  its  accordance  with  all  the 
loftiest  sentiments  of  thy  nature,  easy 
in  this,  that  nothing  ever  sat  with  such 
perfect  peace  and  calm  upon  thy  soul  as 
that  will.     It  is  so  plain  that  he  who  runs 


may  read.  It  is  the  way  in  which  fools 
need  not  err.  "For  what  doth  the 
Lord  require  of  thee,"  saith  the  prophet, 
indignant  at  the  complaint  of  ignorance, 
''wiiat  doth  the  Lord  require  of  thee,  but 
to  do  justice,  and  to  love  mercy,  and  to 
walk  humbly  with  thy  God  ?  " 

Let  me  now  proceed,  in  the  next  place, 
from  the  estimate  to  the  treatment  of 
religion.  The  topics,  indeed,  are  closely 
connected  ;  for  the  treatment  of  the  sub- 
ject will,  of  course,  depend  on  the  esti- 
mate formed  of  its  character  and  merits. 
This  consideration,  it  is  evident,  might 
carry  us  through  the  whole  subject ;  but 
I  shall  not,  at  present,  touch  upon  the 
ground  of  religious  culture  and  religious 
earnestness,  which  I  have  reserved  for 
separate  discussion.  In  the  remainder 
of  this  discourse  I  shall  confine  myself 
to  the  treatment  of  religion,  as  a  matter 
of  investigation,  and  of  institution,  and 
as  a  matter  to  be  approached  in  prac- 
tical seeking.  The  space  that  remains 
to  me  will  oblige  me  to  do  this  very 
briefly  ;  and  indeed  to  touch  upon  one 
or  two  topics  under  these  several  heads 
is  all  that  I  shall  attempt. 

Under  the  head  of  investigation,  the 
subject  of  religious  controversy  presents 
itself. 

Every  one  must  be  aware  that  religious 
controversy  is  distinguished  by  certain 
remarkable  traits  from  all  other  contro- 
versy. There  has  generally  been  a 
severity,  a  bigotry,  an  exclusion,  and  an 
obstinacy  in  it,  not  found  in  any  other 
disputes.  What  has  invested,  with  these 
strange  and  unseemly  attributes,  a  sub- 
ject of  such  tender,  sublime,  and  eternal 
interest  ?  I  conceive  that  it  is  this :  the 
idea  that  within  the  inmost  bosom  of 
religion  lies  a  secret,  a  something  pecu- 
liar, distinct  from  all  other  qualities  in 
the  human  character,  and  refusing  to  be 
judged  of  as  other  things  are  judged  of, 
a  secret  wrapped  about  with  the  divine 
favor,  and  revealed  only  to  a  ^&\s.  There 
is  an  unknown  element  in  the  case,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  obtain  a  solution.  The 
question  is  perplexed  by  it,  as  a  question 
in  chemistry  would  be  by  the  presence 


154 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


of  some  undetected  substance.  Or  if 
the  element  is  known  to  some,  it  is  held 
to  be  unknown  to  others,  and  this  as- 
bumpiion  lays  the  amplest  ground  for 
bio-otry  and  exclusion.  If  I  know  what 
religion  is,  and  another  man  does  not 
know,  I  am  perfectly  entitled,  if  I  think 
proper,  to  reject  his  claim  to  it,  to  say 
that  some  defect  of  faith,  or  of  ritual,  in 
him  forbids  the  possibihtyof  his  having 
it.  Nothing  is  easier  than,  on  this  basis, 
to  form  an  exclusive  sect ;  it  is,  in  fact, 
the  legitimate,  and  the  only  legitimate, 
basis  of  such  a  sect.  I  say  the  only 
legitimate  basis ;  because,  if  everything 
in  this  matter  be  fairly  submitted  to  in- 
quiry and  decision,  the  vitality  of  religion 
as  well  as  its  creed  and  ritual ;  if  all 
men  can,  by  care  and  study,  know  what 
it  is  ;  if  all  men  must  know  what  it  is, 
by  the  very  law  written  on  their  hearts  ; 
then  it  is  absurd  for  one  party  to  lay 
claim  to  the  sole  knowledge  and  posses- 
sion of  it.  Wrap  it  up  in  secrecy,  and 
then,  and  then  only,  may  you  consist- 
ently wrap  it  up  in  exclusion. 

Only  think  of  an  exclusive  party  in 
science  or  art.  Think  of  such  a  sect 
saying  to  all  others,  "We  only  have  the 
true  love  of  science  or  art ;  we  only  have 
the  true  spirit  of  science  or  art ; "  and 
why  would  not  their  claim  stand  for  a 
moment?  Because  all  other  men  of 
learning  and  skill  would  say,  "  We  are 
as  competent  to  judge  of  this  matter  as 
you  are.  There  is  no  secret  in  knowl- 
edge. There  is  no  exclusive  key  to 
wisdom.  There  is  no  hidden  way  to 
art.  Prove  that  there  is,  and  then  it 
may  be  that  the  mystery  is  in  your  pos- 
session. But  until  you  establish  this 
point,  your  claim  is  al3surd  and  insuffer- 
able, and  not  worth  examination." 

Now  the  whole  evil,  as  well  as  the 
whole  peculiarity,  of  religious  contro- 
versy lies  in  this  spirit  of  exclusion,  in 
the  assumption  that  opponents  cannot 
be  good  men.  Otherwise,  controversy 
is  a  good  thing.  That  is  to  say,  honest 
and  friendly  discussion  is  good.  The 
whole  evil,  I  say,  lies  in  the  assumption 
of  an  exclusive  knowledge  of  religion. 


Persecution    proceeds    upon    no    other 
ground.     Men    have    been    imprisoned, 
tortured,  put  to   death,  not   merely  be- 
cause  they    erred,   not    simply   because 
they  differed   from   their  brethren,   but 
because  that  error,  that  difference,  was 
supposed   to   involve  the  very  salvation 
of  the  soul      Men  have  been  punished, 
not  as  errorists  simply,  but  as  men  irre- 
ligious and  bad,  and  as  making  others 
so.     I  speak  now  of  honest  persecution. 
Its   object   has    been    the    salvation    of 
souls.      Its  doctrine   has  been  :  "  Pain- 
ful as  torture  is,  it  is  better  than  per- 
dition ;  better  fires  on  earth,  than  fires 
in  hell."     But  the  persecuted  brethren 
say,  '*  We  are   not   irreligious  and   bad 
men.      We  wish  the  truest  good  to  our- 
selves   and    others  ;    and,  though    you 
oppose  us,  as  you  must,  you  ought  not 
to  hate,  or  torture,  or  vilify  us  •,  we  no 
more    deserve    it   than   you   do.''     And 
what  is  the  reply  ?    "  You  know  nothing 
about  the  matter.     You   suppose   your- 
selves to  be  good  and  true,  and  to  have 
favor   with    God   and    a   good    hope   of 
heaven  ;  but  we  know  better  ;  we  know 
what  true  religion   is,  and  we  say  that 
you  are  totally  devoid  of  it.'     And  this 
judgment,  I    repeat,  can   fairly  proceed 
upon  nothing   but   the    notion   that   re- 
ligion is  a  secret  in  the  possession  of 
the  persecutors. 

Let  it  be  otherwise,  as  surely  it  ought 
to  be,  if  anything  ought  ;  let  religion, 
the  great  sentiment,  the  great  interest 
of  humanity,  be  common  ground,  open 
and  common  to  all  ;  let  men  take  their 
stand  upon  it  and  say,  as  they  say  in 
other  differences  of  opinion,  "  We  all 
wish  the  same  thing  ;  we  would  all  be 
happy,  we  would  get  to  heaven  ;  what 
else  can  we  wish  ?  "  and  do  you  not  see 
how  instantly  religious  disputes  would 
take  on  a  new  character;  how  gentle 
and  charitable  and  patient  and  tolerant 
they  would  become  ?  But  now,  alas ! 
the  toleration  of  science,  of  art,  nay, 
and  of  politics,  too,  goes  beyond  the 
toleration  of  religion  !  Men  do  not  say 
to  their  literary  or  political  opposers, 
"  Ye  are  haters  of    science  or  art ;  ye 


THE   IDENTITY   OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


155 


hate  the  common  country  ;  "  but  in  re- 
ligion they  say,  "  Ye  are  haters  of  God, 
and  of  good  men,  and  of  all  that  is  truly 
good."  Yes,  the  occasion  for  this  tre- 
mendous exclusion  is  found  in  religion  ; 
in  that  which  was  ordained  to  be  the 
bond  of  love,  the  bosom  of  confidence, 
the  garner  of  souls  into  heaven  ;  the 
theme  of  all  grandeur  and  of  all  tender- 
ness ;  the  comforter  of  affliction,  the 
loving  nurse  of  all  human  virtues,  the 
range  ot  infinity,  the  reach  to  eternity, 
the  example  of  the  One  meek  and  lowly  ; 
the  authority,  at  once,  and  the  pity  of  the 
heavenly  Father  ! 

The  next  subject  for  the  application 
of  the  point  I  am  considering  is  relig- 
ious institutions.  Under  this  head,  I 
must  content  myself  with  briefly  point- 
ing out  a  single  example.  The  example 
is  the  ordinance  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 
The  question  I  have  to  ask  is  :  Why  do 
so  many  sober,  conscientious,  and  truly 
religious  persons  refrain  from  a  partici- 
pation in  this  rite  ?  And  the  answer, 
with  many,  is  doubtless  to  be  found  in 
tiie  notion  that  religion  involves  some 
secret,  or  the  experience  of  some  secret 
grace,  something  different  from  moral 
uprightness  and  religious  gratitude,  with 
which  they  are  not  acquainted.  I  do  not 
say  that  this  account  embraces  every 
case  of  neglect,  but  I  say  that  it  em- 
braces many.  I  will  suppose  a  person, 
conscious  of  a  sincere  intent,  to  be  in 
all  things  a  true  and  good  man,  con- 
scious, too,  of  religious  affections,  and 
desirous  of  cultivating  them  ;  one  be- 
lieving in  Christ,  believing  that  his  life 
and  his  death  are  the  most  powerful 
Unown  ministration  to  human  sanctity 
and  blessedness  ;  one,  also,  truly  dis- 
posed to  impress  the  spirit  of  Christ 
upon  his  own  heart,  and  persuaded  that 
the  meditations  of  the  Communion  sea- 
son would  be  a  help  and  comfort  to  him  ; 
and  why  now,  I  ask,  shall  he  not  avail 
himself  of  that  appointed  means  ?  He 
is  desirous  of  sacred  culture.  This  is 
a  means,  and  he  wishes  to  embrace  it. 
Why  does  he  not  ?  I  am  sure  that  I 
may  answer  for  him,  that  he  would  do 


so  if  he  felt  that  he  were  qualified.  But 
this  is  the  difficulty;  he  is  afraid  that 
there  is  some  qualification,  unknown  to 
liiin  ;  and  that  he  shall  commit  a  sin  of 
rashness  and  presumption  if  he  conies 
to  the  sacred  ordinance. 

My  friends,  it  is  all  a  mistake.  You 
do  know,  in  a  greater  or  less  measure, 
what  Christian  virtue,  what  Christian 
piety,  is.  You  can  know  whether  you 
desire  to  cultivate  this  character.  If 
you  do,  that  very  desire  is  the  qualifi- 
cation. Means  are  for  those  who  need 
them,  not  for  those  who  need  tiiem  not ; 
for  the  imperfect,  not  for  the  perfect. 
The  felt  need  of  means,  the  sincere 
desire  of  means,  is  the  qualification  for 
them.  If,  being  believers  in  Christianity, 
you  also  believe  that  our  Communion 
meditations  would  help  you,  you  should 
as  much  come  to  them  as  you  come  to 
the  prayers  of  the  Sanctuary.  And  you 
should  as  freely  come.  The  Lord's 
Supper  is  a  service  no  more  sJcred  than 
the  service  of  prayer.  Nothing  can  be 
more  solemn  than  solemn  prayer. 

There  is  one  more  suliject  to  be  no- 
ticed under  this  head  of  treatment  of 
religion,  by  far  the  most  important  of 
all,  and  that  is  religious  seeking  ;  the 
seeking,  in  other  words,  to  establish  in 
one's  self  that  character  on  which  God's 
approbation  and  all  true  good,  all  true 
happiness,  depend,  and  will  forever  de- 
pend. Momentous  pursuit  !  that  for 
which  man  was  made,  and  life,  with  all  its 
ordinances,  was  given  ;  and  the  Gospel, 
with  all  its  means  of  grace  and  manifes- 
tations of  mercy,  was  published  to  the 
world  ;  that  in  which  every  man  should 
be  more  vitally  and  practically  interested 
than  in  every  other  pursuit  on  earth. 
Everything  else  may  a  man  seek  and 
gain  ;  the  whole  world  may  he  gain,  and 
after  all  lose  this  supreme  interest. 
And  yet  to  how  many,  alas  !  will  this 
very  statement  which  I  am  making  ap- 
pear technical,  dry,  and  uninteresting  !  — 
to  how  many  more,  irrelevant  to  them, 
foreign  to  their  concerns,  appropriate  to 
other  persons,  but  a  matter  witli  which 
they  have    nothing  to  do  !     A  kind  of 


156 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


demure  assent  they  may  yield  to  the  im- 
portance of  religion,  but  no  vital  faith  ; 
nothing  of  that  which  carries  them  with 
such  vigor  and  decision  to  the  pursuit 
of  property,  pleasure,  and  fame. 

Now  is  there  any  difficulty  in  account- 
ing for  this  deplorable  condition  of  the 
general  mind  ?  Make  religion  a  mystic 
secret,  divest  it  of  every  attractive  and 
holy  charm,  sever  it  from  everything 
that  men  already  know  and  feel  of  good- 
ness and  love,  tell  them  that  they  are 
totally  depraved,  totally  destitute,  totally 
ignorant,  and  they  may  "  wonder  and 
perish;"  but  can  they  rationally  seek 
anything  ?  Men  may  be  very  depraved, 
they  may  be  extremely  deficient  of  the 
right  affections,  as  they  doubtless  are  ; 
but  if  they  saw  the  subject  in  the  right 
light  they  could  not  be  indifferent. 
There  could  not  be  this  heavy  and  be- 
numbing cloud  of  apathy,  spreading 
itself  over  the  whole  world.  I  have 
seen  the  most  vicious  men  intensely  con- 
scious, conscious  with  mingled  anger 
and  despair,  that  the  course  of  virtue  is 
the  only  happy  course.  And  do  you 
preach  to  the  most  selfish  and  corrupt 
of  men,  in  this  wise,  saying,  "  Nothing 
but  purity,  gentleness,  love,  disinterest- 
edness, can  make  you  happy,  happy  in 
yourself,  in  your  family,  or  in  society  ; 
and  nothing  but  the  love  of  God  can 
make  you  happy  amidst  the  strifes  and 
griefs  of  this  life  and  the  solemn  ap- 
proaches to  death  ; "  and  they  know 
that  what  you  say  is  true  ;  they  know 
that  you  are  dealing  with  realities  ;  and 
they  cannot  be  indifferent.  They  may 
be  angry;  but  anger  is  not  indifference 
But  now,  do  you  speak  to  them  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone  and  manner,  and  say,  "  You 
must  get  religion  ;  y.ou  must  experience 
the  grace  of  God.  in  order  to  be  happy," 
and  immediately  their  interest  will  sub- 
side to  that  state  of  artificial  acqui- 
escence and  real  apathy,  which  now 
characterizes  the  mass  of  our  Christian 
communities. 

Nor  is  this,  .save  for  its  extent,  the 
most  affecting  view  of  the  common  mis- 
take.    There  are  real  and  anxious  seek- 


ers. And  how  are  they  seeking?  I 
have  been  pained  to  see  such  persons, 
often  intelligent  persons,  blindly  grop- 
ing about  as  for  the  profoundest  secret. 
They  have  no  distinct  idea  of  what  it 
is  they  want,  what  they  are  to  obtain, 
what  they  are  to  do.  All  that  they  seem 
to  know  is,  that  it  is  something  to  be 
wrought  in  their  souls,  and  something 
on  which  their  salvation  depends.  They 
go  about  from  one  meeting  to  another, 
from  one  master  in  Israel,  or  from  one 
revival  preacher,  or  from  one  experi- 
enced person  to  another,  and  say,  '•  Tell 
us  what  this  thing  is,  that  is  to  be  done 
in  us  ;  how  did  yoii  feel  when  you  were 
converted  ?  How  was  it  ?  How  did  the 
power  of  divine  grace  come  upon  you  1 
What  was  the  change  in  that  very  mo  • 
menf  when  you  passed  from  death  f) 
life  ?  "  Well  may  the  apostolic  teach- 
ing speak  to  such  in  this  wise  :  "  Say 
not  who  shall  go  up  into  heaven,  that  is 
to  bring  Christ  down  ;  or  who  shall  go 
be30nd  the  sea  to  bring  him  near.  For 
the  word  is  nigh  thee,  in  thy  mouth  and 
in  thy  heart,  that  thou  shouldst  do  it." 
In  your  own  heart,  in  the  simplest  con- 
victions of  right  and  wrong,  are  the 
teachings  that  you  want.  This,  says 
the  apostle,  ''is  the  word  of  salvation 
which  we  preach  ;  that  if  thou  wilt  be- 
lieve in  thy  heart,  and  confess  with  thy 
tongue  that  Jesus  is  the  Christ,  thou 
shalt  be  saved."  That  is,  if  thou  wilt 
have  a  loving  faith  in  Jesus  Christ  as 
thy  Guide,  Example,  and  Saviour,  and 
carry  that  faith  into  open  action,  and 
endeavor  to  follow  him,  thou  shalt  be 
saved.  In  one  word,  if  thou  wilt  be 
like  Christ,  if  thou  wilt  imbibe  his  spirit 
and  imitate  his  excellence,  thou  shalt  be 
happy  ;  thou  shalt  be  blessed  ;  blessed 
and  happy  forever.  But  the  spirit,  the 
loveliness,  of  Christ  is  no  mystic  secret. 
It  is  known  and  read  of  all  men.  It 
requires  no  mysterious  initiation  to  in- 
struct you  in  it.  I  do  not  object,  of 
course,  to  seeking  for  light,  or  to  seek- 
ing aid  from  men,  from  the  wise  and 
experienced  ;  but  I  do  object  to  your 
seeking  from  them  any  initial  or  mys- 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


157 


terious  knowlefljjje  of  what  religion  is. 
Let  you  stand,  alone,  upon  a  desolate 
island,  with  the  Gospel  in  your  hands; 
and  then  and  there  do  thou  read  that 
sacred  page,  and  pray  over  it,  and  strive 
patiently  to  bring  your  heart  into  ac- 
cordance with  it ;  to  bring  what  is  al- 
ready in  you,  your  love  and  trust,  up  to 
conformity  with  it ;  and  you  are  in  the 
way  of  salvation. 

Oh  !  sad  and  lamentable  perversion  ; 
that  the  greatest  good  in  the  universe, 
the  very  end  of  our  being,  the  very  point 
of  all  sublime  human  attainment,  the 
very  object  for  which  rational  and  spirit- 
ual faculties  were  given  us,  should  be 
a  mystery  ;  that  the  very  light  by  which 
we  must  walk  must  be  utter  darkness, 
and  that  all  we  can  do  is,  to  put  out  our 
hand  and  grope  about  in  that  darkness  ; 
that  the  very  salvation  in  which  all  the 
welfare  of  our  souls  is  bound  up  should 
be  a  dark  enigma,  and  that  all  we  can 
do  is  to  hope  that  we  shall  some  time  or 
other  know  what  it  is.  No,  says  the 
Apostle,  "  The  word  is  nigh  thee,  in 
thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart,  that  thou 
shouldst  do  it;  that  is  the- salvation 
which  we  preach." 


XXI IL 


ON  THE  IDENTITY  OF  RELIGION 
WITH  GOODNESS,  AND  WITH  A 
GOOD  LIFE. 

I  John  iv.  20 :  "  If  a  man  say,  I  love  God,  and 
hateth  his  brother,  he  is  a  liar  ;  for  he  that  lovedi  not 
Ills  brother  whom  lie  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God 
whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  " 

From  these  words  I  propose  to  take 
up  again  the  subject  of  my  last  discourse. 
I  have  shown  that  saving  virtue,  or 
whatever  it  be  that  is  to  save  men,  is 
commonly  regarded,  not  as  the  increase 
or  strengthening  of  any  principle  that  is 
already  in  them,  but  as  the  implantation 
in  them  of  a  principle  entirely  new  and 
before  unknown.  I  have  endeavored  to 
make   this  apparent   by  a  statement  in 


several  forms  of  the  actual  views  that 
prevail  of  religion  and  of  obtaining  relig- 
ion. I  have  shown,  that  with  regard  to 
religion,  or  grace  in  the  heart,  the  com- 
mon feeling  undoubtedly  is  that  it  is  a 
mystery,  a  thing  which  the  people  do 
not  comprehend,  and  which  they  never 
expect  to  comprehend  but  by  the  ex- 
experience  of  regeneration. 

I  may  now  observe,  in  addition,  that 
all  this  clearly  follows  from  the  doctrine 
of  total  depravity.  This  doctrine  asserts 
that  in  our  natural  humanity  there  is  not 
one  particle  of  true  religion  or  of  saving 
virtue.  Of  course,  human  nature  knows 
nothing  about  it.  The  only  way  in 
which  we  can  come  at  the  knowledge  of 
moral  qualities,  is  by  feeling  them  in  our- 
selv^es.  This  is  an  unquestioned  truth 
in  philosophy.  If  we  have  no  feeling  of 
rectitude  or  of  religion,  we  can  have  no 
knowledge  of  it.  It  follows,  therefore, 
from  the  doctrine  of  universal  and  total 
depravity,  that  to  the  mass  of  men,  relig- 
ion, as  an  inward  principle,  must  be  a 
mystery,  an  enigma,  a  thing  altogether 
incomprehensible. 

This  position  —  held  by  many  Chris- 
tians, but  rejected  by  not  a  few,  and  pre- 
senting, in  my  opinion,  the  most  momen- 
tous point  of  controversy  in  the  Christian 
world  —  I  have  proposed  to  discuss  with 
a  freedom  and  seriousness  proportioned 
to  its  immense  importance. 

With  this  view,  I  proposed  to  consider 
its  bearings  on  the  estimate  and  treat- 
ment of  religion,  the  culture  of  religion, 
and  its  essential  vitality  and  power. 

The  first  of  these  subjects  I  have 
already  examined,  and  I  now  proceed  to 
the  second. 

The  next  topic,  then,  of  which  I  was 
to  speak,  is  religious  culture,  or  what  is 
commonly  called  growth  in  grace.  I 
cannot  dwell  much  upon  this  subject; 
but  I  must  not  pass  it  by  entirely. 

A  mystery,  a  mystic  secret  in  the  heart, 
cannot  be  cultivated.  A  peculiar  emo- 
tion, unlike  all  well-known  and  clearly^ 
defined  emotions  of  goodness  or  vener- 
ation, cannot  be  cultivated.  It  may  be 
revived  from  time  to   time ;  it  may  be 


158 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


kept  alive  in  the  heart  by  certain  pro- 
cesses, and  they  are  likely  to  be  very  me- 
chanical processes;  the  heart,  like  an 
electric  jar,  may  ever  and  anon  be  charged 
anew  witli  the  secret  power  ;  but  to  such 
an  idea  of  religion,  cultivation  is  a  word 
that  does,  in  no  sense,  properly  apply. 
To  grow  daily  in  kindness  and  gentle- 
ness, to  be  more  and  more  true,  honest, 
pure,  and  conscientious,  to  cultivate  a 
feeling  of  resignation  to  the  Divine  will 
and  a  sense  of  the  Divine  presence  ;  all 
this  is  intelligible.  But  in  proportion  as 
the  other  idea  of  religion  prevails,  culture 
is  out  of  the  question.  And  on  this  prin- 
ciple, I  am  persuaded,  you  will  find  many 
to  say  that  the  hour  of  theij"  conversion, 
the  hour  when  they  received  that  secret 
and  mysterious  grace  into  their  hearts, 
was  tlie  brightest  hour  of  their  religious 
experience.  Look,  then,  at  the  religious 
progress  of  such  an  one.  I  do  not  say 
that  all  converts  arc  such  ;  but  suppose 
any  one  to  be  possessed  with  this  idea  of 
religion  as  altogether  an  imparted  grace  ; 
and  how  naturally  will  liis  chief  effort 
be,  to  keep  that  grace  alive  within  him  ! 
And  where,  then,  is  culture  ?  And  what 
will  be  his  progress  ?  Will  he  be  found 
to  have  been  growing  more  generous  and 
gentle,  more  candid  and  modest,  more 
disinterested  and  self-denying,  more  de- 
voted to  good  works,  and  more  filled 
with  the  good  spirit  of  God  ?  Will  those 
who  know  him  best  thus  take  knowledge 
of  him  that  he  has  been  with  Jesus,  and 
sav  of  hiin,  "  He  was  very  irascible  and 
self-willed  twenty  years  ago,  but  now  he 
is  very  gentle  and  patient  ;  he  was  very 
selfish,  but  now  he  is  very  generous  and 
self-forgetting ;  very  close  and  penurious, 
but  now  he  is  very  liberal  and  charitable; 
very  restless  and  impatient,  but  now  he 
is  calm,  and  seems  to  have  a  deep  and 
immovable  foundation  of  happiness  and 
peace ;  very  proud  and  self-sufficient,  but 
now  it  seems  as  if  God  and  Heaven  were 
in  all  his  thoughts,  and  were  all  his  sup- 
port and  resource  "?  I  hope  that  this 
change  of  character  does  take  place  in 
some  converts  ;  I  would  that  it  did  in 
many  ;  but  Lmust  say,  that  in  so  far  as 


a  certain  idea  of  conversion  prevails,  the 
idea  of  a  new  and  mysterious  grace  in- 
fused into  the  soul,  it  is  altogether  unfa- 
vorable to  such  a  progress. 

And  yet  so  far  has  this  idea  infected 
all  the  religion  of  our  times,  that  Chris- 
tianity seems  nowhere  to  be  that  school 
of  vigorous  improvement  which  it  was 
designed  to  be.  Religion,  if  it  is  any- 
thing befitting  our  nature,  is  the  very 
sphere  of  progress.  All  its  means,  or- 
dinances, and  institutions  have  this  in 
view  as  their  very  end.  But  surely  it 
is  very  obvious  and  very  lamentable 
to  observe  how  much  religious  ob- 
servance and  effort  there  is,  which  goes 
entirely  to  waste,  which  does  not  ad- 
vance the  character  at  all.  Think  of 
our  churches,  our  preaching,  our  Sab- 
baths ;  how  little  do  they  avail  to  make 
us  better !  How  little  do  they  seein 
to  be  thought  of  as  seasons,  means, 
schools  of  improvement !  Must  we  not 
suspect  that  there  is  some  error  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this  ?  And  now  suppose 
that  men  have  got  the  notion  that  that 
something  which  is  to  prepare  them  for 
heaven  is  something  entirely  different 
from  charity,  honesty,  disinterestedness, 
truth,  self-government,  and  the  kindly 
love  of  one  another ;  and  would  not  this 
be  the  very  notion  to  work  that  fatal  mis- 
chief, the  very  notion  to  disarm  con- 
science and  rational  conversion  of  all 
their  power  ? 

You  will  recollect  that,  some  time 
since,  a  national  ship  belonging  to  the 
Imaum  of  Muscat  visited  our  shores. 
Its  officers,  who  I  believe  were  intelli- 
gent men,  freely  mingled  with  our  citi- 
zens, and  saw  something  of  society 
among  us.  And  what  do  you  think  was 
their  testimony  concerning  us  ?  On  the 
point  now  before  us,  it  was  tiiis  :  They 
said  that  there  is  no  religion  among  us. 
And  what  now,  you  will  ask,  was  their 
own  idea  of  religion  ?  I  answer,  it  was 
analogous  to  the  very  idea  which  I  am 
controverting  in  this  discourse.  Relig- 
ion with  them  was  not  the  general  im- 
provement of  the  character,  —  nothing 
of  the  kind ;  but  a  certain  strictness,  a 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH    GOODNESS. 


159 


certain  devoutness,  a  particular  7i/ay  of 
attending  to  religion.  W  hcrever  these 
persons  were  found,  at  whatever  feast 
or  entertainment  provided  for  them, 
when  the  hour  of  prayer  prescribed  for 
Mussulmans  arrived,  they  courteously 
desired  leave  to  retire  to  some  private 
apartment,  to  engage  in  the  prescribed 
devotions.  They  found  not  these  things 
among  us,  and  they  said,  "  There  is  no 
religion  in  America."  But  do  you  be- 
lieve that  tliese  Arabian  followers  of  the 
Prophet  were  better  men  than  the  Chris- 
tian people  upon  whom  they  passed 
this  judgment  .-'  No  ;  you  say,  with- 
out denying  their  sincerity,  that  they 
had  wrapped  up  all  religion  in  certain 
peculiarities  ;  and  you  deny,  and  very 
justly  deny,  that  this  view  of  religion  is 
either  just  or  useful.  You  say,  on  the 
contrary,  that  it  is  very  dangerous  ;  that 
it  is  unfriendly  to  the  true  improvement 
of  character;  that,  according  to  this  way 
of  thinking,  a  man  may  be  a  very  good 
Mussulman  and  a  very  bad  man.  And 
this  is  precisely  what  I  say  of  that 
idea  of  religion  among  ourselves  which 
wraps  it  up  in  peculiarity  ;  which  finds 
its  essence  in  certain  beliefs,  or  in  cer- 
tain experiences,  that  are  quite  severed 
from  general  goodness  and  virtue. 
And  I  say,  too,  that  according  to  this 
theory  a  man  may  be  a  very  good 
Christian^  and  yet  a  very  bad  man  ; 
may  consider  himself  pious,  when  he  is 
not  even  a  humane  man  ;  not  generous, 
nor  just,  nor  candid,  nor  modest,  nor  for- 
bearing, nor  kind  ;  in  short,  that  he  may 
be  a  man  on  whom  falls  that  condem- 
nation which  the  Apostle  pronounces  on 
him  who  says,  "  I  love  God,  and  hateth 
his  brother.-' 

But  now  it  may  be  said  that  the 
doctrine  wiiich  I  iiave  delivered  is  a 
very  dangerous  doctrine.  '*  To  tell  a 
man,"  it  may  be  said,  "  that  there  is 
some  good  in  him  on  which  he  is  to 
build ;  that  religion  consists  essentially 
in  the  culture  of  what  is  already  within 
him  ;  that  there  are  natural  emotions  of 
piety  and  goodness  in  him  which  he  is 
to  cultivate  into  a  habit  and  a  character  ; 


will  not  all  tiiis  minister  to  self-compla- 
cency, sloth,  negli^ence,  and  procrasti- 
nation ?  Will  not  the  man  say,  '  Well,  I 
have  some  good  in  me,  and  I  only  need 
a  little  more,  and  I  can  attend  to  that 
any  time.  1  need  not  trouble  myself  ; 
events  perhaps  will  improve  my  charac- 
ter ;  and  all  will  be  well,  without  much 
effort  or  concern  on  my  part.  And  es- 
pecially I  need  not  go  through  this 
dreadful  paroxysm  of  a  conversion  ;  I 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  improve.'  " 

I  might  answer,  that  it  is  no  new 
thing  for  a  good  and  true  doctrine  to  be 
abused.  I  do  not  know  but  it  is  abused 
by  some  among  us.  Indeed,  I  fear  that 
it  is.  Let  me  proceed  at  once,  then,  to 
guard  against  this  abuse  ;  and  to  show, 
as  I  have  promised,  that  the  doctrine 
which  I  advocate  is  one  of  essential 
vitality  and  power  in  religion. 

Let  us  illustrate  this  by  one  or  two 
comparisons.  You  wish  to  teach  some 
man  a  science.  Would  you  think  it 
likely  to  awaken  his  zeal  and  earnest- 
ness, to  begin  by  telling  him,  not  only 
that  he  knows  nothing  about  the  science 
in  question,  but  that  he  has  no  natural 
capacity  for  understanding  it ;  that  he 
has  no  elements  in  him  of  that  knowl- 
edge in  which  you  wish  to  instruct  him  ; 
but  that  he  must  first  have  some  special 
and  supernatural  initiation  from  heaven 
into  that  knowledge,  and  then  he  may 
advance  ;  that  till  this  is  done,  nothing 
is  done,  and  that  when  this  is  done,  all  is 
done  ;  al',  that  is  to  say,  that  is  essen- 
tial to  his  character  as  a  man  of  science, 
ail  that  is  necessary  to  prepare  him  for  a 
successful  examination?  Would  it  fur- 
ther your  object  to  instruct  him  in  this 
way  ?  You  wish  to  teach  music  to  your 
pupil.  You  wish  to  arouse  him  to  at- 
tend, and  to  labor  for  accomplishment. 
Would  it  be  well  to  tell  him  that  he  has 
no  musical  ear,  and  that  he  can  do  noth- 
ing till  this  is  given  him  ?  Y'ou  desire 
to  train  a  youth  to  high  physical  accom- 
plishment, to  the  exercises  of  the  gym- 
nasium or  the  riding  school,  to  feats  of 
strength  or  agility  ;  a  branch  of  educa- 
tion that  deserves  more  attention  than 


i6o 


ON    THE    NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


it  is  receiving  among  us.  Would  you 
avow  to  your  pupil  that  there  is  one 
preliminary  step  to  be  gained  before 
you  could  proceed  at  all  ;  that  he  had 
no  muscles,  no  aptitude  ;  and  that, 
until  these  are  given  him,  he  can  do 
nothing  .-*  Alas  !  when  I  look  at  the 
wonderful  feats  of  some  public  perform- 
ers, magicians,  as  they  are  called,  and 
as  they  seem  to  the  people  :  and  when 
I  know  that  all  this  is  the  result  of  care- 
ful and  patient  training,  I  cannot  help 
saying,  would  Christians  exercise  them- 
selves in  this  way,  to  what  might  they 
not  attain  !  "  And  these  do  it,"  says 
the  Apostle,  "  for  an  earthly  crown,  but 
ye  labor  for  a  heavenly."  Alas  !  I  am 
compelled  to  say  again :  every  school 
of  learning  seems  to  be  more  success- 
ful than  the  Christian  school  I  And 
why?  let  me  ask.  Have  not  all  other 
schools  their  difficulties  to  surmount  as 
well  as  the  Christian  ?  Why,  then,  is  it 
that  this  is  so  lame  and  inefficient,  but 
because  there  is  some  radical  error  at 
the  very  foundation  ?  Let  us  see  Chris- 
tians laboring,  ay,  and  denying  them- 
selves as  men  of  science  and  art  and 
skill  do,  and  should  we  not  witness  some 
new  result .'' 

So  I  contend  they  would  labor,  or  at 
the  least  would  be  far  more  likely  to 
labor,  if  they  were  put  in  the  right  way 
and  were  impressed  with  the  right  con- 
victions. What  is  the  way  ?  What  are 
the  convictions  ?  What  does  our  doc- 
trine say  to  men  ?  What  does  it  say  to 
thetn  with  regard  to  conversion,  to  prog- 
ress, and  to  preparation  for  heaven  ? 

With  regard  to  conversion  it  says, 
"  You  must  begin  the  work  of  self-cul- 
ture ;  resolutely  and  decidedly  you 
must  enter  upon  the  Christian  path. 
If  that  era  of  solemn  determination  has 
never  come  to  you,  then  it  must  come, 
or  you  are  a  lost  man.  With  a  feeling 
as  solemn,  as  profound,  as  absorbing, 
as  ever  possessed  the  heart  of  any  con- 
vert to  mysterious  grace,  you  must 
begin.  He  may  think  that  the  saving 
work  is  done  upon  him  in  an  instant  ; 
\oii   must   not  think  so.     That    is    all 


an  error  proceeding  from  a  false  inter- 
pretation of  certain  figurative  language 
of  Scripture ;  such  as  "  new  birth," 
"new  creation"  —  figurative  phrases 
which  apply  to  the  soul  only  so  far  as 
the  soul's  nature  will  admit;  and  it  does 
not  admit  of  an  instant's  experience 
being  the  preparation  for  heaven.  He 
who  has  received  this  instantaneous 
communication  may  think  that  in  that 
moment  he  has  got  a  grace,  a  some- 
tliing  —  a  something  like  a  password  to 
heaven;  hut  you,  if  you  will  have  any 
reason  in  your  religion,  must  not  think 
so.  If  you  think  at  all,  you  cannot 
think  so.  If  you  imagine,  you  may  im- 
agine what  you  will.  And,  truly,  it  is 
no  moderate  stretch  of  imagination  that 
is  here  supposed.  For  if  an  'instant's 
experience  is  enough  to  prepare  the 
soul  for  heaven,  I  must  wonder  why  a 
life  was  given  for  it.  No,  in  one  mo- 
ment we  can  only  begin.  But  that  be- 
ginning must  nevertheless  be  made. 
What  is  never  begun,  is  never  done. 
On  that  great  resolve  rests  the  burden 
of  all  human  hope.  On  that  great  bond 
is  set  the  seal  of  eternity.  If  we  have 
never  made  that  bond  with  our  souls  to 
be  true  and  pure;  if  w£  have  never 
taken  up  that  resolve,  I  see  not  how  we 
can  be  Christians.  If  all  our  impulses 
were  good,  we  might  yield  ourselves  up 
to  them.  If  there  were  no  temptations, 
we  should  need  no  purpose.  If  there 
■were  a  tide  in  the  ocean  of  life  that  set 
right  towards  the  desired  haven,  we 
might  cast  ourselves  upon  it,  and  let  it 
bear  us  at  its  will.  But  what  would  you 
expect,  if  a  ship  were  loosened  from 
the  wharf,  and  without  any  course  set, 
or  any  purpose  to  make  a  voyage,  it 
were  to  take  such  fate  as  the  winds  and 
waves  might  send  it  ?  You  know  what 
its  fate  would  be  ;  to  founder  amidst  the 
seas  or  to  be  wrecked  on  the  shore  ;  it 
would  reach  no  haven.  And  so  upon 
the  great  deep  of  life  a  moral  voyage  is 
to  be  made ;  amidst  winds  and  waves  of 
passion,  and  through  clouds  and  storms 
of  temptation  and  difficulty,  the  course 
must  be  held  ;  and  it  will  not  be  held. 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   RELIGION    WITH   GOODNESS. 


i6i 


if  it  is  not  firmly  set.  Certainly,  no 
mm  will  make  the  voyage  unless  he  is 
determined  to  make  it.  How  many 
launch  forth  upon  the  ocean  of  life  with- 
out any  such  determination  ;  and  their 
ship  is  swayed  this  way  and  that  way 
by  unseen  currents,  and  is  carried  far 
astray  by  smooth  tides  and  softly  breath- 
ing winds  ;  but  surely,  unless  a  time 
comes  when  the  thoughtless  mariner 
arouses  himself,  and  directs  his  course 
and  spreads  his  sails  for  the  haven,  he 
will  never  reach  it ! 

I  must  lay  this  emphatic  stress  upon 
beginning ;  and  I  would  that  it  might 
be  a  point  of  personal  inquiry.  I  will 
use  no  intrusive  liberty  with  your 
thoughts  ;  but  I  would  say,  Have  you 
begun  ?  Have  you  resolved  ?  for  there 
is  nothing  on  earth  so  much  requiring 
a  resolve.  Let  not  this  matter,  then,  be 
wrapped  in  mystery.  In  clear  reality, 
let  it  stand  before  us;  in  close  contact, 
let  it  come  to  us.  There  is  something 
wrong,  of  which  the  soul  is  conscious. 
The  resolve  required  is  this  ;  to  do  it  no 
more.  There  is  some  secret  indulgence, 
some  bosom  sin.  The  resolve  is,  to 
tear  that  sin  from  the  bosom,  though 
it  be  dear  as  a  right  hand  or  a  right 
eye.  Some  duty,  or  course  of  duties,  is 
neglected  ;  the  resolve  is  to  set  about 
it,  this  day,  this  hour.  In  short,  the 
resolve  is,  a  great,  strong,  substantial 
purpose  to  do  right  in  all  things ;  it  is 
to  set  up  the  standard  of  duty  as  that 
beneath  which  we  will  walk  all  our  life 
through  ;  to  give  our  hearts  without  any 
reserve  to  God,  to  truth,  and  sanctity 
and  goodness. 

This  is  what  our  doctrine  says  in  re- 
gard to  conversion.  And  now  what 
does  it  say  on  the  subject  of  progress  ? 
Does  the  message  which  it  delivers 
minister  to  sloth,  negligence,  or  pro- 
crastination ?  What  does  it  say?  Your 
life's  work  is  growth  in  goodness  and 
piety.  It  is  a  daily  work,  or  it  is  no 
work  at  all.  Every  day  you  must  ad- 
vance. Practical  religion  is  self-culture. 
God  has  given  you  a  natural  piety,  and 
a  natural  benevolence,  as  he  has  given 


you  a  natural  reason.  With  one  as  with 
the  other,  your  business  is  culture.  The 
seed  is  in  3-ou,  as  the  seed  of  the  com- 
ing harvest  is  in  the. soil.  Everything 
depends  on  culture.  Does  it  discourage 
the  industry  of  the  husbandman  to  tell 
him  that  the  seed  is  provided,  and 
planted  in  the  earth  ;  that  there  is  a 
germ  that  will  grow  if  he  will  take  care 
of  it  ?  Nay,  that  is  the  very  reason 
why  he  will  work.  Or  does  he  refuse 
to  work,  because  it  is  necessary  that 
God's  sun  and  air  quicken  the  soil  ? 
And  why  any  more  that  God's  spirit 
must  shine  and  breathe  upon  his  soul  ? 

In  this  rational  and  generous  self-cul- 
ture is  the  secret  of  spiritual  strength. 
There  is  nothing  which  most  men  so 
much  feel  as  the  want  of  vitality  and 
earnestness  in  their  religion.  Their  talk 
about  it  is  dull  and  mournful  :  their 
prayers  are  cold  and  reluctant ;  their 
interest  is  languid,  their  Sabbaths  and 
their  religious  meetings  in  conference- 
rooms  and  school-houses  are  heavy  and 
sluggish  !  And  why  is  all  this  .-*  It  is, 
provided  they  are  sincere,  because  their 
views  of  religion  are  irrational,  mystical, 
essentially  uninteresting;  because  the 
thing  in  question  is  severed  from  the 
living  fountains  of  all  true  emotion.  Let 
me  state  it  to  you  thus.  You  have  a 
friend,  a  dear  and  lovely  friend ;  and 
towards'  that  being  your  affections  are 
not  dull  and  sluggish.  But  why  is  that 
friend  dear  and  lovely  ?  Because  gener- 
ous and  noble-hearted,  kind  and  gentle, 
full  of  disinterestedness  and  purity  and 
truth  .''  Then  I  tell  you  that  your  friend- 
ship is  a  part  of  religion.  It  is  of  the 
same  nature  as  religion.  It  is  no  otiier 
than  a  portion  of  the  beauty  of  the 
Divinity  that  is  shed  forth  in  the  heart 
of  your  friend.  Again,  you  have  an  en- 
thusiasm for  air  that  is  morally  sublime 
and  beautiful.  The  patriot  that  dies  for 
his  country  ;  the  martyr  that  calmly 
goes  to  the  stake,  when  one  word,  one 
little  word  uttered,  will  give  him  life, 
and  fortune,  and  splendor,  and  he  will 
not  speak  that  false  word  ;  the  patient 
and    heroic   sufferer   amidst   pain    and 


l62 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


calamity  ;  the  great  Sufferer  when  he 
breathed  the  prayer,  Father,  forgive 
them,  —  these  win  admiration,  draw  tears 
from  you,  perhaps,  as  you  think  of  them. 
And  again,  I  tell  you  that  this  is  a  part 
of  religion.  Once  more,  you  have  an  in- 
terest  in  this  matter.  Surely  you  would 
be  happy.  Uneasiness,  destitution,  self- 
inflicted  pain,  are  hard  to  bear.  But 
was  ever  a  soul,  full  of  the  love  of  God, 
full  of  kindness  and  gentleness,  full  of 
serenity  and  trust,  —  was  ever  such  a  soul 
essentially  unhappy?  How,  then,  can 
fainting  and  famishing  creatures  gather 
in  converse  around  this  fountain  of  all 
healing  and  comfort,  and  not  be  thrilled 
with  inexpressible  emotion  ?  Let  me 
suggest  one  more  thought.  There  is 
one  great  Being  who  is  the  first  and 
chiefest  object  of  religion  —  God  !  And 
God  is  everywhere.  Can  there  be  in- 
difference where  it  is  felt  that  God  is  ? 
And  he  is  everywhere.  In  the  crowded 
meeting,  in  thy  lonely  and  retired  walk, 
in  the  ever  lovely,  holy,  and  beautiful 
nature  that  is  spread  around  you,  in  the 
silent  and  star-lit  dome  of  heaven,  and 
beneath  your  humble  roof,  in  all  that 
fills  it  with  comfort  and  joy  and  hope, 
ay,  or  touches  it  with  disciplinary  sor- 
row,—  in  all  God  is:  the  nearest,  the 
holiest ;  the  greatest,  the  kindest  of  be- 
ings ;  and  can  indifference  live  in  that 
sublime  and  blessed  presence  ? 

Now,  what  is  religion  .''  It  is  not 
merely  to  feel  all  this  at  certain  times 
and  seasons,  but  it  is  to  make  it  the 
reigning  habit  of  our  minds.  To  feel 
it,  is  comparatively  easy  ;  to  form  it  into 
the  very  structure  of  our  souls,  is  quite 
another  thing.  I  cannot  very  well  under- 
stand how  any  man  should  want  the 
feeling  ;  but  I  can  very  well  understand 
how  he  should  want  the  character.  For 
this  it  is  precisely  that  is  the  greatest 
and  rarest  of  all  human  attainments. 
This  it  is,  to  have  Christ  formed  within 
us,  the  hope  of  glory.  Jesus,  the  blessed 
Master,  lived  that  perfect  life.  In  him 
'each  good  affection  of  the  humanity  had 
its  fulness,  its  permanence,  its  perfection. 
How  reverend,  how  holy,  how  dear,  how 


soul-entrancing,  is  that  incarnate  love- 
liness ;  God  in  him,  God  with  us;  the 
brightness  of  the  Father's  glory  and  the 
express  image  of  his  person  !  Oh !  could 
we  be  hke  him !  all  our  ungoverned 
agitations,  all  our  vain  longings,  all  our 
distracting  passions,  all  our  needless 
griefs  and  pains,  would  die  away  from  us  ; 
and  we  should  be  freed  from  the  heavy, 
heavy  burden  of  our  sins  !  I  almost  fear, 
my  friends,  so  to  express  myself,  lest  it 
should  be  construed  into  the  hackneyed 
and  whining  lamentation  of  tlie  pulpit, 
and  should  win  no  respect,  no  sympathy, 
with  you.  No,  it  is  with  a  manly  grief, 
with  an  indignant  sorrow,  and  shame, 
that  every  one  of  us  sliould  lament  that 
he  has  not  more  unreservedly  followed 
the  great  and  glorious  Master  ! 

And  let  me  add  that  this  is  no  vision- 
ary nor  impracticable  undertaking.  It 
is  what  we  all  can  do,  with  God's  help, 
if  we  will.  It  is  what  is  bound  upon  us 
by  the  simplest  perceptions  of  rectitude 
in  our  own  souls,  bound  upon  us  by  the 
very  feelings  of  conscience  and  obliga- 
tion which  God  has  implanted  within  us. 

Finally,  it  is  what  we  must  do  if  we 
would  attain  to  happiness  here  or  here- 
after. The  hours  are  stealing  on  when 
the  veil  of  'eternity  shall  part  its  awful 
folds,  and  the  great  and  dread  hereafter 
shall  receive  us.  Solemn  will  be  that 
hour!  Lightly  do  we  hear  of  its  daily 
coming  to  one  and  another  round  us 
now  ;  little  do  we  think  of  what  it  was 
to  them  ;  but  so  will  not  be  its  coming, 
—  with  lightness  or  with  little  thought, — 
so  will  not  be  its  coming  to  us.  The 
gathering  and  swelling  thoughts  of  that 
hour,  no  one  can  know  but  he  who  has 
felt  it  drawing  nigh.  Earth  recedes ; 
and  earth's  ambition,  gain,  pleasure,  van- 
ity, shrink  to  nothing  ;  and  one  thought 
spreads  all  around  and  fills  the  expand- 
ing horizon  of  eternity,  —  am  I  ready? 
Have  I  lived  so,  as  to  meet  this  hour  ? 
And  believe  me,  in  no  court  of  human 
theology  must  that  question  be  an- 
swered. No  imaginary  robe  of  another's 
rigliteousness, —  I  speak  not  now  of 
God's  mercy  in  Christ;    that,  we  may 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS   REAL   AND   SUPREME. 


163 


be  sure,  will  be  all  that  mercy  consist- 
ently can  be;  no  mystic  grace  claiming 
superiority  to  all  deeds  of  mercy  and 
truth  ;  no  narrow,  technical  hope  of  sal- 
vation garnered  up  in  the  heart,  will  avail 
qs  there  ;  but  the  all-deciding  question 
will  be  —  What  were  we  ?  and  what  have 
we  done  ?  What  were  we,  in  the  whole 
breadth  and  length  of  all  our  good  or  all 
our  bad  affections  ?  That  awful  ques- 
tion we  must  answer  for  ourselves.  No 
one  shall  be  there  to  answer  for  us.  No 
answer  shall  be  given  in  there  but  that 
which  comes  from  every  day  and  hour 
of  our  lives.  For  there  is  not  a  day  nor 
an  hour  of  our  lives  but  it  contributes  to 
make  us  better  or  worse ;  it  has  borne 
the  stamp  of  our  culture  or  carelessness 
of  our  fidelity  or  our  neglect.  And  that 
stamp,  which  our  life's  experience  sets 
upon  our  character,  is,  —  I  speak  not 
my  own  word,  but  God's  word,  —  that 
stamp  is  the  very  seal  of  retribution. 

Does  this  seem,  my  friends,  but  a  sad 
and  stern  conclusion  of  the  matter  ;  not 
encouraging  to  our  hopes,  nor  accord- 
ant with  the  mercy  of  the  Gospel .''  The 
Gospel  ?  Is  it  a  system  of  evasions 
and  subterfuges  and  palliatives,  to  ease 
off  the  strict  demand  of  holiness  .-'  No, 
let  theology  boast  of  such  devices,  and 
tell  men  that  as  they  have  sowed  so  shall 
they  not  reap ;  but  believe  me,  the  Gospel 
is  the  last  thing  to  break  the  everlasting 
bond  that  connects  happiness  with  good- 
ness, with  purity.  And  who  would  have 
it  otherwise  ?  Who  would  be  happy, 
but  on  condition  of  being  good,  and  in 
proportion  as  he  is  good  ?  What  true 
man  asks,  that  over  his  corrupt  and 
guilty  heart,  while  such,  may  be  poured 
a  flood  of  perfect  bliss  ?  Our  nature 
may  be  fallen  and  low  ;  but  that  flood 
would  sweep  away  the  last  vestige  of  all 
its  honor  and  worth.  God  never  created 
a  thing  so  vile  as  that  would  be.  No, 
it  is  a  noble  being  that  he  has  given  us, 
though,  alas  I  it  be  marred  and  degraded ; 
and  upon  the  eternal  laws  of  that  being 
must  we  build  up  our  welfare.  It  is  a 
glorious  privilege  so  to  do ;  to  do  what 
the  noble  Apostle  spoke  of  as  his  own 


law  and  hope,  when  he  said,  —  and,  be 
assured,  that  must  be  our  law  and  hope, 
—  "I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have 
finished  my  course,  I  have  kept  the 
faith ;  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me 
a  crown,  which  the  Lord,  the  righteous 
Judge,  will  give  me  in  that  day ;  and  not 
to  me  only,  but  to  all  who  love  his  ap- 
pearing." 


XXIV. 


SPIRITUAL  INTERESTS  REAL  AND 

SUPREME. 

John  vi.  26,  27  :  "  Jesus  answered  them  and  said, 
Verily,  verily  I  say  unto  you,  Ve  seek  me,  not  because 
ye  saw  the  miracles,  but  because  ye  did  eat  ot'the  loaves 
and  were  filled.  Labor  not  for  the  meat  whicli  per- 
isheth,  but  lor  that  meat  which  endureth  unto  eternal 
life." 

The  contrast  here  set  forth  is  be- 
tween a  worldly  mind  and  a  spiritual 
mind  :  and  so  very  marked  and  striking 
it  is,  that  the  fact  upon  which  it  is  based 
may  seem  to  be  altogether  extraordinary, 
a  solitary  instance  of  Jewish  stupidity, 
and  not  applicable  to  any  other  people  or 
any  after  times.  Our  Saviour  avers  that 
the  multitude  who  followed  him,  on  a 
certain  occasion,  did  so,  not  because  they 
saw  those  astonishing  miracles  that  gave 
witness  to  his  spiritual  mission,  but  sim- 
ply because  they  did  eat  of  the  loaves, 
and  were  filled.  Yet,  strange  as  it  may 
seein,  the  same  great  moral  error,  I 
believe,  still  exists  ;  the  same  preference 
of  sensual  to  spiritual  good,  though  the 
specific  exemplification  of  the  principle 
can  no  longer  be  exhibited  among  men. 
But  let  us  attend  to  our  Saviour's  exhor- 
tation. "  Labor  not  for  the  meat  that 
perisheth,  but  for  that  meat  which  endur- 
eth unto  eternal  life."  The  word  labor 
refers  to  the  business  of  life.  It  is  as 
if  our  Saviour  had  said.  Work,  toil,  care, 
provide,  for  the  soul.  And  it  is  in  this 
sense  of  the  word,  as  well  as  in  the  whole 
tenor  of  the  passage,  that  I  find  the 
leading  object  of  my  present  discourse: 
which  is  to  show  that  spiritual  interests, 


164 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


the  interests  of  the  mind  and  heart,  the 
interests  of  reason  and  conscience,  how- 
ever neglected,  however  forgotten  amidst 
the  pursuit  of  sensual  and  worldly  ob- 
jects, are  nevertheless  real  and  supreme  ; 
that  they  are  not  visionary  because  spirit- 
ual ;  but  that  they  are  most  substantial 
and  weighty  interests,  and  most  truly 
deserving  of  that  earnest  attention,  that 
laborious  exertion,  which  is  usually  given 
to  worldly  interests. 

So  does  not  the  world  regard  them, 
any  more  than  did  the  Jews  of  old.  It  is 
written  that  the  "children  of  this  world 
are  wiser  in  their  generation" — i.e. 
after  their  mannerwiser  —  "than  the  chil- 
dren of  light."  But  the  children  of  this 
world,  not  content  with  this  concession, 
are  apt  to  think  that  they  are  every  way 
wiser.  And  the  special  ground  of  this 
assumption,  though  they  may  not  be 
aware  of  it,  is,  I  beheve,  the  notion 
which  they  entertain  that  they  are  deal- 
ing with  real  and  substantial  interests. 
Religious  men,  they  conceive,  are  occu- 
pied with  matters  which  are  vague  and 
visionary,  and  which  scarcely  have  any 
real  existence.  A  great  property  is 
something  fixed  and  tangible,  sure  and 
substantial.  But  a  certain  view  of  relig- 
ion, a  certain  state  of  mind,  is  a  thing  of 
shadow,  an  abstraction  vanishing  into 
nothing.  The  worldly-wise  man  admits 
that  it  may  be  well  enough  for  some 
people  ;  at  any  rate,  he  will  not  quarrel 
with  it  ;  he  does  not  think  it  worth  his 
troubling  himself  about  it;  his  aim,  his 
plan,  his  course,  is  a  different  one,  and  — 
the  implication  is —  a  wiser  one. 

Yes,  tlie  very  wisdom  implied  in  relig- 
ion is  frequently  accounted  to  be  wisdom 
of  but  an  humble  order ;  the  wisdom 
of  dulness  or  of  superstitious  fancy  or 
fear  ;  or,  at  most,  a  very  scholastic, 
abstract,  useless  wisdom.  And  the  very 
homage  which  is  usually  paid  to  religion, 
the  hackneyed  acknowledgment  that  it 
is  very  well,  very  proper,  a  very  good 
thing;  or  the  more  solemn,  if  not  more 
dull  confession  of  "  the  great  importance 
of  religion ; "  and  more  especially  the 
demure  and  mechanical  manner  in  which 


these  things  are  said,  proclaim,  as 
plainly  as  anything  can,  that  it  has  not 
yet  become  a  living  interest  in  the  hearts 
of  men.  It  has  never,  in  fact,  taken  its 
proper  place  among  human  concerns.  I 
am  afraid  it  must  be  said,  that  with  most 
men  the  epithet  most  naturally  attaching 
itself  to  religion,  to  religious  services, 
to  prayers,  to  books  of  sermons,  is  the 
epithet,  dull.  And  it  is  well  known,  as 
a  fact  very  illustrative  of  this  state  of 
mind,  that  for  a  long  time  parents  in  this 
country  were  wont  to  single  out  and  des- 
tine for  the  ministry  of  religion  the  dull- 
est of  their  sons. 

I  know  of  nothing  more  important, 
therefore,  than  to  show  that  religion 
takes  its  place  among  objects  that  are  of 
actual  concern  to  men,  and  to  all  men  ; 
that  its  interests  are  not  only  of  the  most 
momentous,  but  of  the  most  practical 
character  ;  that  the  wisdom  that  winneth 
souls,  the  religion  that  takes  care  for 
them,  is  the  most  useful,  the  most  rea- 
sonable, of  all  wisdom  and  discipline. 
It  is  of  tlie  care  of  the  soul,  then,  that  I 
would  speak  ;  of  its  wisdom,  of  its  rea- 
sonableness, of  its  actual  interest  to  the 
common  sense  and  welfare  of  men. 

The  ministry  of  the  Gospel  is  often 
denominated  the  care  of  souls  ;  and  I 
consider  this  language,  rightly  explained, 
as  conveying  a  very  comprehensive  and 
interesting  description  of  the  office.  It 
is  the  care  of  souls.  This  is  its  whole 
design,  and  ought  to  be  its  whole  direc- 
tion, impulse,  strength,  and  consolation. 
And  this,  too,  if  it  were  justly  felt,  would 
impart  an  interest,  an  expansion,  a  steady 
energy,  a  constant  growth,  and  a  final 
and  full  enlargement  to  the  mind  of  the 
Christian  teacher,  not  surpassed,  cer- 
tainly, in  any  other  profession  or  pursuit 
in  life.  Whether  the  sacred  office  has 
had  this  effect  to  as  great  an  extent 
as  other  professions,  is,  to  the  clergy 
at  least,  a  very  serious  question.  I  am 
obliged  to  doubt  whether  it  has.  Cer- 
tainly, to  say  that  its  spirit  has  been  char- 
acterized by  as  much  natural  warmth  and  > 
hearty  earnestness  as  that  of  other  pur- 
suit ;  that  its  eloquence  has  been  as  free 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS    REAL   AND   SUPREME 


165 


and  powerful  as  that  of  the  Senate  and 
the  Bar ;  that  its  literature  has  been  as 
rich  as  that  of  poetry  or  even  of  fic- 
ion,  —  this  is  more  than  I  dare  aver. 

But  not  to  dwell  on  this  question  ;  it 
is  to  my  present  purpose  to  observe  that 
the  very  point  from  which  this  want  of 
a  vivid  perception  of  religious  objects 
has  arisen,  is  the  very  point  irom  which 
help  must  come.  Men  have  not  per- 
ceived the  interests  of  the  mind  and  heart 
to  be  the  realities  that  they  are.  Here 
is  the  evil ;  and  here  we  must  find  tlie 
remedy.  Let  the  moral  states,  experi- 
ences, feelings  of  the  soul  become  but  3.^ 
interesting  as  the  issue  of  a  lawsuit,  the 
success  of  business,  or  the  result  of  any 
worldly  enterprise,  and  there  would  be 
no  difficulty ;  there  would  be  no  com- 
plaint of  dulness,  either  from  our  own 
bosoms  or  from  the  lips  of  others.  Strip 
off  from  the  inward  soul  those  many  folds 
and  coverings,  —  the  forms  and  fashions 
of  life,  the  robes  of  ambition,  the  silken 
garments  of  luxury,  the  fair  array  of 
competence  and  comfort,  and  the  fair 
semblances  of  comfort  and  happiness,  — 
strip  the  mind  naked  and  bare  to  the 
view  ;  and  unfold  those  workings  within, 
where  feelings  and  principles  make  men 
happy  or  miserable  ;  and  we  should  no 
more  have  such  a  thing  as  religious  in- 
difference in  the  world  !  Sin  there  might 
be,  outbreaking  passion,  outrageous 
vice,  but  apathy  there  could  not  be.  It 
would  not  require  a  sentiment  of  rec- 
titude even  ;  it  would  hardly  need  that 
a  man  should  have  any  religion  at  all,  to 
feel  an  interest  in  things  so  vital  to  his 
welfare.  Why  do  men  care  as  they  do 
for  worldly  things?  Is  it  not  because 
they  expect  h-ippiness,  or  think  to  ward 
off  miser)^,  with  them  ?  Only  let  them  be 
convinced,  then,  that  happiness  and  mis- 
ery depend  much  more  upon  the  prin- 
ciples and  affections  of  their  own  minds, 
and  would  they  not  transfer  the  greater 
portion  of  their  interest  to  those  prin- 
ciples and  affections  }  Would  it  not  re- 
sult from  a  kind  of  mental  necessity,  like 
that  which  obliges  the  artisan  to  look  to 
the  mainspring  of  his  machinery  ?     Add, 


then,  to  this  distinct  perception  of  the 
real  sources  of  happiness,  an  ardent  be- 
nevolence, an  earnest  desire  for  men's 
welfare ;  and  from  this  union  would 
spring  that  spiritual  zeal,  that  ardor  in 
the  concerns  of  religion  and  benevolence, 
of  which  so  much  is  said,  so  little  is  felt ; 
and  of  which  the  deficiency  is  so  much 
lamented.  I  am  willing  to  make  allow- 
ance for  constitutional  differences  of 
temperament,  and  indeed  for  many  dif- 
ficulties ;  but  still  I  maintain  that  there 
is  enough  in  the  power  of  religious  truths 
and  affections  to  overcome  all  obstacles. 
I  do  maintain,  that  if  the  objects  of  re- 
ligion were  perceived  to  be  what  they  are, 
and  were  felt  as  they  ought  to  be,  and 
as  every  man  is  capable  of  feeling  them, 
we  should  no  more  have  such  things 
among  us  as  dull  sermons,  or  dull  books 
of  piety,  or  dull  conferences  on  religion, 
than  dull  conversations  on  the  exchange, 
or  dull  pleadings  at  the  bar,  or  even  than 
dull  communications  of  slander  by  the 
fireside. 

I  have  thus  far  been  engaged  with 
stating  the  obvious  utility  and  certain 
efficacy  of  the  right  conviction  on  this 
subject.  But  I  have  done  it  as  prehmi- 
nary  to  a  closer  argument  for  the  right 
conviction.  Let  us,  then,  enter  more 
fully  upon  consideration  of  the  great 
spiritual  interest.  Let  us,  my  brethren, 
enter  somewhat  at  large  into  the  con- 
sideration of  religion  as  an  interest, 
and  of  the  place  which  it  occupies  among 
human  interests.  Among  the  cares  of 
life,  let  us  consider  the  care  of  the  soul. 
For  it  is  certain  that  the  interior,  the 
spiritual,  being  has  as  yet  obtained  no 
just  recognition  in  the  maxims  of  this 
world. 

The  mind,  indeed,  if  we  would  but 
understand  it,  is  the  great  central  power 
in  the  movements  of  this  world's  affairs. 
All  the  scenes  of  this  life,  from  the 
busiest  to  the  most  quiet,  from  the 
gravest  to  the  gayest,  are  the  varied  de- 
velopments of  that  same  mind.  The 
world  is  spread  out  as  a  theatre  for  one 
great  action,  the  action  of  a  mind  ;  and 
it   is   so  to  be  regarded,  whether  as  a 


1 66 


ON   THE    NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


sphere  of  trial  or  of  suffering,  of  en- 
joyment or  of  discipline,  of  private  inter- 
est or  of  public  history.  Life,  with  all 
its  cares  and  pursuits,  with  all  its  as- 
pects of  the  superficial,  the  frivolous, 
and  the  gross,  is  but  the  experience  of 
a  mind.  Life,  I  say,  —  dull,  plodding, 
weary  life,  as  many  call  it,  —  is,  after  all, 
a  spiritual  scene  ;  and  this  is  the  descrip- 
tion of  it  that  is  of  the  deepest  import 
to  us. 

I  know,  and  repeat,  that  the  appear- 
ances of  things,  to  many  at  least,  are 
widely  different  from  this  representation. 
I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  prevailing  and 
worldly  views  of  this  subject.  There 
are  some,  I  know,  who  look  upon  this 
life  as  a  scene,  not  of  spiritual  inter- 
ests, but  of  worldly  pleasures.  The  grati- 
fications, of  sense,  the  opportunities  of 
indulgence,  the  array  in  which  fashion 
clothes  its  votaries,  the  splendor  of  en- 
tertainments, the  fascinations  of  amuse- 
ment, absorb  them  ;  or  absorb,  at  least, 
all  the  admiration  they  feel  for  the 
scene  of  this  life.  Upon  others,  again, 
I  know  that  the  cloud  of  affliction  de- 
scends ;  and  it  seems  to  them  to  come 
down  visibly.  Evil  and  trouble  are  to 
them  mainly  things  of  condition  and 
circumstance.  They  are  thinking  chief- 
ly of  this  thing  as  unfortunate,  and  of 
that,  as  sad  ;  and  they  forget  that  intrin- 
sic character  of  the  mind  which  lends 
the  darkest  hue,  and  which  might  give 
an  aspect  of  more  than  earthly  bright- 
ness, to  all  their  sufferings.  And  then, 
again,  to  the  eyes  of  others  toil  presents 
itself,  with  rigid  sinews  and  strong  arm, 
indeed,  but  weary,  too,  —  weary,  worn 
down  with  fatigue,  and  perhaps  discon- 
solate in  spirit.  And  to  its  earthly 
minded  victims — for  victims  they  are, 
with  that  mind  —  it  seems,  I  know,  as 
if  this  world  were  made  but  to  work 
in;  and  as  if  death,  instead  of  being 
the  grand  entrance  to  immortality,  were 
sufficiently  commended  to  them  as  a  rest 
and  a  release.  And  last  of  all,  gain, 
the  master  pursuit  of  all,  since  it  min- 
isters to  all  other  pursuits,  urges  its 
objects  upon  our  attention.     There  are 


those,  I  know,  to  whom  this  world  — 
world  of  spiritual  probation  and  immor- 
tal hope  as  it  is  —  is  but  one  great 
market-place  ;  a  place  for  buying  and 
selling  and  getting  profit;  a  place  in 
which  to  hoard  treasures,  to  build 
houses,  to  enjoy  competence,  or  to 
lavish  wealth. 

And  these  things,  I  know,  are  called 
interests.  The  matters  of  religion  are 
instructions  ;  ay,  and  excellent  instruc- 
tions ;  for  men  can  garnish  with  epithets 
of  eulogium  the  objects  on  which  they 
are  to  bestow  nothing  but  praise.  And 
such,  alas  !  are,  too  often,  the  matters 
of  religion  ;  they  are  excellent  instruc- 
tions, glorious  doctrines,  solemn  ordi- 
nances, important  duties  ;  but  to  the 
mass  of  mankind  they  are  not  yet  in- 
terests. That  brief  word,  with  no  epi- 
thet, with  no  pomp  of  language  about 
it,  expresses  more,  far  more,  than  most 
men  ever  really  attribute  to  religion 
and  the  concerns  of  the  soul.  Nay,  and 
the  interest  that  is  felt  in  religion,  — 
I  have  spoken  of  dulness,  —  but  the 
interest  that  is  felt  in  religion  is  often 
of  a  very  doubtful,  superficial,  unreal 
character.  Discourses  upon  religion 
excite  a  kind  of  interest,  and  sometimes 
it  might  seem  as  if  that  interest  were 
strong.  And  strong  of  its  kind  it  may 
be.  But  of  what  kind  is  it  ?  How 
deep,  how  efficient,  is  it?  How  many 
are  there,  that  would  forego  the  chance 
of  a  good  mercantile  speculation  for 
the  moral  effect  of  the  most  admirable 
sermon  that  ever  was  preached  .''  Oh  ! 
no  :  then  it  is  a  different  thing.  Re- 
ligion is  a  good  thing,  by  the  by  ;  it  is 
a  pleasant  thing  for  entertainment ;  it  is 
a  glorious  thing  to  muse  and  meditate 
upon  ;  but  bring  it  into  competition  or 
comparison  with  real  interests,  and  then, 
to  many,  it  at  once  becomes  something 
subtile,  spiritual,  invisible,  impercepti- 
ble :  it  weighs  notliing,  it  counts  noth- 
ing, it  will  sell  for  nothing,  and  in  thou- 
sands of  scenes,  in  thousands  of  dwell- 
ings in  this  world,  it  is  held  to  be  good 
for  nothing !  This  statement,  God 
knoweth,  is  made  with  no  liditness  of 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS   REAL   AND    SUPREME. 


167 


spirit,  thouijh  it  liad  almost  carried  me, 
from  the  vividness  of  the  contrast  which 
it  presents,  to  h'ghtness  of  speech.     How 
sad   and   lamentable    is  it,    that   beings 
whose   soul   is    their    chief  distinction, 
should   imagine    that  the    things  which 
most  concern  them  are  things  of  appear- 
ance !     I  said,  the  vividness  of  the  con- 
trast ;  yet  in  truth  it  has  been  but  half 
exhibited.     It  seems  like  extravagance 
to  say  it,  but  I  fear  it  is  sober  truth, 
that   there    are    many   whom   the    very 
belief,  the  acknowledged  record,  of  their 
immortality    has    never    interested    half 
so  deeply  as  the  frailest  leaf  on  which  a 
bond  or  a  note  is  written  ;  many  whom 
no  words  of  the   Gospel  ever  aroused, 
and   delighted,  and  kindled    to  such  a 
glow  of  pleasure,  as  a  card  of  compli- 
ment, or  a  sentence  of  human  eulogium  ! 
Indeed,  when  we  draw  a  line  of  division 
between  the  worldly  and    spiritual,  be- 
tween the  beings  of  the  world  and  the 
beings  of  the  soul,  between  creatures  of 
the  outside  and  creatures  of  the  intel- 
lect  and   of   immortality,  how  few  will 
really  be  found  among  the  elect,  the  cho- 
sen and  faithful !     And  how  many  who 
could  scarcely  suspect  it,  perhaps,  would 
be  found    on  the    side  of  the  world,  — • 
would    be  found    among  those    who    in 
their  pursuits  and  judgments  are  more 
affected  by  appearances   than  by  reali- 
ties ;    who   are    more    powerfully   acted 
upon  by  outward  possessions  than  by  in- 
ward qualities  ;  who,  even  in  their  lofti- 
est sentiments,  their  admiration  of  great 
and  good    men,  have    their  enthusiasm 
full  as  much  awakened  by  the  estima- 
tion in  which  those  men  are  held,  as  by 
their  real  merits. 

And  when  we  consider  all  this,  when 
we  look  upon  the  strife  of  human  pas- 
sions, too,  the  zeal,  the  eagerness,  the 
rivalship,  the  noise  and  bustle,  with 
which  outward  things  are  sought  ;  the 
fear,  the  hope,  the  joy,  the  sorrow,  the 
discontent,  the  pride  of  this  world,  all,  to 
so  great  an  extent,  fastening  themselves 
upon  what  is  visible  and  tangible  ;  it  is 
not  strange  that  many  should  come  al- 
most insensibly  to  feel  as  if  they  dwelt  in 


a  world  of  appearances,  and  as  if  noth- 
ing were  real  and  valuable  but  what  is 
seen  and  temporal.  It  is  not  altogether 
strange  that  the  senses  have  spread  a 
broad  veil  of  delusion  over  the  earth,  and 
that  the  concerns  of  every  man's  mind 
and  heart  have  been  covered  up  and  kept 
out  of  sight  by  a  mass  of  forms  and  fash- 
ions, and  of  things  called  interests. 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  these 
aspects  of  tilings,  I  maintain,  and  I 
will  show,  that  the  real  and  main  inter- 
est which  concerns  every  man  lies  in  the 
state  of  his  own  mind  ;  that  habits  are 
of  far  more  consequence  to  him  than 
possessions  and  treasures  ;  that  affec- 
tions, simple  and  invisible  things  though 
they  be,  are  worth  more  to  him  than 
rich  dwellings,  and  broad  lands,  and  cov- 
eted honors.  I  maintain  that  no  man  is 
so  worldly,  or  covetous,  or  voluptuous  — 
that  no  man  is  so  busy,  or  ambitious,  or 
frivolous,  but  this  is  true  of  him.  Let 
him  be  religious  or  not  religious  ;  let 
him  be  the  merest  slave  of  circum- 
stances, the  merest  creature  of  vanity 
and  compliment  that  ever  existed  ;  and 
still  it  is  true,  and  none  the  less  true, 
that  his  welfare  lies  within.  There  are 
no  scenes  of  engrossing  business,  tumul- 
tuous pleasure,  hollow-hearted  fashion, 
or  utter  folly,  but  the  deepest  principles 
of  religion  are  concerned  with  them. 
Indeed,  I  look  upon  all  these  varied  pur- 
suits as  the  strugglings  of  the  deeper 
mind,  as  the  varied  developments  of  the 
one  great  desire  of  happiness.  And  he 
who  forgets  that  deeper  mind,  and  sees 
nothing,  and  thinks  of  nothing,  but  the 
visible  scene,  I  hold  to  be  as  unwise  as 
the  man  who,  entering  upon  the  cliarge 
of  one  of  our  manufactories,  should  gaze 
upon  the  noisy  and  bustling  apparatus 
above,  should  occupy  himself  with  its 
varied  movements,  its  swift  and  bright 
machinery,  and  its  beautiful  fabrics,  and 
forget  the  mighty  wheel,  that  moves  all 
from  beneath. 

But  let  us  pursue  the  argument.  The 
mind,  it  will  be  recollected,  is  that  which 
is  happy  or  unhappy,  not  goods  and 
fortunes  ;  not  even  the  senses  ;  they  are 


1 68 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF  RELIGION. 


but  the  inlets  of  pleasure  to  the  mind. 
But  this,  as  it  is  a  mere  truism,  though 
a  decisive  one  in  the  case,  is  not  the 
proposition  which  I  am  to  maintain. 
Neither  am  I  to  argue,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  the  mind  is  independent 
of  circumstances  ;  that  its  situation  in 
regard  to  wealth  or  poverty,  distinc- 
tion or  neglect,  society  or  solitude,  is 
a  thing  of  no  consequence.  As  well  say 
that  its  relation  to  health  or  sickness  is 
a  thing  of  no  consequence.  But  this  I 
say,  and  maintain,  that  what  every  man 
has  chiefly  at  stake  lies  in  the  mind; 
that  his  excellence  depends  entirely  upon 
that ;  that  his  happiness  ordinarily  de- 
pends more  upon  the  mind  itself,  upon  its 
own  state  and  character,  than  upon  any 
outward  condition  ;  that  those  evils  with 
which  the  human  race  is  afflicted  are 
mainly  evils  of  the  mind;  and  that  the 
care  of  the  soul,  which  religion  enjoins, 
is  the  grand  and  only  remedy  for  human 
wants  and  woes. 

The  considerations  which  bear  upon 
this  estimate  of  the  real  and  practical 
welfare  of  men  may  be  drawn  from 
every  sphere  of  human  life  and  action  ; 
from  every  contemplation  of  mankind, 
whether  in  their  condition  relations  or 
attributes ;  from  society,  from  God's 
providence,  from  human  nature  itself. 
Let  us,  then,  in  the  first  place,  consider 
society,  in  several  respects  :  in  a  general 
view  of  the  evils  that  disturb  or  afflict 
it;  in  its  intercourse;  in  its  domestic 
scenes  ;  in  its  religious  institutions  ;  and 
in  its  secular  business  and  worldly  con- 
dition. These  topics  will  occupy  the 
time  that  remains  for  our  present  medi- 
tation. 

It  is  the  more  desirable  to  give  some 
latitude  to  this  part  of  our  illustration, 
because  it  is  in  social  interests  and  com- 
petitions especially,  that  men  are  apt 
to  be  worldly;  i.  e.,  to  be  governed  by 
considerations  extrinsic  and  foreign  to 
the  soul.  The  social  man,  indeed,  is 
often  worldly,  while  the  same  man  in 
retirement  is,  after  his  manner,  devout. 

What,  then,  are  the  evils  in  society 
at  large  .''     I  answer,  they   arq,    mainly, 


evils  of  the  mind.  Let  us  descend  to 
particulars.  Some,  for  instance,  are  de- 
pressed and  irritated  by  neglect;  and 
others  are  elated  and  injured  by  flattery. 
These  are  large  classes  of  society  around 
us  ;  and  the  first,  I  think,  by  far  the  lar- 
gest class.  Both  are  unfortunate  ;  both 
are  wrong,  probably  ;  and  not  only  so, 
but  society  is  wrong  for  treating  them  in 
these  ways  ;  and  the  wrong,  the  evil,  in 
every  instance,  lies  in  the  mind.  Some 
again  want  excitement,  want  an  object ; 
and  duty  and  religion  would  fill  their 
hearts  with  constant  peace,  and  with  a 
plenitude  of  happy  thoughts.  Others 
want  restraint,  want  the  power  to  deny 
themselves,  and  want  to  know  that  such 
self-denial  is  blessed  ;  and  true  piety 
would  teach  them  this  lofty  knowledge  ; 
true  piety  would  gently  and  strongly 
control  all  their  passions.  In  short, 
ennui  and  excess,  intemperance,  slander, 
variance,  rivalship,  pride,  and  envy,  — 
these  are  the  miseries  of  society,  and 
they  are  all  miseries  that  exist  in  the 
mind.  Where  would  our  account  end,  if 
we  were  to  enumerate  all  the  things  that 
awaken  our  fears,  in  the  progress  and 
movements  of  the  social  world  around  us .'' 
Good  men  differ,  and  reject  each  other's 
light  and  countenance  ;  and  bad  men, 
alas  !  agree  but  too  well ;  wise  men  dis- 
pute, and  fools  laugh  ;  the  selfish  grasp  ; 
the  ambitious  strive  ;  the  sensual  indulge 
themselves;  and  it  seerns,  at  times,  as  if 
the  world  were  going  surely,  if  not  swift- 
ly, to  destruction  !  And  why  }  Only, 
and  always,  and  everywhere,  because  the 
mind  is  not  right.  Put  holy  truth  in 
every  false  heart,  instil  a  sacred  piety 
into  every  worldly  mind,  and  a  blessed 
virtue  into  every  fountain  of  corrupt  de-  ^ 
sires  ;  and  the  anxieties  of  philanthropy  . 
might  be  hushed ;  and  the  tears  of  be- 
nevolent prayer  and  faith  might  be  dried 
up ;  and  patriotism  and  piety  might 
gaze  upon  the  scene  and  the  prospect 
with  unmingled  joy.  Surely,  then,  the 
great  interests  of  society  are  emphati- 
cally the  interests  of  religion  and  virtue. 
Gather  any  circle  of  society  to  its 
evening   assembly.      And   what   is   the 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS    REAL  AND   SUPREME. 


i6g 


evil  there  ?  He  must  think  but  httle, 
who  imagines  there  is  none.  I  confess 
that  there  are  few  scenes  that  more 
strongly  dispose  me  to  reflection  than 
this.  I  see  great  and  signal  advantages, 
fair  and  fascinating  opportunities  for 
happiness.  The  ordinary,  or  rather  the 
ordinarily  recognized,  evils  of  life  have 
no  place  in  the  throng  of  social  enter- 
tainment. They  are  abroad,  indeed,  in 
many  a  hovel  and  hospital,  and  by  many 
a  wayside  ;  but  from  those  brilliant  and 
gay  apartments  they  are,  for  the  time, 
excluded.  The  gathering  is,  of  youth 
and  lightness  of  heart  and  prosperous 
fortune.  The  manly  brow,  flushed  with 
the  beauty  of  its  early  day,  the  fair  form 
of  outward  loveliness,  the  refined  under- 
standing, the  accomplished  manner,  the 
glad  parent's  heart,  and  confiding  filial 
love,  and  music  and  feasting,  are  there  ; 
and  yet  beneath  many  a  soft  raiment 
and  many  a  silken  fold  I  know  that 
hearts  are  beating  which  are  full  of  dis- 
quietude and  pain.  The  selfishness  of 
parental  anxiety,  the  desire  of  admira- 
tion, the  pride  of  success,  the  mortifica- 
tion of  failure,  the  vanity  that  is  flattered, 
the  ill-concealed  jealousy,  the  miserable 
affectation,  the  distrustful  embarrass- 
ment, —  that  comprehensive  difficulty 
which  proceeds  to  some  extent,  indeed, 
from  the  fault  of  the  individual,  but 
much  more  from  the  general  fault  of  so- 
ciety, —  these  are  the  evils  from  which 
the  gayest  circles  of  the  social  world 
need  to  be  reformed  ;  and  these,  too,  are 
evils  in  the  mind.  They  are  evils  which 
nothing  but  religion  and  virtue  can  ever 
correct.  The  remedy  must  be  applied 
where  the  disease  is,  and  that  is  to  the 
soul. 

But  now  follow  society  to  its  homes. 
There  is,  indeed,  and  eminently,  the 
scene  of  our  happiness  or  of  our  mis- 
ery. And  it  is  too  plain  to  be  insisted 
on,  that  domestic  happiness  depends 
ordinarily  and  chiefly  upon  domestic 
honor  and  fidelity  ;  upon  disinterested- 
ness, generosity,  kindness,  forbearance ; 
and  the  vices  opposite  to  these  are  the 
evils  that  imbitter  the  peace  and  joy  of 


domestic  life.  Men  in  general  are  suffi- 
ciently sensible  to  this  part  of  their  wel- 
fare. Thousands  all  around  us  are  labor- 
ing by  day  and  meditating  by  night  upon 
the  means  of  building  up  in  comfort 
and  honor  the  families  with  whose 
fortunes  and  fate  their  own  is  iden- 
tified. Here,  then,  if  anywhere  — 
here,  in  these  homes  of  our  affection,  are 
interests.  And  surely  I  speak  not  to 
discourage  a  generous  self-devotion  to 
them,  or  a  reasonable  care  of  their 
worldly,  condition.  But  I  say  that  this 
condition  is  not  the  main  thing,  though 
it  is  commonly  made  so.  I  say  that 
there  is  something  of  more  consequence 
to  the  happiness  of  a  family  than  the 
apartments  it  occupies,  or  the  furniture 
that  adorns  them  ;  something  of  dearer 
and  more  vital  concernment  than  costly 
equipage  or  vast  estates  or  coveted  hon- 
ors. I  say  that  if  its  members  have 
anything  within  them  that  is  worthy 
to  be  called  a  mind,  their  main  interests 
are  their  thoughts  and  their  virtues. 
Vague  and  shadowy  things  they  may  ap- 
pear to  some ;  but  let  a  man  be  ever  so 
worldly,  and  this  is  true  ;  and  it  is  a 
truth  which  he  cannot  help  :  and  all  the 
struggle  of  family  ambition,  and  all  the 
pride  of  its  vaunted  consequence  and 
cherished  luxury,  will  only  the  more 
demonstrate  it  to  be  true. 

Choose,  then,  what  scene  of  social 
life  you  will,  and  it  can  be  shown,  be- 
yond all  reasonable  doubt,  that  the  main 
concern,  the  great  interest  there,  is  the 
state  of  the  mind. 

What  is  it  that  makes  dull  and  weary 
services  at  church,  if,  alas  !  we  must 
admit  that  they  .sometimes  are  so  ?  A 
living  piety  in  the  congregation,  a  fer- 
vent love  of  God,  and  truth,  and  good- 
ness, would  communicate  life,  I  had 
almost  said,  to  the  dullest  service  that 
ever  passed  in  the  house  of  God  :  and, 
if  destitute  of  that  piety,  the  preaching 
of  an  angel  would  awaken  in  us  only  a 
temporary  enthusiasm.  A  right  and 
holy  feeling  would  make  the  house  of 
God,  the  place  for  devout  meditation,  a 
place  more  profoundly,  more  keenly,  in- 


I/O' 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


teresting  than  the  thronged  mart,  or  the 
canvassing  hall,  or  the  tribunal  that  is  to 
pass  judgment  on  a  portion  of  our  prop- 
erty. Do  you  say  that  the  preacher  is 
sometimes  dull,  and  that  is  all  the  diffi- 
culty ?  No,  it  is  not  all  the  difficulty  ; 
for  the  dullest  haranguer  that  ever  ad- 
dressed an  infuriated  mob,  when  speak- 
ing their  sentiments,  is  received  with 
shouts  of  applause.  Suppose  that  a 
company  were  assembled  to  consider 
and  discuss  some  grand  method  to  be 
proposed  for  acquiring  fortunes  for  them- 
selves—  some  South-Sea  scheme,  or 
project  for  acquiring  the  mines  of  Po- 
tosi ;  and  suppose  that  some  one  should 
rise  to  speak  to  that  company,  who  could 
not  speak  eloquently,  nor  in  an  interest- 
ing manner  :  grant  all  that ;  but  suppose 
this  dull  speaker  could  say  something, 
could  state  some  fact  or  consideration, 
to  help  on  the  great  inquiry.  Would  the 
company  say  that  they  could  not  hsten 
to  him  ?  Would  the  people  say  that 
they  would  not  come  to  hear  him  again  ? 
No,  the  speaker  might  be  as  awkward 
and  prosaic  as  he  pleased  ;  he  might  be 
some  humble  observer,  some  young  en- 
gineer ;  but  he  would  have  attentive  and 
crowded  auditories.  A  feeling  in  the 
hearers  would  supply  all  other  deficien- 
cies. 

Shall  this  be  so  in  worldly  affairs,  and 
shall  there  be  nothing  like  it  in  religious 
affairs  ?  Grant  that  the  speaker  on  re- 
ligion is  not  the  most  interesting  ;  grant 
that  he  is  dull  ;  grant  that  his  emotions 
are  constitutionally  less  earnest  than 
yours  are ;  yet  I  say.  What  business  have 
you  to  come  to  church  to  be  passive  m 
the  service,  to  be  acted  on,  and  not  your- 
selves to  act.^*  And  yet  more,  what  war- 
rant have  you  to  let  your  affections  to 
your  God  depend  on  the  infirmity  of  any 
mortal  being  ?  Is  that  awful  presence 
that  filleth  the  sanctuary,  though  no 
cloud  of  incense  be  there  ;  is  the  vital 
and  never-dying  interest  which  you  have 
in  your  own  mind  ;  is  the  wide  scene  of 
living  mercies  that  surrounds  you,  and 
which  you  have  come  to  meditate  upon  ; 
is  it  all  indifferent  to  you,  because  one 


poor,  erring  mortal  is  cold  and  dead  to 
it?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  say  that  he  is 
not  dull,  if  he  is  dull ;  I  do  not  ask  you 
to  say  that  he  is  interesting ;  but  I  ask 
you  to  be  interested  in  spite  of  him. 
His  very  dulness,  if  he  is  dull,  ought 
to  move  you.  If  you  cannot  weep  with 
him,  you  ought  to  weep  for  him. 

Besides,  the  weakest  or  the  dullest 
man  tells  3'ou  truths  of  transcendent 
glory  and  power.  He  tells  you  that 
"  God  is  love  :  "  and  how  might  that 
truth,  though  he  uttered  not  another 
word,  or  none  but  dull  words,  —  how 
might  that  truth  spread  itself  out  into 
the  most  glorious  and  blessed  contem- 
plations !  Indeed,  the  simple  truths  are, 
after  all,  the  great  truths.  Neither  are 
they  always  best  understood.  The  very 
readiness  of  assent  is  sometimes  an  ob- 
stacle to  the  fulness  of  the  impression. 
Very  simple  matters,  I  am  aware,  are 
those  to  which  I  am  venturing  to  call 
your  attention  in  this  hour  of  our  so- 
lemnities ;  and  yet  do  I  believe  that  if 
they  were  clearly  perceived  and  felt 
among  men  at  large,  they  would  begin, 
from  this  moment,  the  regeneration  of 
the  world  ! 

But  pass  now  from  the  silent  and  holy 
sanctuary  to  the  bustling  scene  of  this 
world's  business  and  pursuit.  "Here," 
the  wordly  man  will  say,  "  we  have  real- 
ity. Here,  indeed,  are  interests.  Here 
is  something  worth  being  concerned 
about."  And  yet  even  here  do  the  in- 
terests of  religion  and  virtue  pursue  him, 
and  press  themselves  upon  his  attention. 

Look,  for  instance,  at  the  condition  of 
life,  the  possession  or  the  want,  of  those 
blessings  for  which  business  is  prose- 
cuted. What  is  it  that  distresses  the 
poor  man,  and  makes  poverty,  in  the  ordi- 
nary condition  of  it,  the  burden  that  it  is  ? 
It  is  not,  in  this  country,  —  it  is  not,  usu- 
ally, hunger,  nor  cold,  nor  nakedness.  It 
is  some  artificial  want,  created  by  the 
wrong  state  of  society.  It  is  something 
nearer  yet  to  us,  and  yet  more  unneces- 
sary. It  is  mortification,  discontent, 
peevish  complaining,  or  envy  of  a  better 
condition  ;  and  all  these  are  evils  of  the 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS   REAL   AND    SUPREME. 


171 


mind.  Again,  what  is  it  that  troubles 
the  rich  man,  or  the  man  who  is  success- 
fully striving  to  be  rich  ?  It  is  not  pov- 
erty, certainly,  nor  is  it  exactly  posses- 
sion. It  is  occasional  disappointment, 
It  is  continual  anxiety,  it  is  the  extrava- 
gant desire  of  property,  or,  worse  than 
all,  the  vicious  abuse  of  it ;  and  all  these 
too  are  evils  of  the  mind. 

But  let  our  worldly  man,  who  will 
see  nothing  but  the  outside  of  things, 
who  will  value  nothing  but  possessions, 
take  another  view  of  his  interest.  What 
is  it  that  cheats,  circumvents,  over- 
reaches him  ?  It  is  disiionesty.  What 
disturbs,  vexes,  angers  him  ?  It  is  some 
wrong  from  another,  or  something  wrong 
in  himself.  What  steals  his  purse,  or 
robs  his  person  ?  It  is  not  some  unfor- 
tunate mischance  that  has  come  across 
his  path.  It  is  a  being  in  whom  noth- 
ing worse  resides  than  fraud  and  vio- 
lence. What  robs  him  of  that  which 
is  dearer  than  property,  his  fair  name 
among  his  fellows  ?  It  is  the  poisonous 
breath  of  foul  and  accursed  slander. 
And  what  is  it,  in  fine,  that  threatens  the 
security,  order,  peace,  and  well-being  of 
society  at  large  ;  that  threatens,  if  unre- 
strained, to  deprive  our  estates,  our  com- 
forts, our  domestic  enjoyments,  our  per- 
sonal respectability,  and  our  whole  social 
condition,  of  more  than  half  their  value? 
It  is  the  spirit  of  injustice  and  wild  mis- 
rule in  the  human  breast  ;  it  is  political 
intrigue,  or  popular  violence  ;  it  is  the 
progress   of    corruption,   intemperance,  ' 


lasciviousness,  the  progress  of  vice  and 
sin,  in  all  their  forms.  I  know  that 
these  are  very  simple  truths  ;  but  if  they 
are  very  simple  and  very  certain,  how 
is  it  that  men  are  so  worldly  ?  Put  obli- 
gation out  of  the  question  ;  how  is  it 
that  they  are  not  more  sagacious  and 
wary  with  regard  to  their  interests? 
How  is  it  that  the  means  of  religion  and 
virtue  are  so  indifferent  to  many,  in 
comparison  with  the  means  of  acquir- 
ing property  or  office?  How  is  it  that 
many  unite  and  contribute  so  coldly  and 
reluctantly  for  the  support  of  govern- 
ment, learning,  and  Christian  institutions, 
who  so  eagerly  combine  for  the  prose- 
cution of  moneyed  speculations,  and  of 
party  and  worldly  enterprises  ?  How  is 
it,  I  repeat  ?  Men  desire  happiness  ;  and 
a  very  clear  argument  may  be  set  forth 
to  show  them  where  their  happiness 
lies.  And  yet  here  is  presented  to  you 
the  broad  fact  —  and  with  this  fact  I 
will  close  the  present  meditation  —  that 
while  men's  welfare  depends  mainly  on 
their  own  minds,  they  are  actually  and 
almost  universally  seeking  it  in  things 
without  them ;  that  among  the  objects 
of  actual  desire  and  pursuit,  affections 
and  virtues,  in  the  world's  esteem,  bear 
no  comparison  with  possessions  and 
honors  ;  nay,  that  men  are  everywhere, 
and  every  day,  sacrificing,  ay,  sacrificing 
affections  and  virtues,  sacrificing  the 
dearest  treasures  of  the  soul,  for  what 
they  call  goods,  and  pleasures,  and  dis- 
tinctions. 


DISCOURSES 


ON 


THE     NATURE     OF     RELIGION, 


AND    ON    COMMERCE    AND    BUSINESS; 


WITH   SOME   OCCASIONAL  DISCOURSES. 


ON    THE    NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


SPIRITUAL  INTERESTS  REAL  AND 
SUPREME. 

John  vi.  27  :  "  Labor  not  for  the  meat  that  perish- 
eth,  but  for  that  meat  which  endureth  unto  everlasting 
life." 

The  interests  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
spiritual  interests,  in  other  words, —  the 
interests  involved  in  religion,  —  are  real 
and  supreme.  Neglected,  disregarded, 
ridiculed,  ruined,  as  they  may  be  ;  ruined 
as  they  may  be  in  mere  folly,  in  mere 
scorn,  they  are  still  real  and  supreme. 
Notwithstanding  all  appearances,  delu- 
sions, fashions,  and  opinions  to  the 
contrary,  this  is  true,  and  will  be  true 
forever.  All  essential  interests  centre 
ultimately  in  the  soul  ;  all  that  do  not 
centre  there  are  circumstantial,  transi- 
tory, evanescent ;  they  belong  to  things 
that  perish. 

This  is  what  I  have  endeavored  to 
show  in  a  previous  discourse,  and  for 
this  purpose  I  have  appealed,  in  the  first 
place,  to  Society. 

My  second  appeal  is  to  Providence  ; 
Society,  indeed,  is  a  part  of  the  system 
of  Providence  ;  but  let  me  invite  you 
to  consider,  under  this  head,  that  the  in- 
terest of  the  soul  urged  in  the  Gospel 


is,  in  every  respect,  the  great  object  of 
Heaven's  care  and  providence. 

The  world,  which  is  appointed  for  our 
temporary  dwelling-place,  was  made  for 
this  end.  The  wiiole  creation  around 
us  is  to  the  soul  a  subject  and  a  minis- 
tering creation.  Tiie  mighty  globe  itself, 
with  all  its  glorious  apparatus  and  furni- 
ture, is  but  a  theatre  for  the  care  of  the 
soul,  the  theatre  of  its  redemption.  This 
vast  universe  is  but  a  means.  But  look 
at  the  earth  alone.  Wiiy  was  it  made 
such  as  it  is  ?  Its  fruitful  soils,  its  rich 
valleys,  its  mountain-tops,  and  its  roll- 
ing oceans  ;  its  humbler  scenes,  clothed 
with  beauty  and  light,  good  even  in  the 
sight  of  their  Maker,  fair  —  fair  to  mor- 
tal eyes  —  why  were  they  given  ?  They 
were  not  given  for  mere  sustenance  and 
supply  ;  for  much  less  would  have  suf- 
ficed for  that  end.  They  need  not  have 
been  so  beautiful  to  have  answered  that 
end.  They  could  have  spared  their  ver- 
dure and  flowers  and  fragrance,  and  still 
have  yielded  sustenance.  The  groves 
might  never  have  waved  in  the  breeze, 
but  have  stood  in  the  rigidity  of  an  iron 
forest ;  the  hills  might  not  have  been 
moulded  into  forms  of  beauty,  the 
streams  might  not  have  sparkled  in 
their   course,   nor   the   ocean   have   re- 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS    REAL   AND   SUPREME. 


173 


fleeted  the  blue  depths  of  heaven,  and 
yet  they  might  have  furnished  all  need- 
ful sustenance.  No,  they  were  not  given 
for  this  alone  :  but  they  were  given  to 
nourish  and  kindle  in  the  human  soul 
a  glory  and  a  beauty,  of  wrhich  all  out- 
ward grandeur  and  loveliness  are  but 
the  image.  They  were  given  to  show 
forth  the  majesty  and  love  of  God,  and 
to  form  in  man  a  resemblance  to  that 
majesty  and  love.  Think,  then,  of  a 
being  in  such  a  position  and  with  such 
a  ministry,  made  to  be  the  intelligent 
companion  of  God's  glorious  works,  the 
interpreter  of  nature,  the  Lord  of  the 
creation  made  to  be  the  servant  of  God 
alone.  And  yet  this  being,  —  oh,  mis- 
erable disappointment  and  failure!  — 
makes  himself  the  slave  of  circum- 
stances, the  slave  of  outward  goods  and 
advantages,  the  slave  of  everything  that 
he  ought  to  command. 

I  know  that  he  must  toil  and  care 
for  these  things.  But  wherefore  ?  Why 
must  he  toil  and  care  ?  For  a  reason,  I 
answer,  which  still  urges  upon  him  the 
very  point  we  are  considering.  It  had 
been  as  easy  for  the  Almighty  to  have 
caused  nature  spontaneously  to  bring 
forth  all  that  man  needs,  to  have  built, 
as  a  part  of  the  frame  of  the  earth,  en- 
during houses  for  us  to  dwell  in,  to  have 
filled  them  with  all  requisite  comforts, 
and  to  have  relieved  us,  in  short,  from 
the  necessity  of  labor  and  business. 
Why  has  he  not  done  this  ?  Still,  I  an- 
swer, for  the  same  cause,  with  the  same 
moral  design,  as  that  with  which  the 
world  was  made.  Activity  is  designed 
for  mental  improvement  :  industry  for 
moral  discipline  ;  business  for  the  culti- 
vation of  manly  and  high  and  noble  vir- 
tues. WHien,  therefore,  a  man  enters 
into  the  active  pursuits  of  life,  though 
he  pleads  the  cares  of  business  as  an 
excuse  for  his  neglect,  yet  it  is  then  es- 
pecially, and  that  by  the  very  teaching 
of  Providence,  that  he  should  be  re- 
minded of  his  spiritual  welfare.  He 
could  not,  with  safety  to  his  moral  being, 
be  turned  full  and  free  into  the  domain 
of   nature.     He  goes    forth,   therefore, 


bearing  burdens  of  care,  and  wearing 
the  shackles  of  necessity.  The  arm 
that  he  stretches  out  to  his  toil  wears  a 
chain  ;  for  he  must  work.  And  on  the 
tablet  where  immortal  thoughts  are  to 
be  written,  he  writes  words  of  worldly 
care  and  foresight ;  for  he  must  pro- 
vide. And  yet,  how  strange  and  passing 
strange  is  it !  —  the  occupations  and  ob- 
jects that  were  given  for  discipline,  and 
the  trial  of  the  spirit,  and  the  training 
of  it  to  virtue,  are  made  the  ultimate 
end  and  the  chief  good  ;  yes,  these,  which 
were  designed  for  humble  means  of  good 
to  the  soul,  are  made  the  engrossing 
pursuits,  the  absorbing  pleasures  and 
possessions,  in  which  the  soul  itself  is 
forgotten  and  lost  ! 

Thus  spiritual,  in  its  design,  is  nature. 
Thus  spiritual,  in  its  just  aspects,  is  the 
scene  of  life  ;  no  dull  scene  when  rightly 
regarded  ;  no  merely  wearisome,  uncom- 
pensated toil,  or  perplexing  business  ; 
but  a  ministration  to  purposes  of  infinite 
greatness  and  sublimity. 

We  are  speaking  of  human  interests. 
God  also  looks  upon  the  interest  of  his 
creatures.  But  he  seeth  not  as  man 
seeth.  .  Man  looketh  on  the  outward 
appearance,  but  God  looketh  on  the 
heart.  He  sees  that  all  human  interests 
centre  there.  He  sees  there  the  gather- 
ing, the  embosoming,  the  garnering  up,  of 
all  that  is  precious  to  an  immortal  crea- 
ture. Therefore  it  is  that,  as  the  strong- 
est proof  of  his  love  to  the  world,  he 
gave  his  Son  to  live  for  our  teaching 
and  guidance,  and  to  die  for  our  re- 
demption from  sin  and  death  and  hell. 
Every  bright  example,  every  pure  doc- 
trine, every  encouraging  promise,  every 
bitter  pang  endured,  points  to  the  soul 
for  its  great  design  and  end.  And  let 
me  say,  that  if  I  have  seemed  to  any 
one  to  speak  in  language  over  refined 
or  spiritual,  I  can  no  otherwise  under- 
stand the  teachings  of  the  great  Master. 
His  words  would  often  be  mystery  and 
extravagance  to  me,  if  I  did  not  feel 
that  the  soul  is  everything,  and  that  the 
world  is  nothing  but  what  it  is  to  the 
soul.     With  this  perception  of  the  true 


174 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF    RELIGION. 


value  of  things,  I  require  no  transcen- 
dental piety,  I  require  nothing  but  clear 
seeing,  to  understand  what  he  says  when 
he  pronounces  men  to  be  deaf,  and  Wind, 
and  diseased,  and  dead  in  sins.  For  to 
give  up  the  joys  of  the  soul  for  the  joys 
of  sense  ;  to  neglect  the  heart  for  the 
outward  condition ;  to  forego  inward 
good  in  the  eagerness  for  visible  good  ; 
to  forget  and  to  forsake  God  amidst  his 
very  works  and  mercies,  —  this  is,  in- 
deed, a  mournful  blindness,  a  sad  dis- 
order of  the  rational  nature,  and,  when 
the  evil  is  consummated,  it  is  a  moral 
death  !  True,  there  may  be  no  tears 
for  it,  save  in  here  and  there  one,  who 
retires  from  the  crowd  to  think  of  the 
strange  delusion,  and  the  grievous  mis- 
fortune, and  the  degrading  unworthi- 
ness.  There  are  no  tokens  of  public 
mourning  for  the  calamity  of  the  soul. 
Men  weep  when  the  body  dies  ;  and 
when  it  is  borne  to  its  last  rest,  they 
follow  it  with  sad  and  mournful  pro- 
cession. But  for  the  dying  soul  there  is 
no  open  lamentation  ;  for  the  lost  soul 
there  are  no  obsequies.  And  yet,  when 
the  great  account  of  life  is  made  up, 
though  the  words  we  now  speak  can  but 
approach  to  the  truth,  and  may  leave 
but  slight  impression,  the  things  we  may 
then  remember,  —  life's  misdirected  toil, 
the  world's  delusions,  the  thoughts  un- 
guarded, the  conscience  every  day  vio- 
lated, the  soul  forever  neglected, — 
these,  oh  !  these  will  weigh  upon  the 
spirit,  like  those  mountains  which  men 
are  represented  in  prophetic  vision  as 
vainly  calling  upon  to  cover  them. 

III.  But  I  am  now  verging  upon  the 
third  and  final  argument  which  I  pro- 
posed to  use  for  the  care  of  our  spiritual 
interests,  and  that  is  to  be  found  in  their 
value. 

I  have  shown  that  society  in  all  its 
pursuits,  objects,  and  scenes,  urges  this 
care  ;  that  nature,  and  providence,  and 
revelation  minister  to  it ;  and  I  now  say, 
that  the  soul  is  intrinsically  and  inde- 
pendently worth  this  care.  Put  all  con- 
sequences to  social  man  out  of  sight,  if 
it  be  possible  ;  draw  a  veil  over  all  the 


bright  and  glorious  ministry  of  nature  ; 
let  the  teachings  of  Providence  all  be 
silent  ;  let  the  Gospel  be  a  fable  ;  and 
still  the  mind  of  man  has  a  value  which 
nothing  else  has  ;  it  is  worth  a  care 
which  nothing  else  is  worth  ;  and  to  the 
single,  solitary  individual,  it  ought  to 
possess  an  interest  which  nothing  else 
possesses. 

Indeed,  at  every  step  by  which  we 
advance  in  this  subject,  the  contrast 
between  what  is  and  what  ought  to  be, 
presses  upon  us.  Men  very  well  under- 
stand the  word  value.  They  know  very 
well -what  interests  are.  Offices,  stocks, 
monopolies,  mercantile  privileges,  are 
interests.  Nay,  and  even  the  chances 
of  profit  are  interests  so  dear,  that  men 
contend  for  them  and  about  them,  almost 
as  if  they  were  striving  for  life.  And 
value, — how  carefully  and  accurately 
and  distinctly  is  that  quality  stamped 
upon  every  object  in  this  world  1  Cur- 
rency has  value,  and  bonds  have  value, 
and  broad  lands  and  freighted  ships  and 
rich  mines  are  all  marked  down  in  the 
table  of  this  strict  account.  Go  to  the 
exchange,  and  you  shall  know  what  they 
are  worth  ;  and  you  shall  know  what 
men  will  give  for  them.  But  the  stored 
treasures  of  the  heart,  the  unfathomable 
mines  that  are  to  be  wrought  in  the 
soul,  the  broad  and  boundless. realms  of 
thought,  the  freighted  ocean  of  man's 
affections  and  hopes,  — ■  who  will  regard 
them  .''  Who  will  seek  for  them,  as  if 
they  were  brighter  than  gold,  dearer  than 
treasure  ? 

The  mind,  I  repeat,  —  how  little  is  it 
known  or  considered  !  That  all  which 
man  permanently  is,  the  inward  being, 
the  divine  energy,  the  immortal  thought, 
the  boundless  capacity,  the  infinite  as- 
piration ;  how  few  value  this,  this  won- 
derful mind,  for  what  it  is  worth  !  How 
few  see  it,  that  brother  mind,  in  others  ; 
see  it,  through  the  rags  with  which  pov- 
erty has  clothed  it,  beneath  the  crush- 
ing burdens  of  life,  amidst  the  close 
pressure  of  worldly  troubles,  wants,  and 
sorrows,  and  acknowledge  and  cheer  it 
in  that  humble  lot,  and  feel  that  the  no- 


SPIRITUAL   INTERESTS   REAL   AND   SUPREME. 


175 


bility  of  earth,  that  the  commencing 
glory  of  heaven,  is  there  !  Nor  is  this 
the  worst,  nor  the  strongest,  view  of  the 
case.  Men  do  not  feel  the  worth  of 
their  own  minds.  They  are  very  proud, 
perhaps ;  they  are  proud  of  their  pos- 
sessions ;  they  are  proud  of  their  mitids, 
it  may  be,  as  distinguishing  them  ;  but 
the  intrinsic,  the  inward,  the  infinite 
luorth  of  their  own  minds  they  do  not 
perceive.  How  many  a  man  is  there 
who  would  feel,  if  he  were  introduced 
into  some  magnificent  palace,  and  were 
led  through  a  succession  of  splendid 
apartments,  filled  with  rich  and  gorgeous 
furniture,  as  if  he,  lofty,  immortal  being 
as  he  is,  were  but  an  ordinary  thing 
amidst  the  tinselled  show  around  him  ; 
or  would  feel  as  if  he  were  a  more  or- 
dinary being,  for  the  perishing  glare  of 
things  amidst  which  he"  walked  !  How 
many  a  man,  who,  as  he  passed  along 
the  wayside,  saw  the  chariot  of  wealth 
rolling  by  him,  would  forget  the  intrin- 
sic and  eternal  dignity  of  his  own  mind, 
in  a  poor,  degrading  envy  of  that  vain 
pageant,  —  would  feel  himself  to  be  an 
humbler  creature,  because,  not  in  mind, 
but  in  mensuration,  he  was  not  quite  so 
high  !  And  so  long  as  this  is  the  case, 
do  you  believe  that  men  understand  their 
own  minds,  that  they  know  what  they 
possess  within  them  .''  How  many,  in 
fact,  feel  as  if  that  inward  being,  that 
mind,  were  respectable,  chiefly,  because 
their  bodies  lean  on  silken  couches,  and 
are  fed  with  costly  luxuries !  How  many 
respect  themselves,  and  look  for  respect 
from  others,  in  proportion  as  they  grow 
more  rich  and  live  more  splendidly,  not 
more  wisely,  —  and  fare  more  sumptu- 
ously every  day  !  Surely  it  is  not  strange 
while  all  this  is  true,  that  men  should  be 
more  attracted  by  objects  of  sense  and 
appetite  than  by  miracles  of  wisdom 
and  love.  And  it  is  not  strange  that  the 
spiritual  riches  which  man  is  exhorted 
to  seek,  are  represented  in  Scripture  as 
"hid  treasures;"  for  they  are  indeed 
hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  soul,  — hid- 
den, covered  up,  with  worldly  gains  and 
pomps  and  vanities.     It  is  not  strangi 


that  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  that  king- 
dom which  is  within,  is  represented  as  a 
treasure  buried  in  a  field  :  the  flowers 
bloom  and  the  long  grass  waves  there, 
and  men  pass  by  and  say  it  is  beautiful ; 
but  this  very  beauty,  this  very  luxuriance, 
conceals  the  treasure.  And  so  it  is  in 
this  life,  that  luxury  and  show,  fashion 
and  outward  beauty,  worldly  pursuits 
and  possessions,  attract  the  eyes  of 
men,  and  they  know  not  the  treasure  that 
is  hidden  in  every  human  soul. 

Yes,  the  treasure  ;  and  the  treasure 
that  is  in  every  soul.  The  difference 
that  exists  among  men  is  not  so  much 
in  their  nature,  not  so  much  in  their  in- 
trinsic power,  as  in  the  power  of  com- 
munication. To  some  it  is  given  to 
unbosom  and  embody  their  thoughts  ; 
but  all  men,  more  or  less,  feel  those* 
thoughts.  The  very  glory  of  genius, 
the  very  rapture  of  piety,  when  rightly 
revealed,  are  diffused  and  spread  abroad 
and  shared  among  unnumbered  minds. 
When  eloquence  and  poetry  speak ; 
when  the  glorious  arts,  statuary,  and 
pointing,  and  music;  when  patriotism, 
charity,  virtue,  speak  to  us,  with  their 
thrilling  power,  do  not  the  hearts  of 
thousands  glow  with  a  kindred  joy  and 
ecstasy  .?  Who  's  here  so  humble,  who 
so  poor  in  thought,  or  in  affection,  as 
not  to  feel  this  ?  Who  's  here  so  low, 
so  degraded,  I  had  almost  said,  as  not 
sometimes  to  be  touched  with  the  beauty 
of  goodness  ?  Who  's  here  with  a  heart 
made  of  such  base  materials  as  not 
sometimes  to  respond,  through  every 
chord  of  it,  to  the  call  of  honor,  patriot- 
ism, generosity,  virtue  ?  What  a  glorious 
capacity  is  this  !  a  power  to  commune 
with  God  and  angels  !  a  reflection  of  the 
brightness  of  heaven,  a  mirror  that  col- 
lects and  concentrates  within  itself  all 
the  moral  splendors  of  the  universe  :  a 
light  kindled  from  heaven,  that  is  to 
shine  brighter  and  brighter  forever !  For 
what,  then,  my  friends,  shall  we  care  as 
we  ought  to  care  for  this  ?  What  can 
man  bear  about  with  him  ;  what  ofiice, 
what  array,  what  apparel,  that  shall  be- 
get such  reverence  as  the  soul  he  bears 


1/6 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


with  him  ?  What  circumstances  of  out- 
ward splendor  can  lend  such  imposing 
dignity  to  any  being,  as  the  throne  of 
inward  light  and  power,  where  the  spirit 
reigns  forever  ?  What  work  of  man 
shall  be  brought  into  comparison  with 
this  work  of  God  ?  I  will  speak  of  it 
in  its  simplest  character.  I  say,  a 
thought,  a  bare  thought :  and  yet,  I  say, 
what  is  it ;  and  what  is  its  power  and 
mystery  ?  Breathed  from  the  inspiration 
of  the  Almighty  ;  partaking  of  infinite 
attributes  ;  comprehending,  analyzing, 
and  with  its  own  beauty  clothing  all 
things  ;  and  bringing  all  things  and  all 
themes,  earth,  heaven,  eternity,  within 
the  possession  of  its  momentary  being  ; 
what  is  there  that  man  can  form,  what 
sceptre  or  throne,  what  structure  of 
ages,  what  empire  of  wide-spread  do- 
minion, that  can  compare  with  the 
wonders  and  the  grandeurs  of  a  single 
thought  ?  Of  all  things  that  are  made, 
it  is  that  alone  that  comprehends  the 
Maker  of  all.  That  alone  is  the  key 
which  unlocks  all  the  treasures  of  the 
universe.  That  alone  is  the  power  that 
reigns  over  space,  time,  eternity.  That, 
under  God,  is  the  sovereign  dispenser, 
to  man,  of  all  the  blessings  and  glories 
that  lie  within  the  compass  of  possession 
or  within  the  range  of  possibility.  Vir- 
tue, piety,  heaven,  immortality,  exist 
not,  and  never  will  exist  for  us,  but  as 
they  exist,  and  will  exist,  in  the  per- 
ception, feeling,  thought — of  the  glori- 
ous m.ind. 

Indeed,  it  is  the  soul  alone  that  gives 
any  value  to  the  things  of  this  world  ; 
and  it  is  only  by  raising  the  soul  to  its 
just  elevation  above  all  other  things, 
that  we  can  look  rightly  upon  the  pur- 
poses of  this  life.  This,  to  my  appre- 
hension, is  not  only  a  most  important, 
but  a  most  practical,  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. 

I  have  heard  men  say  that  they  could 
not  look  upon  this  life  as  a  blessing.  I 
have  heard  it  more  than  insinuated,  I 
have  known  it  to  be  actually  implied  in 
solemn  prayers  to  God,  that  it  is  a  hap- 


piness to  die  in  infancy.  And  nothing, 
you  are  aware,  is  more  common  than 
to  hear  it  said  that  youth,  unreflecting 
youth,  is  the  happy  season  of  life  ;  and 
when,  by  reason  of  sickness  or  the  in- 
firmities of  age,  men  outlive  their  ac- 
tivity and  their  sensitive  happiness, 
nothing  is  more  common  than  to  look 
upon  the  continuance  of  life,  in  these 
circumstances,  as  a  misfortune. 

Now  I  do  not  wonder  at  these  views, 
so  long  as  men  are  as  worldly  as  they 
usually  are.  I  wonder  that  they  do  not 
prevail  more.  "  Oh,  patient  and  peace- 
able men  that  ye  are  !  "  I  have  been 
ready  to  say  to  the  mere  men  of  this 
world, — "peaceable  men  and  patient! 
what  is  it  that  bears  you  up  ?  What  is 
it  but  a  blind  and  instinctive  love  of  life 
that  can  make  you  content  to  live  ? " 
But  let  the  soul  have  its  proper  ascend- 
ency in  our  judgments,  and  the  burden 
is  reheved.  Life  is  then  the  education 
of  the  soul,  the  discipline  of  conscience, 
virtue,  piety.  All  things,  then,  are  sub- 
ordinate to  this  sublime  purpose.  Life 
is  then  one  scene  of  growing  knowledge, 
improvement,  devotion,  joy,  and  triumph. 
In  this  view,  and  in  this  view  only,  it 
is  an  unspeakable  blessing  ;  and  those 
who  have  not  yet  taken  this  view,  who 
have  not  given  the  soul  its  just  pre- 
eminence, who  have  not  yet  become 
spiritually  minded,  are  not  yet  prepared 
to  hve.  It  is  not  enough  to  say,  as  is 
commonly  said,  that  they  are  not  pre- 
pared to  die ;  they  are  not  prepared  to 
live. 

I  would  not  address  this  matter,  my 
friends,  merely  to  your  religious  sensi- 
bility ;  I  would  address  it  to  your  com- 
mon sense.  It  is  a  most  serious  and 
practical  matter.  There  are  many  things 
in  this  world,  as  I  have  more  than  once 
said,  which  are  called  interests.  But  he 
who  has  not  regarded  his  soul  as  he 
ought,  who  has  gained  no  deep  sense  of 
things  that  are  spiritual,  has  neglected 
the  main  interest,  the  chief  use,  of  this 
life,  the  grand  preparation  for  living 
calmly,   wisely,    and    happily.      It    is    a 


ON    RELIGIOUS    SENSIBILITY. 


177 


thousand  times  more  serious  for  him 
than  if  lie  had  been  negligent  about 
property,  about  honor,  or  about  worldly 
connections  and  friendships. 

With  this  reasonable  subjection  of  the 
body  to  the  soul,  with  this  supreme  re- 
gard to  the  soul  as  the  guiding  light  of 
life,  every  man  would  feel  that  this  life 
is  a  blessing  ;  and  that  the  continuance 
of  it  is  a  blessing.  He  would  be  thank- 
ful for  its  continuance  with  a  fervor 
which  no  mere  love  of  life  could  inspire; 
for  life  to  him,  and  every  day  of  it,  would 
be  a  glorious  progress  in  things  infinitely 
more  precious  than  life.  He  would  not 
think  the  days  of  unreflecting  youth  the 
happiest  days.  He  would  not  think  that 
the  continuance  of  his  being  upon  earth, 
even  beyond  active  usefulness  to  others, 
was  a  misfortune  or  a  mystery.  He 
would  not  be  saying,  "  Why  is  my  life 
lengthened  out?"  He  would  feel  that 
every  new  day  of  life  spread  before  him 
glorious  opportunities  to  be  improved, 
glorious  objects  to  be  gained.  He  would 
not  sink  down  in  miserable  ennui  or 
despondency.  He  would  not  faint  or 
despair,  or  be  overwhelmed  with  doubt, 
amidst  difficulties  and  afflictions.  He 
would  feel  that  the  course  of  his  life, 
even  though  it  pass  on  through  clouds 
and  storms,  is  glorious  as  the  path  of  the 
sun. 

Thus  have  I  endeavored  to  show  that 
the  care  of  the  soul  is  the  most  essential 
of  all  human  interests.  Let  no  worldly 
man  think  himself  wise.  He  might  be 
a  wise  animal ;  but  he  is  not  a  wise 
man.  Nay,  I  cannot  admit  even  that. 
For,  being  what  he  is,  —  animal  or  man, 
call  him  what  you  will,  —  it  is  as  truly 
essential  that  he  should  work  out  the 
salvation  of  his  soul,  as  it  is  that  he 
should  work  with  his  hands  for  his  daily 
bread.  How  reasonable,  then,  is  our 
Saviour's  exhortation,  when  he  says, 
"  Labor,  therefore,  not  for  the  meat 
which  perisheth,  but  for  that  which  en- 
dureth  unto  everlasting  life." 


II. 


ON    RELIGIOUS    SENSIBILITY.* 

EzEKiEL  xxxvi.  26  :  "  And  I  will  give  you  a  heart 
of  tlesh." 

The  subject  to  which  I  wish  to  invite 
your  thoughts  in  this  discourse  is  that 
religious  sensibility,  that  spiritual  fervor, 
in  other  words,  that  "  heart  of  flesh," 
which  is  spoken  of  in  the  text. 

To  a  sincere  and  at  the  same  time 
rational  cultivator  of  his  religious  affec- 
tions, it  seems,  at  first  view,  a  thing 
almost  unaccountable,  that  Christians, 
apparently  serious  and  faithful,  should 
everywhere  be  found  complaining  of  the 
want  of  religious  feeling ;  that  the  grand, 
universal,  standing  complaint  of  almost 
the  entire  body  of  Christians  should  be 
a  complaint  of  dulness.  To  one  who 
has  studied  the  principles  of  his  own 
nature,  or  observed  its  tendencies,  — 
who  knows  that,  as  visible  beauty  is 
made  to  delight  the  eye,  so  moral  beauty 
is  made  to  delight  the  mind,  —  it  seems  a 
tremendous  moral  solecism,  that  all  the 
affections  of  this  nature  and  mind  should 
become  cold  and  dead  the  moment  they 
are  directed  to  the  Infinite  Beauty  and 
Glory.  It  will  not  solve  the  problem  to 
say  that  human  nature  is  depraved.  If, 
indeed,  the  depravity  of  men  were  such 
that  all  enthusiasm  for  excellence  had 
died  out  in  the  world,  the  general  reason 
assigned  might  satisfy  us.  Rut  what  is 
the  fact  ?  What  is  the  beauty  of  nature 
but  a  beauty  clothed  with  moral  associa- 
tions ?  What  is  the  highest  beauty  of 
literature,  poetry,  fiction,  and  the  fine 
arts,  but  a  moral  beauty  which  genius 
has  bodied  forth  for  the  admiration  of 
the  world  ?  And  what  are  those  quali- 
ties of  the  human  character  which  are 
treasured  up  in  the  memory  and  heart 
of  nations,  the  objects  of  universal  rev- 
erence and  exultation,  the  themes  of 
celebration,  of  eloquence,  and  of  festal* 
song,  the  enshrined  idols  of  human  admi- 

*  The  substance  of  the  two  following  discourses 
was  addressed  to  the  graduating  class  in  the  Theolo- 
gical Department  of  Harvard  University,  in  1S34. 
This  circumstance  will  account  for  the  form  that  is 
given  to  some  of  the  topics  and  illustrations. 


178 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


ration  and  love  ?  Are  they  not  patriot- 
ism, heroism,  philanthropy,  disinterest- 
edness, magnanimity,  martyrdom  ? 

And  yet  the  Being  from  whom  all 
earthly  beauty  and  human  excellence 
are  emanations,  and  of  whom  they  are 
faint  resemblances,  is  the  very  Being 
whom  men  tell  us  that  they  cannot 
heartily  and  constantly  love :  and  the 
subject  which  is  held  most  especially  to 
connect  us  with  that  Being  is  the  very 
subject  in  which  men  tell  us  they  can- 
not be  heartily  interested.  No  observ- 
ing pastor  of  a  religious  congregation 
who  has  been  favored  with  the  intimacy 
of  one  mind  awaking  to  this  subject,  can 
fail  to  know  that  this  is  the  grand  com- 
plaint. The  difficulty  about  feeling  is 
the  first  great  difficulty  ;  and  it  is  one 
which  presses  upon  every  after  step  of 
the  religious  course.  Few  arrive  at  that 
point  where  they  can  say  with  the  apos- 
tle, "  I  know  in  whom  I  have  believed." 
The  common  language  and  tone  in 
which  even  religious  confidence  is  ex- 
pressed, do  not  go  beyond  such  distrust- 
ful and  desponding  words  as  these  : 
"  I  hope  that  I  love  God ;  I  hope  I 
have  an  interest  in  religion  ;  "  alas  !  how 
different  from  the  manner  in  which 
friendship,  love,  domestic  affection, 
breathe  themselves  into  the  ear  and 
thrill  through  the  heart  of  the  world  ! 

It  seems  especially  strange  that  this 
complaint  of  dulness  should  be  heard  in 
places  devoted  to  the  acquisition  of  re- 
ligious knowledge  and  the  cultivation 
of  religious  affection  ;  and  yet  it  is,  per- 
haps, nowhere  more  common  or  em- 
phatic. And  it  is  confined  to  no  one 
species  of  religious  seminaries  ;  it  is  con- 
fined, I  mean,  to  no  one  sect.  I  have 
heard  it  in  tones  as  emphatic  from  Cath- 
'Olic  and  Calvinistic  seminaries  as  from 
any  other.  I  have  heard  it  as  strongly 
.expressed  in  other  lands  as  in  our  own. 
But  is  it  not  very  extraordinary  ?  We 
hear  it  not  from  the  studios  of  artists. 
We  hear  it  not  from  the  schools  of  law 
and  medicine.  There  is  no  complaint 
of  dulness,  there  is  no  want  of  enthu- 
siasm, about  their  appropriate  objects  in 


any  of  these.  He  whose  mind  is  occu- 
pied with  the  most  abstruse  questions 
of  science  or  of  the  law ;  he  who  gazes 
upon  a  painting  or  upon  a  statue  ;  ay, 
and  he  who  gazes  upon  a  skeleton,  does 
not  complain  that  he  cannot  be  interested 
in  them.  I  have  heard  such  an  one  say, 
"  Beautiful !  beautiful  !  "  in  a  case  where 
admiration  seemed  almost  absurd,  where 
it  provoked  a  smile  from  the  observer. 
And  yet  in  schools,  in  schools  of  ardent 
youth,  where  the  subject  of  attention  is 
the  supreme  and  infinite  giory,  —  if  we 
may  take  confession  for  evidence,  —  all 
is  cold  and  dead. 

But  I  must  here,  and  before  I  go  any 
further,  put  forward  one  qualification. 
I  do  not  think  that  confession  is  to  be 
taken  for  evidence,  altogether  and  with- 
out any  qualification.  One  reason, 
doubtless,  why  Christians  complain  so 
much  of  the  want  of  feeling,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  very  sense  which  they  en- 
tertain of  the  infinite  value  and  great- 
ness of  the  objects  of  their  faith.  And 
it  is  unquestionably  true  that  there  is 
often  a  great  deal  of  feeling  in  cases 
where  there  are  very  sad  lamentations 
over  the  want  of  it.  Lamentation  cer- 
tainly does  not  prove  total  insensibility. 

Still,  however,  there  is  an  acknowl- 
edged deficiency  ;  not  appertaining  to 
any  one  class  or  condition,  but  to  the 
entire  body  of  Christians.  And  it  is  es- 
pecially a  deficiency  of  naticral,  hearty, 
genuine,  deep  sensibility.  And,  once 
more,  it  is  deficiency,  sad,  strange,  and 
inexcusable,  on  a  subject  more  than  all 
others  claiming  our  sensibility.  And, 
yet  again,  it  is  a  deficiency  which,  when 
existing  on  the  part  of  the  clergy,  is 
most  deplorable  in  its  consequences.  It 
is  therefore  everybody's  interest,  and 
that  for  every  reason,  to  consider  what 
are  the  causes  and  what  are  the  remedies 
of  this  peculiar,  prevailing,  religious  in- 
sensibility. 

1  have  some  question,  indeed,  whether 
this  demand  for  sensibility  —  the  popular 
rage,  that  is  to  say,  for  feeling,  feeling 
alone  —  is  not,  in  some  views,  mistaken, 
excessive,  and  wrong.    But  let  me  admit. 


ON    RELIGIOUS   SENSIBILITY. 


179 


for  I  cannot  resist,  the  strength,  the 
supremacy,  of  the  cLiim  which  reHgion 
has  on  our  whole  heart.  The  tirst  and 
lawful  demand  of  the  mind  awakened  to 
reliiiion,  is  to  feel  it.  The  last  attain- 
ment is  to  feel  it  deeply,  rationally,  con- 
stantly. Of  the  awakened  mind,  the  first 
consciousness  always  is  :  "  I  do  not  feel  ; 
I  never  did  feel  this  subject  as  I  ought. 
It  claims  to  be  felt.  The  solemn  au- 
thority and  the  unspeakable  goodness  of 
God  ;  the  great  prospect  of  immortality ; 
the  strong  bond  of  duty  upon  my  nature  ; 
the  infinite  welfare  of  my  soul,  —  these 
are  themes,  if  there  be  any  such,  upon 
which  I  ought  to  feel."  The  mind, 
thus  aroused  from  worldly  neglect  to  the 
greatest  of  subjects,  will  feel  its  cold- 
ness, its  indifference,  to  be  a  dreadful 
burden  ;  and  it  will  sigh  for  deliverance  : 
and  the  preacher  who  has  never  such 
a  mind  to  deal  with,  may  well  doubt 
whether  he  is  preaching  to  any  purpose. 
And  in  all  its  after  course  it  will  hold 
a  fervent  religious  sensibility  to  be  in- 
dispensable to  its  peace.  If  its  prayers 
are  formal  and  heartless,  if  its  love 
waxes  cold,  if  its  gratitude  and  humility 
are  destitute  of  warmth  and  tenderness, 
it  cannot  be  satisfied. 

And  it  ought  not  to  be  satisfied. 
This  demand  for  feeling  in  religion,  I 
say,  is  right ;  it  is  just ;  and  I  am  de- 
sirous, in  this  disccurse,  to  meet  it  and 
to  deal  with  it  as  such.  And  yet  I  am 
about  to  say,  in  the  first  place,  that  there 
are  mistakes  about  it,  and  that  in  these 
mistakes  are  to  be  found  some  of  the 
causes  of  the  prevailing  religious  insen- 
sibility. 

I.  Is  tliere  not  something  wrong, 
then,  in  the  first  place ;  is  there  not 
something  prejudicial  to  the  very  end  in 
view,  in  this  vehement  demand  of  feel- 
ing ?  I  have  said  that  it  is  mainly  right, 
and  that  I  intend  so  to  regard  it.  But 
may  there  not  be  some  mistake  in  the 
case  ?  May  not  the  demand  for  feeling 
sometimes  be  made  to  the  prejudice  of 
feeling,  and  to  the  prejudice,  also,  of 
real,  practical  virtue .''  I  confess  that 
I   have   been   led  at  times   to   suspect 


that  the  craying  of  some  for  great  re- 
ligious feeling  in  the  preacher,  though 
right  in  fact,  yet  was  partly  wrong  in 
their  minds.  A  person  conscious  of 
great  religious  deficiency,  conscious  of 
weekly  and  daily  aberrations  from  the 
right  rule  and  the  religious  walk,  will 
be  glad,  of  course,  to  have  his  feelings 
aroused  on  the  Sabbath ;  it  gives  him  a 
better  opinion  of  himself;  it  puts  him 
on  a  better  footing  widi  his  conscience  ; 
it  somehow  brings  up  the  moral  ac- 
count, and  enables  him  to  go  on,  as  if 
the  state  of  his  affp.irs  were  very  well 
and  prosperous.  This  perhaps  explains 
the  reason,  if  such  indeed  be  the  fact, 
why  in  some  cases  a  very  pathetic  and 
fervent  preacher  seems  to  do  less  good 
than  a  man  of  much  inferior  endow- 
ments. In  this  latter  case,  the  congre- 
gation cannot  depend  upon  the  peri- 
odical and  passive  excitement,  and  is 
obliged  to  resort  to  something  else,  to 
some  religious  activity  of  its  own. 

It  appears  to  me  also  that  the  great 
religious  excitements  of  the  day  answer 
the  same  purpose,  however  unintention- 
ally, of  keeping  the  people  satisfied  with 
general  coldness  and  negligence. 

But  I'was  about  to  observe  that  this 
urgent  demand  for  feeling  is  probably 
one  of  the  causes  of  religious  insensi- 
bility. That  is  to  say,  the  directness, 
urgency,'  and  reiteration  of  the  demand 
are  unfavorable  to  a  compliance  with  it. 
This  importunity  with  regard  to  feeling 
does  not  allow  it  to  spring  up  in  the  nat- 
ural way.  If  it  were  applied  to  feeling 
on  any  other  subject,  to  friendship,  filial 
attachment,  or  parental  affection,  how 
certainly  would  it  fail  of  success  ! 
Human  feeling,  in  its  genuine  character, 
can  never  be  forced,  urged,  compelled,  or 
exhorted,  into  action.  The  pulpit,  I  be- 
lieve, has  occasion  to  take  a  lesson  from 
this  principle  of  analogy.  It  is  not  the 
way  to  make  the  people  feel,  to  be  con- 
stantly telling  them  that  they  must  feel, 
to  be  complaining  continually  of  their 
coldness,  to  be  threatening  them  perpet- 
ually with  heaven's  judgments  upon  their 
insensibility.     And  he  who  has  used  only 


I  So 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


these  methods  of  awakening  emotion, 
need  not  wonder  that  the  people  have 
no  feeling  about  religion.  No,  let  the 
preacher  himself  feel  ;  let  him  express 
his  feeling,  not  as  if  he  had  any  design 
upon  the  feelings  of  others,  but  as  if  he 
could  not  help  it  ;  let  him  do  this,  and 
he  will  find  hearts  that  sympathize  with 
him.  The  chill  of  death  may  have  been 
upon  them,  it  may  have  been  upon  them 
lor  years  ;  the  rock  may  never  have  been 
smitten,  the  desert  never  cheered ;  but 
there  is  a  holy  unction,  a  holy  unction  of 
feeling,  which  is  irresistible.  It  is  like 
the  rod  of  miracles  in  the  hand  of  Mo- 
ses ;  the  waters  will  flow  at  its  touch,  and 
there  will  be  life  and  luxuriance  and 
beauty  where  all  was  barrenness  and  des- 
olation before. 

I  do  not  say  that  there  will,  of  ne- 
cessity, be  actual  regeneration  in  the 
heart  where  this  feeling  is  excited  ;  I 
do  not  say  that  there  will  certainly  be 
fruit  where  all  this  verdure  and  beauty 
are  seen  :  for  the  importance  of  feeling 
is  often  exaggerated  to  that  degree  that 
it  is  made  a  substitute  for  practical 
virtue.  And  thus  the  mistake  we  are 
considering  is  made  unfavorable  to  relig- 
ious sensibility  in  another  way.  For, 
although  at  first  view  it  seems  to  favor 
sensibility  to  make  so  much  of  it ; 
although  in  fact  it  exaggerates  its  impor- 
tance ;  yet,  as  the  nature  of  the  exag- 
geration is  to  make  feeling  all-sufficient 
of  itself,  the  effect,  of  course,  is  to  draw 
off  attention  from  that  basis  of  prin- 
ciple and  habit,  which  is  essential  to 
the  strength  and  permanency  of  feeling. 
This  is  —  so  much  to  admire  the  beauty 
and  luxuriance  of  vegetation  in  one's  field 
as  to  forget  and  neglect  the  very  soil  from 
which  it  springs.  Of  course  the  luxu- 
riance and  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 
And  so  the  common  religious  sensibil- 
ity is  like  the  seed  which  was  sown 
upon  stony  places  ;  forthwith  it  springs 
up,  because  it  has  no  deepness  of  earth  ; 
and  because  it  has  no  root,  it  withers 
away.  Or,  it  is  like  the  torrent  after  a 
shower.  There  has  been  a  commotion 
in  the  moral  elements  of  society ;  there 


have  been  thunderings  in  heaven,  and 
an  outpouring  from  the  skies  ;  and  fresh 
streams  are  gushing  forth  and  flow] no- 
on every  side  ;  and  how  many  in  their 
agitation,  their  enthusiasm,  and  their 
zeal,  will  mistake  these  noisy  freshets 
for  the  deep,  pure,  silent,  ever-flowing 
river  of  life  ! 

Nay,  this  vehement  demand  for  feel- 
ing tends  to  throw  an  interested  and 
mercenary  character  over  it,  which  is 
also  extremely  unfavorable  to  its  culti- 
vation. There  is  that  trait  of  nobleness 
still  left  in  human  nature,  that  it  will 
not  barter  its  best  affections  for  advan- 
tage. He  who  is  striving  with  all  his 
might  to  feel,  only  because  feeling  will 
save  him,  is  certain  to  fail.  This  is  the 
reason  why  none  are  ever  found  so 
bitterly  complaining  of  the  want  of  feel- 
ing, as  men  often  are  in  the  midst  of  a 
great  religious  excitement.  They  see 
the  community  around  them  aroused 
to  great  emotion  ;  they  are  told  that 
this  is  the  way  to  be  saved  ;  the  fear 
of  perdition  presses  upon  them  ;  under 
this  selfish  fear,  they  strive,  they  ago- 
nize, they  goad  themselves,  they  would 
give  the  world  to  feel  ;  and  the  result 
is,  that  they  cz-n  feel  nothing!  Their 
complaint  is,  and  it  is  true,  that  their 
heart  is  as  cold  as  a  stone.  No  ;  men 
must  feel  religion,  if  at  all,  because  it 
is  right  to  feel  it.  The  great  subject  of 
religion  must  sink  into  their  hearts  ;  in 
retirement,  in  silence,  without  agitation, 
without  any  thought  of  advantage. 
They  must  feel,  if  at  all,  involuntarily  ; 
they  must  feel,  as  it  were,  because  they 
cannot  help  feeling. 

This,  too,  is  one  of  the  reasons,  as  I 
believe,  why  there  is  so  little  religious 
sensibility  in  theological  seminaries. 
There  is  a  perpetual  demand  for  sen- 1 
sibility  ;  society  demands  it  ;  religious  ' 
congregations  demand  it  ;  the  student 
is  constantly  reminded  by  his  fellows, 
by  everybody,  that  he  cannot  succeed 
without  it,  that  his  eloquence,  his  popu- 
ularity,  depends  upon  it;  and  every 
such  consideration  tends  directly  to 
chill  his  heart.     He  is  ashamed  to  cul- 


ON    RELIGIOUS   SENSIBILITY. 


i8i 


■  tivate  feeling  under  such  influences. 
,  Let  him,  then,  forget  all  this  ;  let  him 
forget  that  it  is  his  interest,  almost  that 
it  is  his  duty,  to  feel  ;  let  him  sit  down 
in  silence  and  meditation  ;  let  him 
spread  the  great  themes  of  religion  be- 
fore him,  and  with  deep  attention,  ay, 
with  the  deep  attention  of  prayer,  let 
him  ponder  them  ;  and  he  will  find  that 
which  he  did  not  seek ;  he  will  find 
that  feeling  is  the  least  thing,  the  easi- 
est thing,  the  most  inevitable  thing,  in 
his  e.xperience. 

II.  In  tlie  second  place,  there  are  mis- 
takes, and  tliey  arise  in  part  from  the 
one  already  stated,  concerning  the  char- 
acteristics and  expressions  of  religious 
sensibility  ;  and  these  mistakes,  too, 
like  the  former,  are  unfriendly  to  its  cul- 
tivation. 

I  shall  not  think  it  necessary  to  dwell 
long  upon  this  topic ;  or,  at  least,  not 
upon  its  more  obvious  aspects.  Every 
one,  unhappily,  is  but  too  familiar  with 
the  extravagances,  and  the  extrava- 
gant manifestations,  of  religious  feeling. 
They  are  as  public  as  they  are  common. 
Their  effect,  in  repelling  and  estranging 
the  feelings  of  multitudes  from  religion, 
is  no  less  clear. 

In  a  celebrated  volume  of  essays 
published  some  years  ago,  you  will  re- 
member one,  "  On  the  aversion  of  men 
of  taste  to  Evangelical  religion."  The 
aversion  is  there  taken  for  granted ;  and, 
indeed,  it  is  sufficiently  evident.  Wheth- 
er the  taste  be  right,  or  the  religion  be 
right,  the  fact  of  their  contrariety  is 
indisputable.  The  whole  body  of  our 
classic  English  literature,  that  literature 
with  which  the  great  mass  of  readers  is 
constantly  communing  and  sympathiz- 
ing, is  stamped  with  nothing  more  clear- 
ly than  an  aversion  to  what  is  called 
Evangelical  religion.  The  peculiarities 
of  its  creed,  of  its  feelings,  of  its  expe- 
riences, of  its  manners,  of  its  tones  of 
speech,  have  all  been  alike  offensive 
to  that  taste  which  is  inspired  by  the 
mass  of  our  best  English  reading. 

But  the  effect,  unhappily,  does  not  stop 
with    repelling   the    mind  from   religion 


in  the  Evangelical  form.  It  repels  the 
mind  from  religion  in  every  form.  And 
more  especially  it  begets  a  great  distrust 
of  all  religious  earnestness.  Hence  all 
the  solicitude  there  is,  especially  among 
the  cultivated  classes,  to  have  every- 
thing sober,  calm,  rational,  in  religion. 
Hence  the  alarm  that  is  so  easily  taken 
at  every  appearance  of  zeal  and  enthu- 
siasm. It  seems  to  be  thought  by  many 
that  there  can  be  no  religious  earnest- 
ness, but  what  breaks  out  into  extrava- 
gance and  fanaticism.  If  they  had  not 
identified  two  things  essentially  different, 
they  would  be  no  more  afraid  of  enthu- 
siasm in  religion,  than  they  are  afraid  of 
enthusiasm  in  science,  in  literature,  in 
the  arts.  It  would  be,  in  their  account, 
a  noble  and  beautiful  thing.  But  now, 
the  very  description  of  a  person  as  "zeal- 
ous <n  his  religion "  carries  with  it  a 
kind  of  imputation  upon  his  understand- 
ing and  liberality.  Hence,  in  the  train 
of  consequences,  it  comes  to  pass  that 
many  are  cold  in  religion.  "For  this 
cause,  many  sleep."  They  apparently 
think  it  better  to  sleep  in  security,  than 
to  wake  in  distraction  ;  they  prefer  stu- 
por to  madness ;  they  had  rather  perish 
in  their  senses,  than  in  a  fit  of  insanity  ; 
this,  at  least,  is  the  light  in  which  mat- 
ters appear  to  them ;  and  how  is  it 
strange,  that,  repelled  by  the  ordinary 
forms  of  religious  emotion,  and  identify- 
ing all  religious  feeling  with  these,  they 
should  sink  down  into  a  cold,  chilling, 
cheerless  insensibility? 

But  I  must  not  leave  it  to  be  sup- 
posed that  men  of  taste  and  refinement 
alone  are  exposed  to  this  result.  The 
truth  is,  that  the  popular  sensibility  on 
this  subject  has  been  itself  deficient 
in  real  strength  and  true  fervor  ;  it  has 
been  remarkable,  thus  far,  for  wanting 
those  qualities  which  were  necessary 
to  give  it  depth  and  impressiveness  in 
its  own  sphere :  and  from  no  quarter 
have  there  been  more  bitter  complaints 
of  coldness  than  from  the  very  sphere 
of  fanaticism.  The  observation  may 
seem  to  be  a  singular  one,  perhaps,  and 
the  fact  scarcely  credible.     But  if   you 


IS2 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


will  take  the  pains  to  observe,  I  am 
confident  you  will  find  it  to  be  true,  that 
the  wildest  sects  and  the  wildest  excite- 
ments are  precisely  those  from  which 
there  come  from  time  to  time  the  deep- 
est confessions  of  coldness  and  stupidity. 
Yes,  in  the  bosom  of  fanaticism  is  har- 
bored the  deepest  and  most  painful 
doubt  about  the  truth  and  reality  of  all 
religion.  And  the  reason  is,  that  neither 
there,  nor  in  any  of  the  modifications 
of  spiritual  extravagance,  has  religion 
been  familiar  enough  to  have  become 
an  easy,  natural,  abiding  guest ;  nor 
reflective  enough  to  have  settled  down 
into  a  principle  and  habit ;  nor  has  it 
long  enough  rested  in  the  soul,  amidst 
quietness  and  silence,  to  have  become 
incorporated  with  its  nature. 

And  thus  it  comes  to  pass  that  in 
many,  perhaps  in  most,  minds,  wliere 
religion  gains  admission,  it  is  felt  to 
be  a  strange,  mysterious,  extraordinary 
thing.  I  think,  indeed,  that  the  religious 
experience  of  the  world,  generally,  has 
not  got  beyond  this  point ;  it  is  still  an 
extraordinary  thing.  And  it  is  obvious 
that  this  sense  of  its  being  extraordinary 
will  not  be  favorable  to  composure, 
steadiness,  and  permanency  of  feeling, 
but  rather  to  excitement,  wonder,  delight, 
and  all  those  tumultuous  emotions  that 
speedily  pass  away. 

I  am  afraid,  too,  that  this  conscious- 
ness of  religious  experience  as  being 
something  extraordinary  has  another 
injurious  and  repulsive  effect  ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  it  gives  birth  to  that  re- 
ligious vanity,  that  spiritual  pride,  that 
sense  of  personal  importance,  which  is 
so  apt  to  spring  up  with  religious  zeal. 
I  know,  indeed,  that  the  Gospel  de- 
mands humility  ;  and  I  know  that  Chris- 
tians have  been  much  given  to  self- 
disparagement  ;  but  I  know,  too,  that 
no  sooner  does  a  man  "  obtain  religion," 
to  use  the  common  phrase,  than  his  own 
sense  of  the  great  and  wonderful  thing 
which  he  conceives  has  happened  to 
him,  and  the  attentions  of  those  around 
him,  usually  contribute  to  invest  him 
with  a   very   disagreeable    air  of    self- 


importance.  There  is  a  strange  delu- 
sion, by  which  a  man  contrives  to  think 
himself  very  humble,  and  to  be  very 
proud,  at  the  same  time.  He  says  that 
he  is  the  greatest  of  sinners,  a  most 
wonderful  instance  of  the  triumph  of  di- 
vine grace  •  and  perhaps  he  is  never  so 
proud  as  when  he  says  it.  His  confes- 
sion is  made,  with  a  saving  clause ; 
and  the  saving  clause  is  very  likely  to  be 
more  with  hmi  than  the  confession.  He 
is  the  greatest  of  sinners ;  but  then  he 
is  rescued.  He  is  a  most  extraordinary 
instance  of  grace ;  but  then  it  follows, 
certainly,  that  he  is  himself  a  very  ex- 
traordinary person. 

Whether  this  be  a  just  account  of  the 
matter  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  spiritual 
vanity  has  been,  thus  far  in  the  world, 
one  of  the  prevailing  forms  of  religious 
experience.  And  since  this  quality,  I 
mean  vanity,  whether  religious  or  other- 
wise, is  always  one  the  most  offensive 
and  insufferable  ;  since  it  always  brings 
more  unpopularity  upon  its  possessor,  I 
had  almost  said,  than  all  other  bad  qual- 
ities put  together,  it  is  not  strange  that 
it  should  have  brought  some  discredit 
upon  religion,  and  especially  upon  relig- 
ious zeal  and  earnestness.  There  are, 
there  nttist  be,  not  a  few,  who  will  stand 
aside  and  aloof,  and  say,  "  Let  me  have 
no  rehgion,  rather  than  that :  "  and  one 
of  the  most  important  duties  of  religious 
teaching  is,  to  show  them  that  they  may 
have  religion  without  presumption,  pride, 
or  ostentation  ;  nay,  and  that  the  relig- 
ion which  they  hold  in  simplicity,  mod- 
esty, and  singleness  of  heart,  with  no 
thought  of  themselves,  will  be  far  more 
deep,  thorough,  and  fervent,  as  well  as 
far  more  graceful  and  beautiful. 

There  is  one  effect  of  tTiis  sense  of 
religion  as  something  very  extraordinary, 
vvfhich  I  must  mention  before  leaving  this 
topic;  and  that  is  upon  the  manifesta- 
tions of  religious  sensibility.  The  sense 
of  the  extraordinary  tends  to  give  expan- 
sion and  exuberance  to  the  expression 
of  religious  feeling  ;  tends,  if  the  phrase 
will  be  understood,  to  too  much  manifes- 
tation.   Our  sensibility  always  takes  arms 


ON    RELIGIOUS    SENSIBILITY. 


183 


ao'ainst  an  appearance  of  this  sort.  This 
e.vplains  the  reason  why  some  religious 
conversation  and  some  preaching,  which 
seems  to  be  charged  and  overcharged 
with  rehgious  fervor,  which  vents  itself, 
perhaps,  in  a  passion  of  tears,  which  is 
full  of  e.xclamations  and  entreaties,  and 
exhorts  us  to  feel  with  every  moving 
interjection  in  the  language,  yet  never 
moves  us  at  all.  The  precise  reason  is, 
tliat  the  expression  is  overcharged.  We 
wonder  at  our  insensibility,  perhaps;  we 
think  it  is  very  wicked  in  us  not  to  feel  ; 
but  the  fact  is,  we  are,  all  this  while,  true 
to  nature.  Possibly  some  might  think, 
though  I  will  not  suspect  any  one  who 
hears  me  of  liolding  the  opinion,  that  tliis 
apology  ought  not  to  be  stated  ;  that  self- 
reproach  is  so  rare  a  thing  and  so  good  a 
thing,  that  men  should  be  left  to  accuse 
themselves  as  much  as  ever  they  will. 
I  confess  that  I  can  understand  no  such 
reasoning  as  this.  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  regretted  to  hear  the  language  of 
self-reproach  in  such  cases  ;  because  I 
do  not  think  it  just,  and  because  I  know 
that  every  false  self-accusation  tends  to 
blunt  the  edge  of  the  true  self-accusation. 
Doubtless  men  should  always  feel  relig- 
ion if  they  can  ;  but  the  question  is  now, 
about  being  made  to  feel  it  by  a  par- 
ticular manifestation.  And  I  say,  if  the 
manifestation  be  overcharged  ;  if  it  go 
beyond  the  feeling  rather  than  come 
short  of  it ;  if  there  be  more  expression, 
vociferation,  gesture,  than  genuine  emo- 
tion, it  will  inevital:)ly,  with  the  discern- 
ing, have  an  effect  the  very  contrary  of 
what  was  intended.  No;  let  one  speak 
to  us  by  our  fireside,  or  in  the  pulpit, 
with  an  emotion  which  he  is  obliged  to 
restrain  ;  let  it  appear  evident  that  he 
lays  a  check  upon  his  feelings  ;  let  one 
stand  before  us,  I  care  not  with  what 
varied  expression ;  with  the  cheek 
flushed  or  blanched,  with  the  tear  sup- 
pressed or  flowing,  with  the  voice  soft 
or  loud,  only  so  that  the  expression  never 
seem  to  outrun,  to  exceed,  the  feeling; 
and  he  is  almost  as  sure  of  our  sympathy 
as  that  we  are  human  beings. 

The  observation  I  have  made  on  this 


point  cannot  be  useless  to  any  one,  if  it 
teaches  only  this,  that  nothing  forced  or 
factitious  will  answer  any  good  purpose 
in  religion  ;  that  if  we  would  accomplish 
anything  for  ourselves  or  others  in  this 
great  cause,  we  must  enga<je  in  it  with 
our  whole  heart;  that  the  sources  of  real 
religious  influence  are  none  other  than 
the  fountains  of  the  heart,  the  fountains 
of  honest,  earnest,  irrepressible  sensi- 
bility. 

III.  I  must  now  add,  in  the  third 
place,  that  tliere  are  mistakes,  as  in  the 
vehement  demand  for  religious  sensibil- 
ity, and  concerning  its  nature  and  expres- 
sions, so  also  with  regard  to  its  Supreme 
Object. 

We  must  allow,  indeed,  that  on  this 
point  there  are  some  intrinsic  difficulties. 
Tliere  are  difficulties  attending  the  love 
of  an  Infinite,  Eternal,  Invisible,  Incom- 
prehensible Being.  Our  love  of  him 
must  be  divested  of  many  of  those  sym- 
pathies and  supports  which  enkindle  and 
strengthen  in  us  the  love  of  one  another. 
We  feel  obliged  to  guard  every  word  in 
which  we  speak  of  him,  and  of  our  con- 
nection with  him.  We  must  not  say  that 
our  communion  with  him  is  sympathy, 
or  that  our  love  of  him  is  attachment. 
We  may  not  with  propriety  say  that  he 
is  "  dear  "  to  us.  Many,  indeed,  of  those 
phrases,  many  of  those  modes  of  expres- 
sion, in  which  we  testify  the  strength  and 
charm  of  our  social  affections,  sink  into 
awe  and  are  hushed  to  silence,  before 
that  Infinite  and  Awful  Being.  So,  at 
least,  does  the  subject  of  devotion  ap- 
pear to  me  ;  and  I  must  confess  that  the 
familiarity  of  expression  which  is  some- 
times witnessed  in  prayer  is  extremely 
irreverent  and  shocking. 

But  those  difficulties  which  it  is  the 
tendency  of  ignorance  and  fanaticism  to 
overlook,  it  is  the  tendency  of  imma- 
ture reflection  and  philosophy  to  mag- 
nify. Reflection  has  gone  just  so  far 
with  some  minds  as  to  make  it  more 
difficult  for  them,  than  it  ought  to  be, 
to  approach  their  Maker.  They  regard 
liis  exaltation  above  them,  as  distance; 
his  greatness,  as  separation  from  them. 


1 84 


ON  THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


They  look  upon  the  very  phrases,  "  love 
of  God,"  "  communion  with  God,"  as 
phrases  of  daring  import  and  doubtful 
propriety.  They  shrink  back  from  the 
freedom  of  popular  language,  and 
this,  perhaps,  they  rightly  do  ;  but  they 
retreat  too  far  ;  they  retreat  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme  of  coldness  and  cold  ab- 
stractions. They  are  sometimes  almost 
afraid  to  address  God  as  a  Being ;  they 
worship  some  mighty  abstraction  ;  they 
are  like  those  ancient  philosophers  who 
worshipped  the  light  ;  they  worship  "  an 
unknown  God."  I  do  not  know  that 
anything  but  the  teachings  of  Jesus 
could  ever  have  cured  this  error,  —  the 
error  at  once  of  ancient  philosophy  and 
modern  refinement.  He  "  has  brought 
us  nigh  to  God."  He  has  taught  us 
that  God  is  our  Father.  He  has  taught 
us  to  worship  him,  with  the  profoundest 
reverence  indeed,  but  with  boundless 
confidence  and  love.  He  has  taught  us 
that  God  does  regard  us;  that  he  does 
look  down  from  the  height  of  his  infinite 
heavens ;  that  he  does  look  down  upon 
us,  and  upon  our  world,  —  not  exclu- 
sively, as  some  religionists  would  teach, 
not  as  if  there  were  no  other  world, 
—  but  still  that  he  does  look  down  upon 
its,  and  our  world,  with  paternal  interest 
and  kindness. 

The  mistake  now  stated  is  one  which 
lies  at  the  very  threshold  of  devotion. 
But  when  we  enter  the  temple  of  our 
worship,  how  many  errors  are  there, 
that  darken  its  light  and  disfigure  its 
beauty  !  The  veil  of  the  Jewish  pecu- 
liarity is  indeed  rent  in  twain  ;  but  the- 
ology has  lil'ted  up  other,  and  many,  and 
darkening  veils,  before  "  the  holy  of 
holies."  Our  sins,  too,  have  separated 
between  us  and  God,  and  our  iniquities 
have  hidden  his  face  from  us.  Un- 
worthy, afraid,  superstitious,  erring, 
grovelling  in  the  dust,  how  can  we  love 
God  purely,  freely,  joyfully  ?  How, 
even,  can  we  see  the  perfection  of  God 
as  we  ought  ? 

This,  indeed,  is  the  point  upon  which 
all  difficulty  presses.  A^ett  do  not  SEE 
the  perfection   of  Cod.     They   do   not 


identify  that  perfection  with  all  that  is 
glorious,  beautiful,  lovely,  admirable,  and 
enrapturing  in  nature,  in  character,  in  life, 
in  existence.  God's  glory  they  conceive 
to  be  something  so  different  from  all 
other  glory  ;  God's  goodness,  so  differ- 
ent from  all  other  goodliness  and  beauty, 
that  they  find  no  easy  transition  from 
one  to  the  other.  They  mistake,  —  and 
perhaps  this  is  the  most  fatal  part  of 
the  error,  —  they  mistake  the  very  de- 
mand of  God's  goodness  upon  their 
love.  They  conceive  of  it  as  if  there  were 
something  arbitrary  and  importunate 
and  selfish  in  the  demand.  Demand 
itself  repels  them,  because  they  do  not 
understand  it.  They  think  of  the  Su- 
preme Being  in  this  attitude  somewhat 
as  they  would  of  man,  if  he  stood  before 
them,  saying,  "  Love  me  ;  give  me  your 
heart  ;  upon  pain  of  my  displeasure, 
and  of  long-enduring  penal  miseries  for 
your  disobediejice."  Divine  goodness 
thus  regarded  does  not  and  cannot 
steal  into  the  heart  as  the  excellence 
of  a  human  being  does.  And  this,  I 
say,  is  a  mistake.  Divine  goodness, 
thus  regarded,  is  mistaken,  misappre- 
hended altogether.  There  is  not  so 
much  that  is  personal  in  God"s  claim  for 
our  hearts  as  there  is  in  man's  claim. 
It  does  not  so  much  concern  him,  if  I 
may  speak  so,  that  we  should  love 
him  personally,  as  it  concerns  man 
that  we  should  love  him  personally. 
He  is  not  dependent  on  our  love,  as 
man  is  dependent  upon  it.  The  com- 
mand which  he  lays  upon  us  to  love  him 
is  but  a  part  of  the  command  to  love  all 
goodness.  He  equally  commands  us  to 
love  one  another.  Nay,  he  has  gracious- 
ly represented  the  want  of  love  to  one 
another  as  the  evidence  of  want  of  love  to 
him.  He  has  thus,  in  a  sense,  identified 
these  affections  ;  and  thus  taught  us  that 
an  affection  for  excellence,  whether  in 
himself  or  in  his  creatures,  is  essen- 
tially the  affection  that  he  demands. 
The  demand  for  our  love,  which  the  In- 
finite Being  addresses  to  us,  is  infinitely 
generous.  He  requires  us  to  love  all 
goodness,  to  love  it  alike  in  himself  and  in 


ON    RELIGIOUS   SENSIBILITY. 


185 


others  ;  to  love  goodness  for  goodness' 
sake  ;  to  love  it  because  it  is  just  that 
we  should  love  it,  because  it  is  right, 
because  it  is  for  our  welfare,  because, 
in  one  word,  it  is  all  our  excellence  and 
all  our  happiness. 

I  must  not  dwell  longer  upon  these 
mistakes  ;  but,  in  leaving  this  topic,  let 
me  exhort  every  one  to  endeavor  to 
correct  them.  With  many,  this  will  re- 
quire a  frequent,  an  almost  constant  ef- 
fort. The  influence  of  early  education 
or  of  later  error  ;  theology,  superstition, 
and  sin  have  so  overshadowed  their 
path,  that  they  must  not  expect  to  see 
the  light  without  much  faithful  endeav- 
or. Let  them  be  entreated,  by  every- 
thing most  precious  to  them,  to  make  it. 
And  thus  let  them  make  the  endeavor. 
Let  the  III  see  God  in  ei'erythiui^  that 
they  laivfitlly  admire  and lo7'e.  If  there 
be  any  goodliness  and  loveliness  in  the 
world  ;  if  there  be  anything  dear  and  de- 
lightful in  the  excellence  of  good  men  ;  if 
heaven  from  its  majestic  heights,  if  earth 
from  its  lowly  beauty,  sends  one  sweet 
or  one  sublime  thought  into  your  mind ; 
think  that  this  is  a  manifestation  of  the 
ever-beautiful,  ever-blessed  perfection  of 
God.  Think,  I  say  emphatically,  and 
let  not  your  mind  sleep,  —  think  forever, 
that  the  whole  universe  of  glory  and 
beauty  is  one  revelation  of  God.  Think 
thus,  I  say,  —  thus  faithfully  and  per- 
severingly ;  and  you  will  find  that  no 
strength  nor  freedom  of  emotion  in  the 
world  is  like  the  freedom  and  strength 
of  devotion  ;  that  no  joy,  no  rapture  on 
earth,  is  like  the  joy,  the  rapture  of 
piety ! 


III. 


ON   RELIGIOUS   SENSIBILITY. 

EzEKiEL  xxxvi.  26:  "  And  I  will  give  you  a  heart 
of  flesh." 

My  object  in  the  present  discourse  is 
to  offer  some  remarks  upon  the  remedies 
for  the  want  of  religious  sensibility,  or 


upon   the  means  and  principles   of  its 
culture. 

And  in  entering  upon  this  subject  I 
would  observe  that  much  is  to  be  done 
by  a  correction  of  those  mistakes  which 
have  been  already  mentioned.  Let,  then, 
something,  I  would  venture  to  say,  of 
this  vehement  demand  for  feeling  be 
abated.  Let  not  the  feeling  of  religion 
be  subjected  to  perpetual  importunity, 
any  more  than  the  feeling  of  friendship 
or  of  family  affection.  Let  not  feeling  be 
made  to  occupy  a  place  in  religion  that 
does  not  belong  to  it,  as  if  it  were  the 
only  thing  and  everything  ;  thus  drawing 
away  attention  from  the  principles  that 
are  necessary  to  give  it  permanency,  from 
the  soil  that  must  nourish  and  the  basis 
that  must  support  it.  Let  not  religious 
feeling  be  appealed  to  in  a  way  to  im- 
pair its  simplicity,  disinterestedness,  and 
purity. 

In  the  next  place,  let  the  common  mis- 
takes about  the  natbre  and  signs  of  re- 
ligious sensibility  be  corrected.  Let  all 
excess  and  extravagance  be  checked  as 
much  as  possible ;  and  especially  let 
those  who  would  cultivate  a  fervent  piety 
make  the  necessary  discriminations  be- 
tween religion  and  fanaticism.  Let 
them  not  conclude  that  abuses  are  the 
only  forms  under  which  the  religious 
principle  can  appear;  that,  in  order  to  be 
zealous  Christians,  it  is  necessary  to  part 
with  their  ifiodesty  or  their  taste.  In 
fine,  let  religion  become  so  familiar  that 
it  shall  cease  to  be,  in  their  minds,  or  in 
their  thoughts  of  it,  anything  extraordi- 
nary ;  and  then  let  its  manifestations  be, 
like  the  expressions  of  all  other  high  and 
pure  feeling,  unforced,  natural,  manly, 
strong,  graceful,  beautiful,  and  winning. 
Thus  let  our  light  shine  before  men,  not 
as  the  glaring  meteor,  but  as  the  common 
light  of  day,  attractive  and  cheering  and 
constant. 

And,  once  more,  let  an  honest  and  per- 
severing endeavor  be  made,  to  correct 
those  mistakes  that  prevail  about  the 
Supreme  Object  to  which  religious  sen- 
sibility is  chiefly  directed.  Let  not  God 
be    resrarded  as  some  unintellitrible  ab- 


1 86 


ON   THE   NATURE     OF   RELIGION. 


straction  or  inaccessible  majesty.  Let 
the  Cliristian  teaching  be  welcomed, 
which  instructs  us  to  believe  and  to  feel 
that  He  is  our  Father.  Let  an  effort  be 
made  by  every  mind  to  break  through  the 
clouds  of  superstition  and  sin,  and  to 
perceive  what  the  divine  perfection  is. 
Let  not  God's  command  that  we  should 
love  him  be  mistaken  for  anything  more 
arbitrary  or  importunate  or  personal 
than  is  the  claim  of  disinterested  human 
excellence  to  be  loved.  Let  not  the  di- 
vine demand  for  our  love  be  so  construed 
as  to  chill  or  repel  our  Iqve.  In  fine, 
let  no  thought  be  suffered  to  enter  our 
minds  that  shall  detract  from  the  infinite 
generosity,  the  infinite  dignity,  the  infi- 
nite beauty,  of  the  divine  perfection. 
How  shall  God  be  truly  loved,  if  he  is 
not  rightly  known  ?  Let  him  be  rightly 
known,  and  love  will  as  certainly  follow 
as  it  will  follow  the  knowledge  of  any  oth- 
er, of  any  human  or  angelic  excellence. 
I  do  not  say  that  it  will  certainly  follow, 
but  as  certainly.  Nay,  why,  if  we  rightly 
understood  the  subject,  should  it  not  be 
easier  to  love  God  than  to  love  man  ? 
For  man  is  full  of  imperfection  that  of- 
fends us,  and  with  him  too  we  are  liable 
to  have  questions  and  competitions.  But 
God  is  all-perfect  ;  and  with  him  our 
affections  have  reasonably  nothing  to  do 
—  but  to  love  him. 

Let  me  now  proceed  to  offer  a  few 
suggestions  more  directly  upbn  the  rem- 
edy for  religious  insensibility.  And 
here  let  me  say  at  once,  that  I  have  no 
specific  to  offer  in  the  shape  of  a  rem- 
edy ;  no  new  and  before  unheard-of 
method  to  propose.  I  have  no  set  of 
rules  to  lay  down,  a  mere  formal  observ- 
ance of  which  will  certainly  bring  about 
the  desired  result.  Religious  sensibility 
is  to  be  cultivated  like  all  other  sensi- 
bility ;  i.  e.  rationally.  And  since  it  is 
impossible  within  my  present  limits  to 
discuss  the  subject  in  all  its  parts  and 
bearings,  I  shall  confine  myself  to  the 
defence  and  application  of  the  rational 
method.  And  the  rational  method  is 
the  method  of  attention,  in  the  forms 
of  meditation,  reading,  hearing,  prayer; 


the  method  of  association,  which  pays 
regard  to  the  indirect  influences  of 
places,  times,  and  moods  of  mind ;  and, 
finally,  it  is  the  method  of  consistency, 
by  which  no  feeling  is  expected  to  be 
strong  and  satisfactory  but  as  the  result 
of  the  whole  character. 

My  remedy,  then,  for  rehgious  insen- 
sibility, under  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  — 
it  might  sound  strangely  in  the  ears  of 
some,  —  but  I  boldly  say,  that  my  rem- 
edy is  reason.  It  is  thought ;  it  is  re- 
flection ;  it  is  attention;  it  is  exercise 
of  reason  in  every  legitimate  way.  The 
true  method,  I  say,  is  purely  and  strictly 
rational.  And  I  say,  moreover,  that  it 
is  not  that  Christians  have  used  their 
reason  so  much,  but  so  little,  that  they 
have  been  so  deficient  in  real  feeling. 

Reason  and  feeling,  if  they  be  not 
the  same  thing  in  different  degrees  of 
strength,  are  yet  so  intimately  connect- 
ed that  no  man  may  ever  expect,  on 
any  subject,  to  feel  deeply  and  habitu- 
ally, who  does  not  feel  rationally.  The 
slight  sometimes  thrown  upon  reason 
in  religion  is  an  invasion  of  the  first  law 
of  the  mind,  the  first  law  of  heaven. 
This  law  is  "elder  scripture,"  and  no 
more  designed  to  be  abrogated  by  the 
written  word,  than  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion is  designed  to  be  abrogated  by  the 
written  word.  The  word  proceeds  upon 
the  assumption  that  the  intellect  is  to 
be  addressed ;  it  actually,  and  every- 
where, addresses  it.  The  whole  theory 
of  human  affections  proceeds  upon  it. 
The  grandest  theoretical  mistake  of  all 
in  religion  is  that  by  which  feeling  is 
separated  from  the  intellect. 

Nor  am  I  at  all  sure,  my  brethren, 
little  liable  as  it  may  be  thought  we  are 
to  make  this  mistake,  that  we  have  al- 
together escaped  it.  When  it  is  said, 
as  it  sometimes  is  said,  that  certain 
preaching  is  too  intellectual  for  a  plain 
congregation,  or  too  rational  for  an 
humble  congregation,  I  must  think, 
either  that  the  meaning  is  false,  or  that 
the  terms  are  used  in  a  false  sense. 
There  never  was  too  much  intellect, 
there  never  was  too  much  reason,    yet 


ON    RELIGIOUS    SENSIBILl TV. 


187 


put  into  a  sermon.  There  may  have 
been  too  little  feeling  ;  but  it  does  not 
follow  that  there  was  too  much  reason. 
There  may  have  been  too  much  barren 
and  useless  speculation,  but  not  too 
much  intellect.  Some  of  the  most  prac- 
tical and  devotional  books  in  the  world 
—  such  as  Law's  Serious  Call,  Baxter's 
Saints'  Rest,  the  Sermons  of  Butler  and 
Paley,  and  the  works  of  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards—  are  specimens  of  the  closest 
reasoning.  A  genuine,  just,  and  powerful 
moral  discourse  has  need  to  be  one  of 
the  keenest,  closest,  and  most  discrimi- 
nating compositions  in  the  world.  Such 
were  the  discourses  of  our  Saviour. 
Nothing  could  be  farther  from  loose, 
rambling,  commonplace  exhortations. 
Nothing  could  be  farther  from  that  style 
which  says,  "  Oh  !  my  hearers,  you 
must  be  good  ;  you  must  be  pious  men  ; 
and  you  must  feel  on  this  great  subject." 
No,  the  hearers,  by  close,  cogent, 
home-put  argument,  were  made  to  feel  ; 
and  they  said,  "  Never  man  spake  like 
this  man." 

I  may  be  thought  singular,  but  I  verily 
believe  that  in  most  moral  discourses 
at  this  day  the  grand  defect  is  not  so 
much  a  defect  of  feeling,  as  it  is  a  defect 
of  close  and  discriminating  argument; 
and  that  higher  powers  of  argumentation 
are  precisely  what  are  wanted,  in  such 
sermons,  to  make  them  more  weighty, 
practical,  and  impressive.  And  it  is  not 
the  intellectual  hearer,  who  can  perhaps 
supply  the  deficiency,  that  most  needs 
this  ;  but  the  plain  hearer,  who  is  mys- 
tified, misled,  and  stupefied,  by  the  want 
of  clear  and  piercing  discrimination.  I 
have  that  respect  for  human  nature  in 
its  humblest  forms,  as  to  think  that  the 
highest  powers  of  man  or  angel  would 
not  be  thrown  away  upon  it :  and  I  can- 
not believe  that  nothing  but  truisms  and 
commonplaces,  vague  generalities  and 
unstudied  exhortations,  are  required  in 
teaching  religion  to  such  a  nature. 

It  is  required  of  a  man,  to  be  sure,  ac- 
cording to  what  he  hath,  and  not  accord- 
ing to  what  he  hath  not.  But  if  it  be 
thought  that  the  utmost,  and  far  more 


than  the  utmost,  measure  of  human  tal- 
ent may  not  be  well  employed  in  relig- 
ious discussion,  how,  let  me  ask,  is  that 
opinion  to  be  defended  against  the  charge 
of  doing  dishonor  to  religion  ?  There 
is  no  other  interest  which  is  not  held  to 
be  worthy  of  the  profoundest  discussion. 
He  who  is  to  plead  the  cause  of  some 
earthly  right  or  property  before  the 
judges  of  the  land  or  its  legislators,  will, 
by  deep  study,  prepare  himself  to  give 
the  most  able  and  elaborate  views  of 
the  subject,  be  it  of  a  title  or  a  tariff,  a 
bond  or  a  bank.  It  is  a  great  occasion, 
and  must  task  all  the  powers  of  the  mind 
to  do  it  justice.  But  "a  little  plain 
sense,"  —  is  not  this  the  thought  of 
some? — "a  little  plain  sense,  a  little 
commonplace  thought,  is  good  enough 
for  religion  !  " 

There  are  tasks  for  the  religious  teach- 
er ;  and,  to  name  no  other,  that  of  disem- 
barrassing religious  experience  from  the 
many  mistakes  in  which  it  is  involved, 
is  one  that  must  carry  the  preacher  far 
enough  beyond  the  range  of  common- 
place truths,  valuable  as  they  may  be, 
and  one  that  is  very  necessary  to  the 
promotion  of  a  just  and  healthful  relig- 
ious sensibility.  And  this  only  amounts 
to  saying  that  there  are  new  things  to 
be  said,  new  vie^vs  to  be  given  in  relig- 
ion;  that  not  plain  and  obvious  things 
only  are  to  be  said,  but  that  there  is  to 
be  something  to  be  told  to  many  which 
they  did  not  think  of  before.  And  what 
though  the  prea.cher  fee/  his  subject,  and 
the  people  be  impressed  ;  yet,  after  all, 
the  impression,  the  feeling,  may  have 
much  in  it  that  is  wrong.  The  whole  sul> 
ject  of  religious  sensibility,  its  sources 
and  the  methods  of  its  culture,  may  be 
very  ill  understood  ;  and  there  is  no  little 
evidence  that  it  is  ill  understood,  from  the 
fact  that  most  religious  feeling  is  so  arti- 
ficial, so  mechanical,  so  periodical  and 
fluctuating  and  uncertain,  instead  of 
being  habitual  and  healthful  and  strong. 
A  man  may  feel  very  much,  within  a 
very  narrow  compass  of  thought.  Who 
has  not  often  observed  it?  But  who 
that  has  observed  it  would  not  think  it 


i88 


ON   THE    NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


desirable  to  carry  him  beyond  this  Httle 
mechanism  by  which  he  contrives  from 
time  to  time  (if  I  may  speal<  so)  to 
grind  out^  certain  amount  of  feehng, — 
to  carry  him  beyond,  I  say,  to  those  wide 
and  generous  views  of  rehgion,  to  that 
intelligent  culture  of  his  nature,  from 
which  religious  feeling  will  spring  natu- 
rally and  freely,  and  flow  abundantly,  and 
in  a  full  and  living  stream  ?  There  is 
all  the  difference  here,  and  only  of  infi- 
nitely greater  importance,  that  there  is 
between  the  slavish  artisan,  governed 
by  rules,  and  the  intelligent  machinist, 
discovering  principles,  constantly  in- 
venting and  improving,  and  ever  going 
on  to  perfection. 

But  it  is  time  that  I  should  proceed 
from  the  defence  to  the  more  particu- 
lar application  of  my  proposition.  The 
proposition  is,  that  feeling  in  religion, 
to  be  deep  and  thorough,  to  be  habitual, 
to  be  relied  on,  to  spring  up  with  unva- 
rying promptitude  at  every  call  of  relig- 
ion, must  be  rational,  perfectly  rational  ; 
rational  in  its  nature,  its  methods  of 
culture,  its  ends.  You  ask  how  you 
shall  learn  to  feel  on  the  subject  of  relig- 
ion,—  with  spontaneous  freedom,  with 
unaffected  delight,  and  with  true-hearted 
earnestness  ;  how  you  shall  learn  to  feel 
in  religion  as  you  do  in  friendship,  and 
in  the  family  relations  ;  and  I  answer, 
rationally.  And  I  say,  moreover,  tliat 
provided  a  man  really  and  honestly  de- 
sires and  strives  to  feel,  the  reason  why 
he  fails,  is,  that  there  is  something  irra- 
tional in  his  views,  irrational  in  his 
seeking,  irrational  in  the  whole  method 
of  his  procedure.  He  has  irrational 
views  of  the  nature  of  religious  feeling. 
He  expects  it  to  be  some  strange  sensa- 
tion, or  something  supernatural,  or  some 
hallucination,  or  something,  he  knows 
not  what.  Or  he  has  wrong  views  of 
God.  He  does  not  see  the  glory  and 
loveliness  of  his  perfection.  Or  he  has 
wrong  ideas  of  the  methods  of  ol^taining 
religious  feeling.  He  is  indolently  wait- 
ing for  it,  or  irrationally  expecting  it  to 
come  upon  him  in  some  indescribable 
manner,  or  unreasonably  looking  for  an 


influence  from  above,  which  God  has 
never  promised.  For  although  he  has 
promised  help,  he  has  not  proffered,  in 
that  help,  anything  to  be  substituted  for 
our  own  efforts  :  and  our  efforts  are  to 
be  every  way  just  as  rational  as  if  he 
had  promised  nothing.  Or,  the  seeker 
of  religion  has  irrational  views  of  the 
end.  He  does  not  distinctly  see  that 
his  perfection,  his  happiness,  is  the  end. 
If  he  did,  he  would  be  drawn  on  to  seek 
it  with  a  more  willing  and  hearty  ear- 
nestness. No,  but  he  feels  as  if  the 
demand  for  his  heart,  in  this  matter, 
were  a  mere  arbitrary  requisition,  as  if 
it  were  the  bare  will  of  some  superior 
Being,  without  any  reason  for  it.  He 
seeks  religion,  because  he  vaguely  and 
blindly  apprehends  that  it  is  something, 
—  that  is  the  prominent  idea  of  thou- 
sands,—  something  which  he  must  have. 
I  say  that  the  process  of  obtaining  a 
high  and  delightful  religious  sensibili- 
ty, that  sensibility  which  makes  prayer 
always  fervent  and  meditation  fruitful 
and  satisfying,  must  be  rational,  and 
nothing  but  rational.  And  I  do  not  say 
this  in  any  spirit  of  defiance  towards 
that  prevaihng  opinion  which  has  fas- 
tened on  this  word  rational  the  idea 
of  coldness  and  indifference.  I  say  it, 
because  in  sober  truth  and  earnestness 
I  know  of  no  other  way  to  feel  the  deep 
sense  of  religion,  but  to  feel  it  ration- 
ally. It  is  out  of  my  power  —  is  it  ivitJiin 
any  man's  power  ? —  to  conceive  of  any 
other  way  to  awaken  emotion,  but  to  fix 
the  mind  on  those  objects  that  are  to 
awaken  it.  If  I  would  feel  the  sentiment 
of  gratitude  and  love  to  my  Creator,  I 
can  conceive  of  no  way  of  doing  so,  but 
to  think  of  his  goodness,  his  perfection  ; 
to  spread  before  my  mind  all  tiie  images 
and  evidences  of  his  majesty,  his  per- 
fection, his  love.  If  I  would  feel  the 
charms  of  virtue,  I  must  contemplate 
her  ;  I  must  see  "  virtue  in  her  shape, 
how  lovely  !  "  If  I  would  love  good  men, 
which  is  a  part  of  religion,  I  must  know 
them,  and  mingle  with  them  ;  1  must 
talk  with  them,  or  read  of  them,  and 
spread  the  story  of  their  generous  and 


ON   RELIGIOUS   SENSIBILITY. 


189 


blessed  deeds  before  me.  And  thus 
also,  and  for  the  same  reason,  if  I  would 
love  God,  I  must  not  only  contemplate 
him,  as  has  been  already  said,  but  I 
must  be  familiar  with  the  contemplation 
of  his  being  and  perfection.  Earth 
through  all  her  fair  and  glorious  scenes 
must  speak  to  me  oi  Him.  The  sacred 
page,  with  all  its  gracious  words  of  teach- 
ing and  promise,  must  speak  to  me  of 
Him.  And  I  must  listen  with  gladness, 
with  a  sense  of  my  high  privilege,  and 
with  joy  must  I  commune  with  all  the 
teachings  of  God  to  me,  as  I  would  com- 
mune with  the  words  of  a  friend.  This 
is  the  rational  process 

But  this,  my  friends,  is  not  to  say 
that  "we  hope  we  shall  some  time  or 
other  attain  to  the  love  of  God,"  or 
that  "we  desire  it,"  or  that  "it  is  diffi- 
cult," or  that  "  we  fear  we  never  shall 
reach  it ;  "  it  is  not  saying,  and  saying, 
this  or  that,  in  a  sort  of  ideal,  or  idle 
speculation  ;  but  it  is  doing  something. 
It  is  seeking  to  feel  the  power  of  re- 
ligion, as  we  seek  to  feel  the  power  of 
other  things,  —  of  the  arts,  of  philosophy, 
of  science,  of  astronomy,  or  of  music ; 
attentively,  sedulously,  with  a  careful  use 
of  opportunities,  with  a  heedful  regard 
to  circumstances.  The  rational  method, 
then,  is  the  method  of  attention. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  the  rational 
method  is  the  method  of  association  ; 
or,  in  other  words,  it  is  a  method  which 
regards  that  great  law  of  the  mind,  the 
law  of  association.  It  pays  regard  to 
places  and  times  and  seasons,  and  moods 
ofmind.  It  is  partly  an  indirect  method. 
It  is,  to  put  ourselves  in  the  way  of  ob- 
taining a  sense  of  religion. 

The  direct  eflfort  is  to  be  valued  for  all 
that  it  is  worth.  And  its  value,  indeed, 
is  such  that  it  is  indispensable.  Cer- 
tainly, where  the  religious  character  is 
to  be  formed,  after  our  arrival  at  the 
period  of  adult  years,  periodical  and 
private  meditation  and  prayer  seem  to 
be  essential  aids.  There  is  much  to 
learn,  and  much  to  overcome,  and  there 
should  be  definite  seasons  and  direct 
efforts,  for  these  purposes.    But  it  would 


be  irrational  to  make  these  seasons  and 
efforts  the  only  means.  If  we  should 
attempt  to  form  a  friendship  for  a  hu- 
man being  by  such  a  series  of  fixed 
and  direct  contemplations  alone,  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  they  would  be  very 
likely  to  be  injurious,  to  create  in  our 
minds  a  set  of  repulsive  or  irksome 
associations  with  the  human  being  in 
question,  however  amiable  and  excellent 
he  might  be.  It  would  require  the 
effect  of  many  indirect  influences  to 
blend  with  these,  and  give  them  their 
proper  character.  So  in  the  cultiva- 
tion of  a  devotional  spirit,  it  is  not  safe 
to  trust  to  prayers  and  meditations  alone. 
Many  wise  and  good  men,  in  their  writ- 
ings, have  recommended  that  the  most 
special  heed  be  given  to  those  visitations 
of  tender  and  solemn  emotion,  those 
touches  of  holy  sensibility,  those  breath- 
ings of  the  Spirit  of  all  grace,  which 
steal  into  the  heart  unsolicited,  and  offer 
their  heavenly  aid  unsought.  Let  not 
him  who  would  catch  the  sacred  fervor 
of  piety  venture  to  neglect  these  gra- 
cious intimations.  Let  him  not  neglect 
to  put  himself  in  the  way  of  receiving 
them.  Let  him  not  willingly  invade  the 
holy  Sabbath  hours  with  business  or 
pleasure,  or  forsake  the  assemblies 
where  good  men  meditate  and  pray,  or 
resist  the  touching  signs  of  nature's 
beauty  or  decline,  or  turn  away  from  the 
admonition  of  loneliness  and  silence, 
when  tliey  sink  deep  into  the  heart.  Or, 
if  he  does  turn  away,  and  avoid  and 
resist  all  this,  let  him  not  say  that  he 
seeks  or  desires  the  good  gift  of  the 
grace  of  God,  the  gift  of  light  and  love 
and  holy  joy. 

Finally,  the  rational  method  is  a 
method  of  consistency.  Religious  feel- 
ing, to  be  itself  rational,  and  to  be  ration- 
ally sought,  must  not  be  expected  to 
spring  up  as  the  result  of  anything  else 
tlian  the  whole  character.  You  desire  to 
feel  the  power  of  religion.  Do  not  ex- 
pect, do  not  desire,  to  feel  it,  but  as  an 
impression  upon  your  whole  mind  and 
heart,  the  general  tone  and  tenor  of  all 
your  sentiments  and  affections,  the  con- 


I  go 


ON   THE    NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


senting  together  of  all  your  reflections 
and  actions  and  habits.  If  you  feel  it, 
as  some  peculiar  thing,  something  sin- 
gular in  you,  and  technical  in  your  very 
idea  of  it,  as  something  apart  from  your 
ordinary  self  ;  if  it  is  either  a  flame  of 
the  imagination,  or  a  warmth  of  the  affec- 
tions, or  a  splendor  of  sentiment,  one  of 
them  alone  and  not  all  of  them  together, 
it  will  certainly  lead  you  astray  :  it  will 
be  but  a  wavering  and  treacherous  light. 
It  may  appear  to  you  very  bright.  It 
may  lead  you  to  think  well  of  yourself; 
far  better  than  you  ought  to  think.  But 
it  will  be  only  a  glaring  taper  instead  of 
the  true  light  of  life. 

An  irrational  fervor  is  often  found  to 
stand  in  direct  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the 
character  ;  to  general  ignorance,  to  want 
of  moral  refinement  and  delicacy,  and  of 
daily  virtue.  There  is  not  only  a  zeal 
without  knowledge,  but  there  is  a  zeal 
which  seems  to  thrive  exactly  in  propor- 
tion to  the  want  of  knowledge ;  that  bursts 
out,  from  time  to  time,  like  a  flame  from 
thick  smoke,  instead  of  shining  with  any 
clear  radiance,  any  steady  light.  But  it 
is  the  distinctive  mark  of  rational  feeling, 
that  it  rises  gradually,  and  steadily  gains 
strength,  like  the  spreading  of  daylight 
upon  the  wakening  earth.  Hence,  it 
rises  slowly  ;  and  no  one  should  be  dis- 
couraged at  small  beginnings  ;  and  no 
one  should  expect  or  wish  to  rush  into 
the  full  flow  of  religious  sensibility  at 
once. 

I  repeat  it ;  this  sensibility,  if  rational, 
must  be  felt  as  the  spirit  of  the  whole 
character :  and  he  would  do  well  to  tell 
us  nothing  of  his  joys,  of  whom  nothing 
can  be  told  concerning  his  virtues,  his 
self-denials,  his  general  and  growing  im- 
provement, the  holy  habits  and  heavenly 
graces  of  his  character  and  life.  Dost 
thou  love  good  men  and  pity  bad  men  ; 
is  thy  heart  touched  with  all  that  is  gen- 
erous and  lovely  around  thee ;  is  thine 
eye  opened  to  all  that  is  like  God  in  his 
creatures  and  works  ?  Then,  and  not 
till  then,  am  I  prepared  to  hear  of  thy  love 
to  God.  Dost  thou,  indeed,  love  that 
great  and  kind  Being  ?     Dost  thou,  in- 


deed, love  that  intrinsic,  infinite,  eternal, 
inexpressible  beauty  and  glory  of  the  di- 
vine perfection  ?  Then,  truly,  art  thou 
prepared  rightly  to  love  all  who  bear  his 
image,  and  to  pity  and  pray  for  all  who 
bear  it  not ;  then  does  thy  social  and  re- 
ligious sensibility  flow  on  in  one  stream, 
full  and  entire,  steady  and  constant,  a 
living  stream  :  a  stream  like  that  which 
floweth  fresh,  full,  perennial,  eternal,  at 
the  right  hand  of  God  ! 

My  brethren  !  it  is  constant  :  so  far  at 
least  as  anything  human  can  bear  that 
character,  it  is  constant.  He  who  will 
rationally  cultivate  the  sense  of  religion, 
both  directly  and  indirectly,  and  as  the 
consent  and  tendency  of  all  his  habits, 
may  be  just  as  certain  of  feeling  it  as  he 
is  certain  of  loving  his  friend,  his  child, 
his  chief  interest.  It  is  one  of  the  irra- 
tional aspects  of  the  common  religious 
sensibility,  that  its  possessors  have  usu- 
ally spoken  of  it  as  if  it  were  totally  un- 
certain whether,  on  a  given  occasion,  they 
should  feel  it  or  not.  They  have  gone 
to  church,  they  have  gone  to  their  private 
devotions,  with  a  feeling  as  if  it  were  to 
be  decided,  not  by  the  habits  of  their 
own  minds,  but  by  some  doubtful  inter- 
position of  divine  grace,  whether  they 
were  to  enjoy  a  sense  of  religion  or  not. 
But,  my  friends,  nothing  can  be  more 
certain  to  him  who  will  rationally,  heart- 
ily, and  patiently  cultivate  the  religious 
sensibilities  of  his  soul,  than  that  he  shall, 
on  every  suitable  occasion,  feel  them.  It 
is  to  him  no  matter  of  distressing  doubt 
and  uncertainty.  He  knows  in  whom  he 
has  believed.  He  knows  in  what  he  has 
confided.  He  knows,  by  sure  experience, 
that  as  certainly  as  the  tliemes  of  relig- 
ion pass  before  him,  they  will,  physical 
infirmity  only  excepted,  arouse  him  to 
the  most  intense  and  delightful  exercise 
of  all  his  affections.  He  is  sure,  when 
the  fulness  of  the  blessing  of  the  Gospel 
of  Christ  is  presented  before  him, —  he  is,* 
like  Paul,  sure  that  he  shall  enter  into  it. 
Not  that  this  is  any  boasting  assurance 
of  the  devoted  Christian.  God  forbid ! 
He  knows  his  weakness.  But  he  knows 
that,  by  the  very  laws  of  the  divine  good- 


THE   LAW    OF   RETRIBUTION. 


191 


ness  and  grace,  if  he  will  be  faithful,  no 
o-ood  thing  shall  be  wanting  to  him. 

Christian   brethren  !    we    hear  much, 
in  these  days,  about  excitement.     Why, 
every  prayer,  —  of  a  Christian    at  once 
perfectly  rational  and  perfectly  devoted, 
—  every  prayer  is  an  excitement ;  and 
every  religious    service,   every   sermon, 
is  an  excitement  as  great  as  he  can  well 
bear;    and    every   day's  toil   of   virtue 
and    contemplation   of  piety  is  a  great 
and  glorious  excitement.     Excitements  ! 
Is  a  man  never  to  be  moved  by  his  relig- 
ion but  when  some  flood  of  emotion  is 
sweeping  through  society  ;  when  agita- 
tion and  disorder  and  confusion  are  on 
every  side  of  him  ?     Is  it  only  when  the 
tenor  of  quiet  life,  the  pursuits  of  indus- 
trv,  the  pleasures  of  relaxation,  are   all 
broken  up,  that  he  is  to  feel  the  power 
of  religion  ?     I   do  not  say  that  this  is 
anybody's   theory  ;     but    if   this    is    the 
fact  that  results  from  any  form  of  relig- 
ious teaching,  then,  I  ask,  for  what  end 
was  the  whole  tenor  of  life,  for  what  end 
were   the   pursuits   of  industry  and   the 
pleasures    of    society,    ordained  ?     For 
what  was  the  whole  trial  of  life,  so  exqui- 
sitely moral,  so  powerfully  spiritual, — 
for  what  was  it  appointed,  if  the  seasons 
for  olitaining  religious  impressions   are 
so  ordered  by  human  interference  that 
they   come  only  in   idleness,   disorder, 
and  a  derangement  of  the  whole  system 
of  life?     Excitements  in  religion!     Are 
tliey  to  be  things  occasional,  and  sepa- 
rated by  the  distance  of  years  ?     Is  a 
man  to  be  excited  about  religion  only  in 
a  certain  month,  or  in  the  winter;  and 
when  that  month,  or  that  winter  is  past, 
yes,  when  all  nature  is  bursting  into  life 
and  beauty,  and  songs  of  praise,  is  the 
religious  feeling  of  the  people  to  be  de- 
clining into  worse  than  wintry  coldness 
and  death?     Is  this  religion,  —  the  re- 
ligion whose  path  shineth  brighter  and 
brighter  to  the  perfect  day  ? 

Let  us  have  excitements  in  religion  ; 
but  then  let  them  be  such  as  may  be 
daily  renewed,  as  never  need  to  die 
away.  Any  excitement  in  society  that 
can  bear  this  character  I  would  heart- 


ily go  along  with.  The  Christian  relig- 
ion. I  am  sure,  was  designed  powerfully 
to  excite  us  ;  nothing  on  earth  so  much  ; 
nothing  in  heaven  more.  It  was  de- 
signed to  arouse  our  whole  nature,  to 
enrapture  our  whole  affection,  to  kindle 
in  us  a  flame  of  devotion,  to  transport 
us  with  the  hope  and  foretaste  of  heav- 
en. But  its  excitements,  if  they  be  like 
those  that  appeared  in  the  great  Teacher, 
are  to  be  deep,  sober,  strong,  and  habit- 
ual. Such  excitements  may  God  ever 
grant  us  ;  not  periodical,  l)ut  perpetual ; 
not  transient,  but  enduring;  not  for 
times  and  seasons  only,  but  for  life; 
not  for  life  only,  but  for  eternity  ! 


IV. 


TPIE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 

Galatians,  vi.  7  :  "  Be  not  deceived;  God  is  not 
mocked  :  for  whatsoever  a  man  sovveth,  that  shall  he 
also  reap." 

I  UNDERSTAND  these  words,  my  breth- 
ren, as  laving  down  in  some  respects 
a  stricter  law  of  retribution  than  is  yet 
received,  even  by  those  who  are  consid- 
ered as  its  strictest  interpreters.  There 
is  much  dispute  about  this  law  at  the 
present  day  ;  and  there  are  many  who 
are  jealous,  and  very  properly  jealous, 
of  every  encroachment  upon  its  salu- 
tary principles.  But  even  those  who 
profess  to  hold  the  strictest  faith  on 
this  subject,  and  who,  in  my  judgment, 
do  hold  a  faith  concerning  what  they 
call  the  infinity  of  man's  ill-desert  that  is 
warranted  neither  by  reason  nor  Scrip- 
ture ;  even  they,  nevertheless,  do  often 
present  views  of  conversion  and  of  God's 
mercy,  and  of  the  actual  scene  of  retri- 
bution, which  in  my  apprehension  de- 
tract from  the  wholesome  severity  of 
the  rule  by  which  we  are  to  be  judged. 
Their  views  may  be  strong  enough,  too 
strong  ;  and  yet  not  strict  enough,  nor 
impressive  enouo;h.  Tell  a  man  that  he 
deserves  to  suffer  infinitely,  and  I  am 


192 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


not  sure  that  it  will  by  any  means  come 
so  near  his  conscience,  as  to  tell  him 
that  he  deserves  to  endure  some  small 
but  specific  evil.  Tell  him  that  he  de- 
serves an  infinity  of  suffering,  and  he 
may  blindly  assent  to  it ;  it  is  a  vast  and 
vague  something  that  presses  upon  his 
conscience,  and  has  no  edge  nor  point : 
but  put  a  svFord  into  the  hand  of  con- 
science, and  how  might  this  easy  assent- 
er  to  the  justice  of  infinite  torments 
grow  astonished  and  angry,  if  you  were 
to  tell  him  that  he  deserved  to  suffer 
but  the  amputation  of  a  single  finger  ! 
Or  tell  the  sinner  that  he  shall  suffer  for 
his  offences  a  thousand  ages  hence;  and 
though  it  may  be  true,  and  will  be  true, 
if  he  goes  on  offending  till  that  period, 
yet  it  will  not  come  home  to  his  heart 
with  half  so  vivid  an  impression,  or  half 
so  effectual  a  restraint,  as  to  make  him 
foresee  the  pain,  the  remorse  and  shame, 
that  he  will  suffer  the  very  next  hour. 
Tell  him,  in  fine,  as  it  is  common  to  do, 
—  tell  him  of  retribution  in  the  gross,  and 
however  strong  the  language,  he  may 
listen  to  it  with  apathy  ;  he  often  does 
so  ;  but  if  you  could  show  him  what  sin 
is  doing  within  him  at  every  moment ; 
how  every  successive  offence  lays  on 
another  and  another  shade  upon  the 
brightness  of  the  soul  ;  how  every  trans- 
gression, as  if  it  held  the  very  sword  of 
justice,  is  cutting  off,  one  by  one,  the 
fine  and  invisible  fibres  that  bind  the 
soul  to  happiness  ;  then,  by  all  the  love 
of  happiness,  such  a  man  must  be  in- 
terested and  concerned  for  himself.  Or 
tell  the  bad  man  that  he  must  be  con- 
verted, or  he  cannot  be  happy  here- 
after, and  you  declare  to  him  an  im- 
pressive truth  ;  but  how  much  would 
it  add  to  the  impression,  if,  instead  of 
leaving  him  to  suppose  that  bare  con- 
version, in  the  popular  sense  of  that 
term,  —  that  the  brief  work  of  an  hour, 
would  bring  him  to  heaven,  you  should 
say  to  him,  "  You  shall  be  just  as  happy 
liereafter  as  you  are  pure  and  upright, 
and  no  more  ;  just  as  happy  as  your 
character  prepares  you  to  be,  and  no 
more ;    your    moral,    like   your   mental 


character,  though  it  may  take  its  date 
or  impulse  from  a  certain  moment,  is 
not  formed  in  a  moment  ;  your  charac- 
ter, that  is  to  say,  the  habit  of  your 
mind,  is  the  result  of  many  thoughts 
and  feelings  and  efforts  ;  and  these  are 
bound  together  by  many  natural  and 
strong  ties  ;  so  that  it  is  strictly  true, 
and  this  is  the  great  law  of  retribution  ; 
that  all  coming  experience  is  to  be 
affected  by  every  present  feeling;  that 
every  future  moment  of  being  must  an- 
swer for  every  present  moment  ;  that 
one  moment,  sacrificed  to  sin  or  lost  to 
improvement,  is  forever  sacrificed  and 
lost  ;  that  one  year's  delay,  or  one  hour's 
wilful  delay,  to  enter  the  right  path,  is  to 
put  you  back  so  far  in  the  everlasting 
pursuit  of  happiness  ;  and  that  every 
sin,  ay,  every  sin  of  a  good  man,  is  thus 
to  be  answered  for,  though  not  accord- 
ing to  the  full  measure  of  its  ill-desert, 
yet  according  to  a  rule  of  unbending 
rectitude  and  impartiality.  This  is  un- 
doubtedly the  strict  and  solemn  Law  of 
Retribution  :  but  how  much  its  strict- 
ness has  really  entered, —  I  say  not  now 
into  our  hearts  and  lives  ;  I  will  take  up 
that  serious  question  in  another  sea- 
son of  meditation,  — but  how  much  the 
strictness  of  the  principle  of  retribution 
has  entered  into  our  theories,  our  creeds, 
our  speculations,  is  a  matter  that  de- 
serves attention. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  indeed,  that 
there  is  110  doctrine  which  is  more  uni- 
versally received,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  universally  evaded,  than  this  very 
doctrine  which  we  are  considering.  It 
is  universally  received,  because  the  very 
condition  of  human  existence  involves 
it,  because  it  is  a  matter  of  experience  ; 
every  after  period  of  life  being  affected, 
and  known  to  be  affected,  by  the  conduct 
of  every  earher  period :  manhood  by 
youth,  and  age  by  manhood  ;  profes- 
sional success,  by  the  preparation  for  it; 
domestic  happiness,  by  conjugal  fidelity 
and  parental  care.  It  is  thus  seen  that  life 
is  a  tissue  into  which  the  thread  of  this 
connection  is  everywhere  interwoven. 
It  is  thus  seen  that  the  law  of  retribu- 


THE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 


193 


tion  presses  upon  every  man,  whether 
he  thinks  of  it  or  not;  that  it  pursues 
him,  through  all  the  courses  of  iite,  with 
a  step  that  never  falters  nor  tires,  and 
with  an  eye  that  never  sleeps  nor  slum- 
bers. The  doctrine  of  a  future  retribu- 
tion has  been  universally  received,  too, 
because  it  has  been  felt  that  in  no  other 
way  could  the  impartiality  of  God's 
government  be  vindicated ;  that  if  the 
best  and  the  worst  men  in  the  world,  if 
the  ruthless  oppressor  and  his  innocent 
victim,  if  the  proud  and  boasting  injurer 
and  the  meek  and  patient  sufferer,  are  to 
go  to  the  same  reward,  to  the  same  appro- 
bation of  the  good  and  just  God  ;  there 
is  an  end  of  all  discrimination,  of  all 
moral  government,  and  of  all  light  upon 
the  mysteries  of  providence.  It  has 
been  felt,  moreover,  that  the  character 
of  the  soul  carries  with  it,  and  in  its 
most  intimate  nature,  the  principles  of 
retribution,  and  that  it  must  work  out 
weal  or  woe  for  its  possessor. 

But  this  doctrine,  so  universally  re- 
ceived, has  been,  I  say,  as  universally 
evaded.  The  classic  mythologies  of 
paganism  did,  indeed,  teach  that  there 
were  infernal  regions  ;  but  few  were 
doomed  to  them :  and  for  those  few, 
who,  failing  of  the  rites  of  sepulture,  or 
of  some  other  ceremonial  qualification, 
were  liable  to  that  doom,  an  escape  was 
provided  by  their  wandering  on  the 
banks  of  the  Styx  awhile,  as  prepara- 
tory to  their  entering  Elysium.  So,  too, 
the  creed  of  the  Catholics,  though  it 
spoke  of  hell,  had  also  its  purgatory  to 
soften  the  horrors  of  retribution.  And 
now  there  are,  as  I  think,  among  the 
body  of  Protestants,  certain  speculative, 
or  rather  may  I  say  mechanical,  views 
of  the  future  state,  and  of  the  prepara- 
tion for  it,  and  of  the  principles  of  mercy 
in  its  allotments,  that  tend  to  let  down 
the  strictness  of  that  law  which  forever 
binds  us  to  the  retributive  future. 

Is  it  not  a  question,  let  me  barely  ask 
in  passing,  whether  this  universal  eva- 
sion does  not  show  that  the  universal 
belief  has  been  extravagant  ;  whether 
men  have   not   believed   too   much,  to 


believe  it  strictly  and  specifically  to  its 
minutest  point  ?  It  certainly  is  a  very 
striking  fact,  that  wliile  the  popular 
creed  teaches  that  almost  the  whole  liv- 
ing world  is  going  down  to  everlasting 
torments,  the  popular  sympathy  inter- 
poses to  save  from  thai  doom  almost 
the  whole  dying  world. 

But,  not  to  dwell  on  this  observation, 
I  shall  proceed  now  briefly  to  consider 
some  of  those  modern  views  which  de- 
tract from  the  strictne:^s  of  the  law  of 
retribution. 

And  the  first  which  I  shall  notice 
is  the  view  of  the  actual  scene  of  retri- 
bution as  consisting  of  two  conditions 
entirely  opposite  and  altogether  differ- 
ent. Mankind,  according  to  this  view, 
are  divided  into  two  distinct  classes  ; 
the  one  of  which  is  to  enjoy  infinite 
happiness,  and  the  other  to  suffer  infi- 
nite misery.  It  is  a  far  stronger  case 
than  would  be  made  by  the  supposition 
that  man's  varied  efforts  to  gain  worldly 
good  were  to  be  rewarded  by  assigning 
to  one  portion  of  the  race  boundless 
wealth,  and  to  the  other  absolute  pov- 
erty ;  for  it  is  infinite  happiness  on  the 
one  hand,  and,  not  the  bare  destitution 
of  it,  but  infinite  misery  on  the  other. 

Let  me  observe,  before  I  proceed 
farther  to  point  out  what  I  consider  to 
be  the  defect  which  attends  this  popular 
view  of  retribution,  that  the  view  itself  is 
not  warranted  by  Scripture.  The  Bible 
teaches  us  that  virtue  will  be  rewarded 
and  sin  punished;  that  the  good  shall 
receive  good,  and  the  evil  shall  receive 
evil ;  and  that  is  all  that  it  teaches  us. 
It  unfolds  to  us  this  simple  and  solemn 
and  purely  spiritual  issue,  and  nothing 
more. 

All  else  is  figurative  ;  and  so  the  most 
learned  interpreters  have  generally 
agreed  to  consider  it.  It  is  obvious 
that  representations  of  what  passes  in 
the  future  world,  taken  from  the  present 
world,  must  be  of  this  character.  When 
heaven  is  represented  as  a  city,  and  hell 
as  a  deep  abyss,  and  Christ  is  described 
as  coming  to  judgment  on  a  throne, 
with  the  state  and  splendor  of  an  Orien- 


13 


194 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


tal  monarch,  and  separating —  in  form 
and  visibly  separating  —  tlie  righteous 
from  the  wicked,  we  know  that  these  rep- 
resentations are  figurative  descriptions 
of  a  single  and  simple  fact ;  and  this  fact 
is,  and  this  is  the  whole  of  tlie  fact  that 
is  taught  us,  that  a  distinction  will  be 
made  between  good  men  and  bad  men  : 
and  that  they  will  be  rewarded  or  pun- 
ished hereafter  according  to  the  charac- 
ter they  have  formed  and  sustained  here. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  too,  in  appeal- 
ing to  the  Scriptures,  that  there  are 
other  teachings  in  them  than  those 
which  are  figurative,  and  teachings 
which  bind  us  tar  more  to  the  letter. 
It  is  written,  that  whatsoever  a  man 
soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap ;  and 
that  God  will  render  unto  every  man 
according  to  his  deeds  ;  i.  e.  according 
to  his  character,  as  by  deeds  is  doubtless 
meant  in  this  instance. 

But  now  to  return  to  the  view  already 
stated,  I  maintain  that  the  boundless 
distinction  wliich  it  makes  in  the  state 
of  the  future  life  is  not  rendering  unto 
men  according  to  their  deeds  ;  that  is 
to  say,  according  to  their  character. 
Because  of  this  character  there  are 
many  diversities,  and  degrees,  and 
shades.  Men  differ  in  virtue  precisely 
as  they  differ  in  intelligence  ;  by  just  as 
many  and  imperceptible  degrees.  As 
many  as  are  the  diversities  of  moral 
education  in  the  world,  as  numerous  as 
are  the  shades  of  circumstance  in  life, 
as  various  as  are  the  degrees  of  moral 
capacity  and  effort  in  various  minds,  so 
must  the  results  differ.  If  character 
were  formed  by  machinery,  there  might 
be  but  two  samples.  But  if  it  is  formed 
by  voluntary  ai^ency,  the  results  must 
be  as  diversified  and  complicated  as  the 
operations  of  that  agency.  And  the  fact, 
which  every  man's  observation  must 
show  him,  undoubtedly  is,  that  virtue 
in  men  differs  just  as  intelligence  does  ; 
differs,  I  repeat,  by  just  as  many  and 
imperceptible  degrees.  But  now  sup- 
pose that  men  were  to  be  rewarded  for 
their  intelligence  hereafter.  Would  all 
the  immense  variety  of  cases  be  met  by 


two  totally  different  and  opposite  allot- 
ments.? lake  the  scale  of  character, 
and  mark  on  it  all  the  degrees  of  dif- 
ference, and  all  the  divisions  of  a  degree. 
Now  what  point  on  the  scale  will  you 
select,  at  which  to  make  the  infinite 
difference  of  allotments  ?  Select  it 
where  you  will,  and  there  wilb  be  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  degree  above,  re- 
Avarded  with  perfect  happiness,  and  a 
thousandth  part  of  a  degree  below, 
doomed  to  perfect  misery.  Would  this 
be  right,  with  regard  to  the  intelligence, 
or  virtue  of  men.'' 

We  are  misled  on  this  subject  by  that 
loose  and  inaccurate  division  of  man- 
kind, which  is  common,  into  the  two  class- 
es of  "  saints  and  sinners."  We  might 
as  well  say  that  all  men  are  either  strong 
or  weak,  wise  or  foolish,  intellectual  or 
sensual.  So  they  are,  in  a  general 
sense  ;  but  not  in  a  sense  that  excludes 
all  discrimination.  And  the  language 
of  the  Bible,  when  it  speaks  of  the  good 
and  bad,  of  the  righteous  and  wicked, 
is  to  be  understood  with  the  same  rea- 
sonable discrimination,  with  the  same 
reasonable  qualification  of  its  meaning, 
as  when  it  speaks  of  the  rich  and  poor. 
The  truth  is,  the  matter  of  fact  is,  that 
from  the  highest  point  of  virtue  to  the 
lowest  point  of  wickedness  there  are,  I 
repeat,  innumerable  steps  ;  and  men 
are  standing  upon  all  these  steps  ;  they 
are  actually  found  in  all  these  gradations 
of  character.  'Now  to  render  to  sucli 
beings  according  to  their  character,  is 
not  to  appoint  to  them  two  totally  dis- 
tinct and  opposite  allotments,  but  just  as 
many  allotments  as  there  are  shades  of 
moral  difference  between  them. 

But  does  not  the  Bible  speak  of  two 
distinct  classes  of  men  as  amenable  to 
the  judgment,  and  of  but  ivio  ;  and  does 
it  not  say  of  the  one  class,  "These  shall 
go  away  into  everlasting  fire,"  and  of  the 
otlier,  "but  the  righteous  into  life  eter- 
nal"? Certainly  it  does.  And  so  do  we 
constantly  say  that  the  good  shall  be 
happy  and  the  bad  shall  be  miserable,  in 
the  coming  world.  But  do  we,  or  does 
the  Bible,  intend  to  speak  without  any 


THE    LAW    OF    RETRIBUTION. 


195 


discrimination  ?  Especially,  can  the 
omniscient  scrutiny  and  the  unerring 
rule  be  supposed  to  overlook  any,  even 
the  slightest,  dilTerences  and  the  most 
delicate  shades  of  character?  On  the 
contrary,  we  are  told  that  '"  one  star  di£- 
fereth  from  another  in  glory  ;  "  and  we  are 
told  that  there  is  a  "  lowest  hell  :  "  and 
we  are  led  to  admit  that  in  the  allotments 
of  retributive  justice,  the  best  among 
bad  men,  and  the  worst  amonggood  men, 
may  come  as  near  to  each  other  in  con- 
dition as  they  come  in  character. 

I  am  not  saying,  let  it  be  observed, 
that  the  difference,  even  in  this  case,  is 
unimportant;  still  less  that  is  so  in  gen- 
eral. Nay,  and  the  difference  between 
the  states  of  the  very  good  man  and  of 
the  very  bad  man  may  indeed  be  as 
great  as  any  theory  supposes  ;  it  may  be 
mucli  greater,  in  fact,  than  any  man's  im- 
agination conceives  ;  but  this  is  not  the 
only  difference  that  is  to  be  brought  into 
the  final  account ;  for  there  are  many  in- 
termediate ranks  between  the  best  and 
the  worst.  I  say  that  the  difference  of 
allotment  may,  nay,  and  that  it  must,  be 
great.  The  truly  good  man,  the  devoted 
Christian,  shall  doubtless  experience  a 
happiness  beyond  his  utmost  expecta- 
tion. The  bad  man,  the  self-indulgent, 
the  self-ruined  man,  will  doubtless  find 
his  doom  severer  than  he  had  looked 
for.  I  say  not  what  it  may  be.  But 
this,  at  least,  we  may  be  sure  of,  that 
the  consequences  both  of  good  and  bad 
conduct  will  be  more  serious,  will  strike 
deeper,  than  we  are  likely,  amidst  the 
gross  and  dim  perceptions  of  sense,  to 
comprehend. 

But  this  is  not  the  point  which  I  am 
at  present  arguing.  It  is  not  the  extent 
of  the  consequences,  but  it  is  the  strict 
and  discriminating  impartiality  which 
shall  measure  out  those  affecting  re- 
sults ;  it  is  the  strict  law  by  which  every 
man  shall  reap  the  fruits  of  that  which 
he  sows.  And  I  say  that  the  artificial, 
imaginative,  and,  as  I  think,  unauthor- 
ized ideas  which  prevail  witli  regard  to 
a  future  life  let  down  the  strictness  of 
the  law. 


Let  me  now  illustrate  this  by  a  single 
supposition.  Suppose  that  you  were  to 
live  in  tJiis  world  one  thousand  or  ten 
thousand  years  ;  and  suppose,  too,  that 
you  felt  that  every  present  moment  was 
a  probation  for  every  future  moment  ; 
and  that  in  order  to  be  happy  you  must 
be  pure  ;  that  every  fault,  every  wrong 
habit  of  life  or  feeling,  would  tend  and 
would  continue  to  make  you  unhapp}-, 
till  it  was  faithfully  and  effectually  cor- 
rected ;  and  corrected  by  yourself,  not 
by  the  hand  of  death,  not  by  the  exchange 
of  worlds.  Suppose  yourself  to  entertain 
the  conviction,  that  if  you  plunged  into 
self-indulgence  and  sin,  diseases  and 
distempers  and  woes  would  accumulate 
upon  you  —  with  no  friendly  interposi- 
tion or  rescue,  no  all-healing  nostrum, 
no  medicine  of  sovereign  and  miraculous 
efiicacy  to  save  —  that  diseases,  I  say, 
and  distempers  and  woes  would  accu- 
mulate upon  you,  in  dark  and  darkening 
forms,  for  a  thousand  years.  Suppose 
that  every  evil  passion,  anger  or  avarice 
or  envy  or  selfishness  in  any  of  its  forms, 
would,  unless  resisted  and  overcome, 
make  you  more  and  more  miserable,  for 
a  thousand  years.  I  say  that  such  a 
prospect,  limited  as  it  is  in  comparison, 
would  be  more  impressive  and  salutary, 
a  more  powerful  restraint  upon  sin,  a 
more  powerful  stimulus  to  improvement, 
than  the'  prospect,  as  it  is  usually  con- 
templated, of  the  retributions  of  eternity  ! 
Are  we  then  making  all  that  we  ought  to 
make,  of  the  prospect  of  an  eternal  retri- 
bution ?  God's  justice  will  be  as  strict 
tliere  as  it  is  here.  And  although  bod- 
ily diseases  may  not  accumulate  upon 
us  there,  }'et  the  diseases  of  the  soul,  if 
we  take  not  heed  to  them ,  will  accumulate 
upon  us  ;  and  he  who  has  only  one  degree 
of  purity  and  ten  degrees  of  sin  in  him 
must  not  lay  that  flattering  unction  to  his 
soul,  that  death  will  '"wash  out  the  long 
arrears  of  guilt.''  I  know  that  this  is  a  doc- 
trine of  unbending  strictness,  a  doctrine, 
I  had  almost  said,  insufferably  strict ; 
but  I  believe  that  it  is  altogether  true. 

"But,"  some  one  may  say,  "if  I  am 
converted ;  if  I    have   repented   of  my 


196 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


sins,  and  believed  on  the  Lord  Jesus 
Clirist,  then  I  have  the  assurance, 
through  God's  mercy,  of  pardon  and 
heaven." 

This  statement  embraces  the  other 
doctrinal  evasion  of  the  law  of  retribution 
which  I  propos;d  to  consider.  And  I 
must  venture  to  express  the  apprehen- 
sion that,  by  those  who  answer  thus  to 
the  strict  and  unaccommodating  demand 
of  inwrought  purity,  neither  conversion, 
nor  repentance,  nor  the  mercy  of  God, 
are  understood  as  they  ought  to  be. 

A  man  says,  "  I  am  not  to  be  judged 
by  the  law,  but  by  the  Gospel."  But 
when  he  says  that,  let  me  tell  him,  he 
should  take  care  to  know  what  he  says 
and  whereof  he  affirms.  The  difference 
between  the  Law  and  the  Gospel,  I  be- 
lieve, is  much  misapprehended  in  tliis 
respect.  The  Gospel  is  not  a  more 
easy,  not  a  more  lax  rule  to  walk  by, 
but  only  a  more  encouraging  rule.  The 
Law  demands  rectitude,  and  declares 
that  the  sinner  deserves  the  miseries  of 
a  future  life ;  and  there  it  stops,  and  of 
course  it  leaves  the  offender  in  despair. 
The  Gospel  comes  in,  and  it  did  come 
in,  with  its  teaching  and  prophetic  sacri- 
fices, even  amidst  the  thunders  of  Sinai, 
saying.  If  thou  wilt  repent  and  believe, 
if  thou  wilt  embrace  the  faith  and  spirit 
of  the  all-humbling  and  all-redeeming  re- 
hgion,  the  way  to  happiness  is  still  open. 
But  does  the  Gospel  anything  .  more 
than  open  the  way  .''  Does  it  make  the 
way  more  easy,  more  indulgent,  less  self- 
denying  1  Does  it  say.  You  need  not  be 
as  good  as  the  Law  requires,  and  yet 
you  shall  be  none  the  less  happy  for 
all  that  ?  Does  it  say.  You  need  not  do 
as  well,  and  yet  it  shall  be  just  as  well 
with  you?  "Is  Christ  the  minister  of 
sin?  God  forbid  !  "  Nay,  be  it  remem- 
bered that  the  solemn  declaration  upon 
which  we  are  this  day  meditating  — 
"  whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall 
he  also  reap  "  —  is  recorded  not  in  the 
law,  but  in  the  Gospel. 

"  But  if  I  repent,"  it  may  be  said,  "  am 
I  not  forgiven  entirely  ?  "  If  you  repent 
entirely,  you  are  forgiven  entirely ;  and 


not  otherwise.  What  zV  repentance  ?  It 
is  a  change  of  mind.  That,  as  every 
scholar  knows,  is  the  precise  meaning  of 
the  original  word  in  the  Scriptures  which 
is  translated  repentance.  It  is  a  change 
of  mind.  If,  then,  your  repentance,  your 
change  of  mind,  is  entire,  your  forgive- 
ness, your  happiness,  is  complete  ;  but 
on  no  other  principle,  and  in  no  other  pro- 
portion. Sorrow  is  only  one  of  the  in- 
dications of  this  repentance  or  change 
of  heart ;  though  it  has  unfortunately 
usurped,  in  common  use,  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  the  word.  Sorrow  is  not  the  only 
indication  of  repentance  ;  for  joy  as  truly 
springs  from  it.  It  is  not  therefore  the 
bare  fact,  that  you  are  sorry,  however  sin- 
cerely and  disinterestedly  sorry  for  your 
offences,  that  will  deliver  you  from  all 
the  suffering  which  your  sins  and  sinful 
habits  must  occasion.  You  may  be  sorry, 
for  instance,  and  truly  sorry,  for  your  an- 
ger ;  yet  if  the  passion  breaks  out  again, 
it  must  again  give  you  pain  ;  and  it  must 
forever  give  you  pain,  while  it  lives. 
You  may  grieve  for  your  vices.  Does 
that  grief  instantly  stop  the  course  of 
penalty  ?  Will  it  instantly  repair  a  shat- 
tered constitution  ?  You  may  regret,  in 
declining  life,  a  state  of  mind  produced 
by  too  much  devotion  to  worldly  gain,  the 
want  of  intellectual  and  moral  resources 
and  habits.  Will  the  dearth  and  the  des- 
olation depart  from  your  mind  when  that 
regret  enters  it  ?  Will  even  the  tears  of 
repentance  immediately  cause  freshness 
and  verdure  to  spring  up  in  your  path  ? 

"  But,"  it  may  be  said,  once  more, 
"  does  not  all  depend  on  our  being  con- 
verted, or  being  born  again  ?  And  is  not 
conversion,  is  not  the  new  birth,  the 
event  of  a  moment  ?  " 

I  answer,  with  all  the  certainty  of  con- 
viction that  I  am  capable  of  —  no  ;  it  is 
not  the  event  of  a  moment.  That  conver- 
sion which  fits  a  soul  for  heaven  is  tiot 
the  event  of  a  moment.  And,  my  breth- 
ren, I  would  not  answer  thus  in  a  case 
where  there  is  controversy,  if  I  did  not 
think  it  a  matter  of  the  most  serious  im- 
portance. Can  anything  be  more  fatal; 
can   any  one   of  all  loose  doctrines  be 


THE   LAW  OF   RETRIBUTIOiNT. 


197 


more  loose,  than  to  tell  an  offender  who 
is  sjoing  to  the  worst  excesses  in  sin,  that 
he  may  escape  all  the  evil  results,  all  the 
results  of  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  years  of 
self-indulgence,  by  one  instant's  experi- 
ence? Can  any  one  of  us  believe,  dare 
we  believe,  that  one  moment's  virtue  can 
prepare  us  for  the  happiness  of  eternity  ? 
Can  we  believe  this,  especially  when  we 
are,  oh  every  page  of  the  Bible,  com- 
manded to  watch,  and  pray,  and  strive, 
and  labor,  and  by  patient  continuance  in 
well-doing  to  see'<  for  glory,  and  honor, 
and  immortality  ;  and  this,  as  the  ex- 
press condition  of  obtaining  eternal  life 
or  happiness  ? 

No,  Christians  !  subjects  of  the  Chris- 
tian law  !  No  conversion,  no  repentance, 
no  mercy  of  heaven,  will  save  you  from 
the  final  operation  of  that  sentence,  or 
should  save  you  from  its  warning  now  ; 
"Be  not  deceived,"  —  as  if  there  was 
special  danger  of  being  deceived  here, — 
"be  not  deceived  ;  God  is  not  mocked  ; 
for  whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall 
he  also  reap  :  he  that  soweth  to  the  flesh, 
shall  of  his  flesh  reap  corruption  ;  but 
he  that  soweth  to  the  spirit,  shall  of  the 
spirit  reap  life  everlasting." 

It  is  a  high,  and  strict,  I  had  almost 
said,  a  terrible,  discrimination.  Yet  let 
us  bring  it  home  to  our  hearts,  although 
it  be  as  a  sword  to  cut  off  some  cher- 
ished sin.  Oh  !  this  miserable  and 
slavish  folly  of  inquiring  whether  we 
have  enough  piety  and  virtue  to  save  us  ! 
Do  men  ever  talk  thus  about  the  acqui- 
sition of  riches  or  honors  ?  Do  they 
act  as  if  all  their  solicitude  was  to  ascer- 
tain, and  to  stop  at,  the  point  that  would 
just  save  them  from  want,  or  secure 
them  from  disgrace  .''  "  Enough  virtue 
to  save  you,"  do  you  say?  The  very 
question  shows  that  you  have  not 
enough.  It  shows  that  your  views  of 
salvation  are  yet  technical  and  narrow, 
if  not  selfish.  It  shows  that  all  your 
thoughts  of  retribution  yet  turn  to  solici- 
tude and  apprehension. 

The  law  of  retribution  is  the  law  of 
God's  goodness.  It  addresses  not  only 
the  fear  of  sin,  but  the  love  of  improve- 


ment. Its  grand  requisition  is  that  of 
progress.  It  urges  us  at  every  step 
to  press  forward.  And  however  many 
steps  we  may  have  taken,  it  urges  us 
to  take  still  another  and  another,  by 
the  same  pressing  reason  with  which  it 
urged  us  to  take  the  first  step. 

Yes,  by  the  same  pressing  reason. 
Let  him  who  thinks  himself  a  good  man, 
who  thinks  that  he  is  converted  and  on 
the  right  side  and  in  the  safe  state,  and 
who,  nevertheless,  from  this  false  rea- 
soning and  this  presumptuous  security 
indulges  in  little  sins,  irritability,  covet- 
ousness,  or  worldly  pride  ;  let  him  know 
that  his  doom  shall  he  hereafter,  and  is 
now,  a  i/ud  of  hell,  compared  with  the 
blessedness  in  stor5  for  loftier  virtue  and 
holier  piety ;  and  let  him  know,  too, 
that  compared  with  that  loftier  stan- 
dard he  has  almost  as  much  reason  tr 
tremble  for  himself  as  the  poor  sinne 
he  looks  down  upon.  For  if  woes  are 
denounced  against  the  impenitent  sin- 
ner, so  are  woes  denounced,  in  terms 
scarcely  less  awful,  against  the  secure 
lukewarm  negligent  Christian.  God  is 
no  respecter  of  persor>s  nor  of  profes- 
sions. It  is  written  that  he  will  rende? 
to  every  man  according  to  his  deeds.  \\ 
is  written,  too,  that  "  whatsoever  a  man 
soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

I  repeat  that  language  of  fearful  dis- 
crimination, "  whatsoever  —  a  man  sow- 
eth, that,  not  something  else  —  that^ 
shall  he  also  reapy  That  which  you 
are  doing ;  be  it  good  or  evil,  be  it 
grave  or  gay ;  that  which  you  are  doing 
to-day  and  to-morrow,  each  thought, 
each  feeling,  each  action,  each  event  ; 
every  passing  hour,  every  breathing 
moment,  is  contributing  to  form  the 
character  by  which  you  are  to  be  judged. 
Every  particle  of  influence  that  goes 
to  form  that  aggregate,  your  character, 
shall,  in  that  future  scrutiny,  be  sifted 
out  from  the  mass,  and  shall  fall  particle 
by  particle,  with  ages  perhaps  interven- 
ing,—  shall  fall  a  distinct  contribution 
to  the  sum  of  your  joys  or  your  woes. 
Thus  every  idle  word,  every  idle  hour, 
shall   give    answer    in    the    judgment. 


198 


ON    THE    NATURE    OF    RELIGION. 


Think  not,  against  the  closeness  and 
severity  of  this  inquisition,  to  put  up 
any  barrier  of  theological  speculation. 
Conversion,  repentance,  pardon,  —  mean 
they  what  they  will,  —  mean  nothing 
that  will  save  you  from  reaping,  down 
to  the  very  root  and  ground  of  good 
or  evil,  that  which  you  have  sowed. 
Think  not  to  wrap  that  future  world  in 
any  blackness  of  darkness,  or  any  folding 
flames  ;  as  if,  for  the  imagination  to  be 
alarmed,  were  all  you  had  to  feel  or  fear. 
Clearly,  distinctly  shall  the  voice  of  accu- 
sation fall  upon  the  guilty  ear  ;  as  when 
upon  earth,  the  man  of  crime  comes 
reluctantly  forth  from  his  hiding-place, 
and  stands  at  the  bar  of  his  country's 
justice,  and  the  voices  of  his  associates 
say,  "  Thou  didst  it  !  "  If  there  be  any 
unchangeable,  any  adamantine  fate  in 
the  universe,  this  is  that  fate ;  that 
the  future  shall  forever  bring  forth  the 
fruits  of  the  past. 

Take  care,  then,  what  thou  sowest, 
as  if  thou  wert  taking  care  for  eternity. 
That  sowing,  of  which  the  Scripture 
speaketh,  what  is  it  ?  Yesterday,  per- 
haps, some  evil -temptation  came  upon 
you  ;  the  opportunity  of  unrighteous 
gain,  or  of  unhallowed  indulgence, 
either  in  the  sphere  of  business  or 
of  pleasure,  of  society  or  of  solitude. 
If  you  yielded  to  it,  then  and  there 
did  you  plant  a  seed  of  bitterness 
and  sorrow.  To-morrow,  it  may  be, 
will  threaten  discovery  ;  and  agitated, 
alarmed,  you  will  cover  the  sin,  and 
bury  it  deeper  in  falsehood  and  hypoc- 
risy. In  the  hiding  bosom,  in  the 
fruitful  soil  of  kindred  vices,  that  sin 
dies  not,  but  thrives  and  grows  ;  and 
other  and  still  other  germs  of  evil 
gather  around  the  accursed  root,  till 
from  that  single  seed  of  corruption 
there  springs  up  in  the  soul  all  that 
is  horrible  in  habitual  lying,  knavery, 
or  vice.  Long  before  such  a  life  comes 
to  its  close,  its  poor  victim  may  have 
advanced  within  the  very  precincts  of 
hell.  Yes,  the  hell  of  debt,  of  disease, 
of  ignominy,  or  of  remorse,  may  gather 
its    shadows   around   the   steps   of   the 


transgressor  even  on  earth  ;  and  yet 
these,  —  if  holy  Scripture  be  unerring, 
and  sure  experience  be  prophetic,  — 
these  are  but  the  beginnings  of  sor- 
rows. The  evil  deed  may  be  done,  alas  ! 
in  a  moment,  in  one  fatal  moment ;  but 
conscience  never  dies  ;  memory  never 
sleeps:  guilt  never  can  become  inno- 
cence ;  and  remorse  can  never,  never 
whisper  peace.  Pardon  may  come  from 
heaven  ;  but  self-forgiveness,  when  will 
it  come.'' 

Beware,  then,  thou  who  art  tempted 
to  evil  —  and  every  being  before  me  is 
tempted  to  evil. —  beware  what  thou  lay- 
est  up  for  the  future  ;  beware  what  thou 
layest  up  in  the  archives  of  eternity. 
Thou  who  wouldst  wrong  thy  neighbor, 
beware  !  lest  the  thought  of  that  injured 
man,  wounded  and  suffering  from  thine 
injury,  be  a  pang  which  long  years  may 
not  deprive  of  its  bitterness.  Thou  who 
wouldst  break  into  the  house  of  inno- 
cence and  rifle  it  of  its  treasure,  be- 
ware !  lest,  when  many  years  have 
passed  over  thee,  the  moan  of  its  dis- 
tress may  not  have  died  away  from 
thine  ear.  Thou  who  wouldst  build  the 
desolate  throne  of  ambition  in  thy  heart, 
beware  what  thou  art  doing  with  all  thy 
devices,  and  circumventings,  and  selfish 
schemings  !  lest  desolation  and  loneli- 
ness be  on  thy  path  as  it  stretches  into 
the  long  futurity.  Thou,  in  fine,  who 
art  living  a  negligent  and  irreligious 
life,  beware !  beware  how  thou  livest ; 
for  bound  up  with  that  life  is  the  immu- 
table principle  of  an  endless  retribution  ; 
bound  up  with  that  life  are  elements  of 
God's  creating,  which  shall  never  spend 
their  force;  which  shall  be  unfolding 
and  unfolding  with  the  ages  of  eternity. 
Beware  !  I  say  once  more,  and  be  not 
deceived.  Be  not  deceived ;  God  is  not 
mocked ;  God,  who  has  formed  thy  na- 
ture thus  to  answer  to  the  future,  is  not 
mocked  ;  his  law  can  never  be  abro- 
gated ;  his  justice  can  never  be  eluded; 
beware,  then,  be  forewarned ;  since  for- 
ever, and  forever  will  it  be  true,  that 
whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he 
also  reap ! 


THE   LAW  OF   RETRIBUTION. 


199 


V. 

THE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 

Galatians  vi.  7  :  "  Be  not  deceived;  God  is  not 
mocked :  for  whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall 
he  also  reap." 

The  views  which  are  usually  pre- 
sented of  a  future  retribution  are  char- 
acterized, as  I  have  observed  in  my  last 
discourse,  rather  by  strength  than  by 
strictness  of  representation.  The  great 
evil  attending  the  common  statements 
of  this  doctrine,  I  shall  now  venture  to 
say,  is  not,  that  they  are  too  alarming. 
Men  are  not  enough  alarmed  at  the 
dangers  of  a  sinful  course.  No  men 
are ;  no  men,  though  they  sit  under  the 
most  terrifying  dispensation  of  preach- 
ing that  ever  was  devised.  But  the  evil 
is,  that  alarm  is  addressed  too  much  to 
the  imagination,  and  too  little  to  the  rea- 
son and  conscience.  Neither  Whitfield, 
nor  Baxter,  nor  Edwards,  —  though  the 
horror  produced  by  his  celebrated  ser- 
mon "on  the  justice  of  God  in  the 
damnation  of  sinners "  is  a  matter  of 
tradition  in  New  England,  to  this  very 
day, —  yet  no  one  of  them  ever  preached 
too  much  terror,  though  they  may  have 
preached  it  too  exclusively  ;  but  the  evil 
was  that  they  preached  terror,  I  repeat, 
too  much  to  the  imagination,  and  too 
little  to  the  reason  and  conscience.  Of 
mere  fright,  there  may  be  too  much  ; 
but  of  real,  rational  fear,  there  never 
can  be  too  much.  Sin,  vice,  a  corrupt 
mind,  a  guilty  life,  and  the  woes  natu- 
rally flowing  from  these,  never  can  be 
too  much  dreaded.  It  is  one  thing,  for 
the  preacher  to  deal  in  mathematical  cal- 
culations of  infinite  suffering,  to  dwell 
upon  the  eternity  of  hell-torments,  to 
speak  of  literal  fires,  and  of  burning  in 
them  forever  ;  and  with  these  repre- 
sentations, it  is  easy  to  scare  the  imagi- 
nation, to  awaken  horror,  and  a  horror 
so  great  as  to  be  at  war  with  the  clear, 
calm,  and  faithful  discriminations  of  con- 
science. With  such  means,  it  is  easy  to 
produce  a  great  excitement  in  the  mind. 
But  he  who  should,  or  who  could^  unveil 
the  realities  of  a  strict  and  spiritual  ret- 


ribution, show  what  every  sinner  loses, 
show  what  every  sinner  must  suffer, 
in  and  through  the  very  character  he 
forms,  show,  too,  how  bitterly  every 
good  man  must  sorrow  for  every  sin, 
here  or  hereafter,  show,  in  fine,  what 
sin  is,  and  forever  must  be,  to  an  im- 
mortal nature,  would  make  an  impres- 
sion more  deep,  and  sober,  and  etfectual. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  at  present  to  at- 
tempt any  detail  of  this  nature,  though 
I  shall  be  governed  by  the  observations  I 
have  made,  in  the  views  which  I  am 
to  present,  and  for  which  I  venture  to  ask 
a  rational,  and  calm,  and  most  serious 
consideration. 

This  future  is  to  answer  for  the  pres- 
ent. This  is  the  great  law  of  retribu- 
tion. And  so  obviously  necessary  and 
just  is  it ;  so  evidently  does  our  char- 
acter create  our  welfare  or  woe ;  st>. 
certainly  must  it  give  us  pain  or  pleas- 
ure, as  long  as  it  goes  with  us,  whether 
in  this  world  or  another  world,  that  it 
seems  less  requisite  to  support  the  doc- 
trine by  argument,  than  to  save  it  from 
evasions. 

There  are  such  evasions.  No  theol- 
ogy has  yet  come  up  to  the  strict- 
ness of  this  law.  It  is  still  more  true, 
that  no  practice  has  yet  come  up  to  it. 
There  are  theoretical  evasions ;  and  I 
tKink  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  views 
which  are  often  presented  of  conver- 
sion and  repentance,  and  of  God's 
mercy  and  the  actual  scenes  of  retribu- 
tion ;  but  there  is  one  practical  evasion, 
one  into  which  the  whole  world  has  fall- 
en, and  so  dangerous,  so  momentous  in 
its  danger,  that  it  may  well  deserve,  for 
one  season  of  meditation,  I  believe,  to 
engross  our  entire  and  undivided  atten- 
tion. 

This  grand  evasion,  this  great  and 
fatal  mistake,  may  be  stated  in  general 
terms  to  be,  the  substitiition  of  some- 
thing as  a  preparation  for  future  happi- 
ness, in  place  of  devoting  the  whole  life 
to  it ;  or  to  a  course  which  is  fitted  to 
procure  it.  This  evasion  takes  the 
particular  form,  perhaps,  of  an  expecta- 
tion that  some  sudden  and  extraordinary 


200 


ON   THE   NATURP:   OF  RELIGION. 


experience  may,  at  a  future  time,  accom- 
plish what  is  necessary  to  prepare  the 
mind  for  happiness  and  heaven;  or  that 
certain  circumstances,  such  as  sickness 
and  affliction,  may,  at  some  subsequent 
period  of  life,  force  the  growth  of  that 
which  is  not  cultivated  now,  and  may 
thus  remedy  the  fearful  and  fatal  neglect ; 
or  it  is  an  expectation  —  and  this  is  the 
most  prevalent  form  of  the  error  —  that 
old  age  or  death,  when  it  comes,  will  have 
power  to  penetrate  the  heart  with  emo- 
tion, and  subdue  it  to  repentance,  and 
prepare  it  for  heaven.  The  subject, 
yet,  it*must  be  feared  to  be  the  victim, 
of  this  stupendous  error  is  convinced 
that,  in  order  to  be  happy  eventually,  he 
must  become  pure ;  there  is  no  princi- 
ple of  indulgence,  there  is  no  gospel  of 
mercy,  that  can  absolve  him  from  that 
necessity  ;  he  must  become  pure  ;  he 
must  be  pious ;  his  nature  must  be 
exalted  and  refined.  It  is  his  nature, 
his  mind,  that  is  to  be  happy;  and 
he  is  convinced  by  experience  that  his 
mind  must  be  cultivated,  purified,  pre- 
pared, for  that  end.  But  he  is  not  doing 
this  work  to-day,  nor  does  he  expect  to 
do  it  to-morrow;  he  is  not  doing  it  this 
month,  nor  does  he  expect  to  do  it  next 
month  ;  he  is  not  doing  it  this  year,  nor 
does  he  in  particular  expect  to  do  it  next 
year ;  and  thus,  month  after  month  antl 
year  after  year  are  passing,  and  one  sea- 
son of  life  after  another  is  stealing  away  : 
and  the  only  hope  is,  that  in  some  tre- 
mendous exigency,  or  by  some  violent 
paroxysm,  when  fear  and  remorse  and 
disease  and  death  are  darkly  struggling 
together,  that  may  be  done  for  which 
the  whole  previous  course  of  life  has 
not  been  found  sufficient. 

But  is  it  true,- — for  I  am  willing  to 
pause  at  this  point,  and  deliberately  to 
consider  the  question,  —  is  it  true,  can  it 
be  true,  some  one  may  ask,  that  a  mis- 
take so  gross,  so  irrational,  so  at  war 
with  all  that  we  know  about  character, 
about  its  formation,  and  its  necessary 
results,  —  can  it  be  true,  that  such  a  mis- 
take about  the  whole  vast  concern  of  our 
happiness  is  actually  made  by  any  of  us  ? 


Can  it  be,  you  will  say,  that  men,  with 
reason  and  experience  and  Scripture  to 
guide  them  ;  can  it  be  that  men,  in  their 
senses,  are  substituting  in  place  of  that 
deliberate  formation  of  their  character 
for  happiness  for  which  life  is  given, 
some  brief  preparation  for  it  at  a  future 
period,  and  especially  at  the  last  period 
of  their  lives.'' 

I  am  persuaded  that  it  is  true,  my 
brethren,  however  strange  ;  and  these 
are  the  considerations  that  convince  me 
of  it. 

In  the  first  place,  there  are  multitudes 
around  us  that  hope  and  expect  to  be 
happy  hereafter,  who  are  conscious  that 
they  are  not  preparing  for  it  ;  who  ac- 
knowledge, at  every  successive  stage  of 
life,  that  if  they  were  instantly  to  die, 
without  any  further  opportunity  to  pre- 
pare for  it,  there  would  be  little  or  no 
hope  for  them  ;  who  feel  that,  if  the  very 
character  which  they  are  now  every  day 
forming  were  to  go  to  the  judgment, 
their  case  would  be  desperate  ;  who  hope, 
therefore,  most  evidently,  not  to  be 
judged  by  the  prevailing  tenor  of  their 
lives,  but  secretly  expect  to  do  some- 
thing at  last  to  retrieve  the  errors,  the 
follies  and  sins,  which  they  are  now 
daily  committing. 

Again ;  although  it  is  a  common  im- 
l^ression  that  hw\.fcw  live  in  an  habitual 
preparation  for  heaven,  the  impression  is 
almost  as  common  that  but  few  actually 
die  unprepared.  Of  almost  every  indi- 
vidual who  leaves  the  world,  something 
is  told  which  encourages  the  hopes  of 
survivors  concerning  him.  I  stand  be- 
fore you,  my  brethren,  as  a  Christian 
minister,  and  I  solemnly  declare  that, 
familiar  as  I  have  been  with  that  sad  and 
mournful  scene,  the  death  of  the  wicked, 
it  has  almost  invariably  left  this  strange 
and  delusive  hope  behind  it.  Indeed, 
the  extreme  solicitude  with  which  every 
symptom  of  preparation  is  marked  in 
these  circumstances,  the  trembling  anx- 
iety with  which  every  word,  every  look,  is 
caught,  but  too  plainly  indicate  the  same 
impression.  What  the  amount  of  this 
proof  is,  we  will  presently  consider.     It 


THE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 


201 


is  sufficient  at  this  point  of  the  inquiry 
to  state  that  it  is  collected  and  arranged 
as  carefully,  and  offered  as  confidently, 
as  if  it  were  material  ;  that  it  encourages 
those  who  repeat  and  those  who  hear  it : 
that  the  instance  of  death  is  very  rare,  in 
which  surviving  friends  do  not  tell  you 
that  the}'  trust  and  believe  that  all  is  well. 
Even  when  a  man  has  led  an  eminently 
pious  life,  many  are  apt  to  feel  as  if  the 
proof  of  his  piety  was  not  consummated, 
unless  he  had  died  a  happy  and  trium- 
phant death  ;  as  though  it  were  to  be  not 
only  desired,  but  demanded  as  a  matter 
of  course,  that  in  feebleness  and  distress 
of  body  and  mind,  and  the  sinking  of  all 
the  faculties,  the  mintl  should  exhibit  its 
utmost  energy  ;  as  if,  amidst  the  cold 
damps  of  death,  the  expiring  flame  of  sen- 
sibility should  rise  the  highest.  It  is  to 
be  feared  that  good  men,  and  with  the 
best  intentions,  no  doubt,  have  yet  given 
great  distress  to  many  faithful  Chris- 
tians, and  done  great  injury  to  others,  by 
countenancing  this  unreasonable  notion. 
The  great  question  is,  not  how  a  good 
man  dies,  but  how  he  has  lived. 

The  third  and  final  reason  which  con- 
vinces me  of  the  prevalence  of  this  mis- 
take, which  I  am  considering,  is  the 
almost  universal  dread  of  sudden  death. 
It  is  not  to  be  denied,  indeed,  that  a 
change  so  great  as  that  of  death,  and 
so  mysterious  too,  is  in  itself,  and  nat- 
urally, fitted  to  awaken  a  feeling  of  ap- 
prehension. But  I  maintain  that  the 
principal  reason  for  this  apprehension 
is  the  fear  of  consequences,  "  the  dread 
of  something  after  death;"  and  that 
there  is  a  vague  hope  in  almost  every 
mind,  that  some  preparation  could  be 
made  at  the  last,  if  only  a  little  time 
were  granted  for  it.  And  indeed,  if  we 
all  entertained  a  settled  conviction  that 
we  are  to  reap  as  we  have  sowed  ;  that 
we  are  to  be  miserable  or  happy  in  the 
other  world  according  to  the  character 
we  have  formed  in  this  ;  that  we  are  to 
be  judged  by  the  life  we  live,  and  not 
by  the  death  we  die;  what  would  it  im- 
port to  us,  whether  we  fell  suddenly  in 
the  paths  of  life,  or  slowly  declined  from 


them  ;  whether  we  sunk  at  once  beneath 
the  stroke  of  an  apoplexy,  or  more  slow- 
ly under  the  attack  of  a  consumption  ? 
Something,  it  would  import  to  us,  no 
doubt,  as  friends  ;  for  we  should  wish  to 
give  our  dying  counsels  ;  but  as  expec- 
tants of  retribution',  what  could  the  time 
of  a  week  or  a  month's  last  sickness 
avail  us  ?  I  will  answer  :  and  I  say,  as 
much,  by  the  most  favorable  supposi- 
tion,—  as  much  as  such  a  space  of  time 
in  any  part  of  life  could  avail  us  ;  and 
no  more. 

Such,  then,  and  so  fearful,  and  proved 
to  be  so  fearful  by  the  plainest  indica- 
tions, is  the  moral  state  of  multitudes. 
Life  is  given  them  for  the  cultivation  of 
a  sacred  virtue,  of  a  lofty  piety,  of  pure 
and  godlike  affections,  as  the  only  way 
to  future  improvement  and  happiness. 
They  are  not  devoting  life  to  this  end  ; 
they  know  they  are  not;  they  confess 
they  are  not  ;  and  their  hope  is  —  yes, 
the  hope  on  which  they  rest  their  whole 
being  is,  that  by  some  hasty  eflfort  or 
paroxysm  of  emotion,  in  the  feeble  and 
helpless  time  of  sickness,  or  in  the  dark 
day  of  death,  they  shall  be  able  to  re- 
deem the  lost  hope  of  a  negligent  life. 
If  only  a  week  or  a  month  of  health 
were  offered  them  to  prepare  ;  if  that 
specific  time,  a  week  or  a  month,  were 
taken  out  from  the  midst  of  life,  and 
they  were  solemnly  told  that  this  must 
be  all  the  time  they  can  have  to  prepare 
for  eternity,  they  would  be  in  despair  ; 
and  yet  they  hope  to  do  this  in  a  month 
or  a  week  of  pain  and  languishment 
and  distracting  agitation.  It  is  as  if  the 
husbandman  should  sport  away  the  sum- 
mer season,  and  then  should  think  to  re- 
trieve his  error  by  planting  his  fields  in 
the  autumn.  It  is  as  if  the  student  should 
trifle  away  the  season  appointed  for  his 
education,  and  then,  when  the  time  came 
for  entering  upon  his  profession,  should 
think  to  make  up  for  his  deficiencies 
by  a  few  weeks  of  violent,  hurried,  and 
irregular  application.  It  shows,  alas ! 
that  the  world,  with  all  its  boasts  of  an 
enlightened  age,  has  not  yet  escaped  the 
fojly  of  those  days  of  superstition,  when 


202 


ON  THE   NATURE   DF   RELIGION. 


the  eucharist  was  administered  to  dying 
persons,  and  was  forcibly  administered, 
if  the  patient  had  no  longer  sense  to  re- 
ceive it ;  or  when  men  deferred  their 
baptism  till  death  ;  as  if  the  future  state 
were  to  depend  on  these  last  ceremonies. 
And  as  well  depend'  on  ceremonies  — 
and  more  consistently  could  we  do  so 
—  as  depend  on  any  momentary  prep- 
aration for  happiness.  As  well  build  a 
church  or  a  monastery  to  atone  for  our 
sins,  as  to  build  that  fabric  of  error  in 
our  imagination. 

It  is  not  for  us,  I  know,  to  limit  the 
Almighty  !  It  is  not  for  us  to  say  that 
he  cannot  change  the  soul  in  the  last  mo- 
ments of  its  stay  on  earth.  But  this  we 
may  fearlessly  say  ;  that  he  does  it,  if  at 
all,  by  a  miraculous  agency,  of  whose 
working  we  can  have  no  conception,  and 
of  whose  results,  by  the  very  supposition, 
we  can  have  no  knowledge. 

I  desire,  my  brethren,  to  state  this 
point  with  all-sufificient  caution.  I  not 
only  do  not  deny  that  God  has  power 
to  convert  the  soul  in  the  last  moments 
of  life,  but  I  do  not  absolutely  deny  that 
there  maybe  some  such  instances  in  the 
passing  away  of  every  generation.  I  do 
not  know,  and  none  of  us  can  know, 
whether  such  miracles  are  performed  or 
not.  It  is  commonly  thought  that  the 
case  recorded  in  Luke's  Gospel,  of  the 
thief  on  the  cross,  is  an  instance  of  this 
nature.  But  I  do  not  think  it  can  be 
pronounced  to  be  such.  We  know  not 
how  much  time  he  may  have  had,  to  re- 
pent and  form  a  new  character.  He 
says,  "We  indeed  suffer  justly;"  but 
the  act  for  which  he  suffered  may  have 
been  a  single  act,  in  which  he  had  fallen 
from  a  generally  good  life.  But  admit 
that  such  interpositions  do  take  place  ; 
is  it  safe  to  rely  upon  them  ?  We  do 
not  know  that  they  do.  We  do  not  know 
that  in  the  passing  away  of  all  the  gen- 
erations of  mankind  there  has  been  one 
such  instance.  Is  it  safe  to  rely,  in  so 
tremendous  a  case,  upon  what  we  do 
not  know,  and  upon  what,  after  all,  may 
never  be  ?  My  object  is  to  show  that  it 
is  not  safe;  and  for  this  purpose  I  shall 


reason  upon  the  general  principle.  The 
general  principle  is,  that  the  future  must 
answer  for  the  present  ;  the  future  of  this 
life  for  the  present  of  this  Hfe  ;  the  next 
month  for  this  month  ;  the  next  year  for 
this  year;  and  in  the  same  way  the  next 
life  for  this  life.  I  say,  then,  that  the 
expectation  of  any  hasty  retrieving  of  a 
bad  month,  of  a  bad  year,  of  a  bad  Hfe, 
is  irrational,  and  unwarrantable,  and 
ought  to  be  considered  as  desperate. 

I.  And  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
this,  I  observe,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  expectation  of  preparing  for  futurity 
hastily,  or  by  any  other  means  than  the 
voluntary  and  deliberate  formation  of 
right  and  virtuous* habits  in  the  mind; 
or  that  the  expectation  of  preparing  for 
death  when  it  comes,  is  opposed  to  the 
professed  import  of  that  Sacred  Volume 
which  gives  law  alike  to  our  hopes  and 
our  fears. 

It  is  opposed  to  the  obvious,  and  the 
professed,  and  the  leading  character  of 
the  Bible.  What  is  that  character  ? 
What  is  the  Bible?  It  is  a  revelation 
of  laws,  motives,  directions,  and  excite- 
ments, to  religious  virtue.  But  all  of 
these  are  useless,  if  this  character  is  to  be 
formed  by  a  miraculous  energy,  at  a  per- 
ilous conjuncture,  or  in  a  last  moment. 
Motives  must  be  contemplated,  direc- 
tions must  be  understood,  excitements 
must  be  felt,  to  be  effectual ;  and  all  this 
must  be  done  deliberately,  must  be 
many  times  repeated,  must  be  combined 
with  diligence  and  patience  and  faith, 
and  must  be  slowly,  as  everything  is 
slowly  wrought  into  the  character,  in  or- 
der to  be  effectual. 

But  it  may  be  said,  "  If  the  rule  is  so 
strict,  where  is  the  mercy  of  the  Gos- 
pel ?"  I  answer,  that  its  very  mercy  is 
engaged  to  make  us  pure;  that  its  mer- 
cy would  be  no  mercy,  if  it  did  not  do 
this  :  and  that,  of  becoming  pure  and 
good,  there  is  but  one  way  ;  and  that  is 
the  way  of  voluntary  effort;  an  effort  to 
be  assisted  by  divine  grace,  indeed,  but 
none  the  less,  on  that  account,  an  ef- 
fort and  an  endeavor,  a  watching  and 
a  striving,  a  conflict  and  a  victory.     I 


THE   LAW    OF   RETRIBUTION. 


203 


answer  again,  that  the  mercy  of  the  Gos- 
pel is  a  moral  and  rational,  a  high  and 
glorious  principle.  It  is  not  a  principle 
of  laxity  in  morals.  It  is  not  a  principle 
of  indulgence  to  the  heart.  It  is  a  mor- 
al principle,  and  not  a  wonder-working 
macliinerv,  by  which  a  man  is  to  be 
lifted  up  and  borne  away  from  guilt  to 
purity,  from  earth  to  heaven,  he  knows 
not  how.  It  offers  to  fabricate  no  wings 
for  the  immortal  flight.  It  is  a  rational 
principle  ;  and  is  not  based  upon  the 
subversion  of  all  the  laws  of  experience 
and  wisdom.  The  Gospel  opens  the 
way  to  heaven,  opens  the  way  to  poor, 
sinful,  ill-deserving  creatures.  Is  not 
that  mercy  enough?  Shall  the  guilty 
and  lost  spurn  that,  and  demand  more  ? 
It  opens  the  way,  I  repeat ;  but  then, 
it  lays  its  instructions,  commands,  and 
warnings,  thickly  upon  that  way.  With 
unnumbered  directions  to  faith,  and  pa- 
tience, and  prayer,  and  toil,  and  self- 
denial,  it  marks  out  every  step  of  that 
way.  It  tells  us,  again  and  again,  that 
such  is  the  way  of  salvation,  and  no 
other.  In  other  words,  it  oflfers  us  hap- 
piness, and  prescribes  the  terms.  And 
those  terms,  if  they  were  of  a  meaner 
character,  if  they  were  low  and  lax,  would 
degrade  even  our  nature,  ahd  we  could 
not  respect  them.  It  would,  in  fact,  be 
no  mercy,  to  natures  like  ours,  to  treat 
them  in  any  other  way. 

In  speaking  of  the  scriptural  repre- 
sentations on  this  subject,  the  parable 
of  "the  laborers  in  the  vineyard  "  may 
probably  occur  to  you  ;  in  which  he 
who  came  at  the  eleventh  hour  received 
as  much  as  he  who  had  borne  the  heat 
and  burden  of  the  day.  I  suppose  the 
parable  has  no  relation  whatever  to  this 
subject.  It  cannot  intend  to  teach  that 
he  who  is  a  Christian  during  his  whole 
life  is  no  more  an  object  of  the  divine 
approbation,  and  is  to  be  no  more  happy, 
than  he  who  is  so  for  a  very  small  part 
of  it.  It  evidently  refers  to  the  intro- 
duction of  the  Christian  dispensation  ; 
it  relates  to  the  Jews  and  Gentiles,  as 
nations  :  meaning  that  the  Gentiles  who 
came   later    into    covenant    with     God 


would  be  as  favorably  received  as  the 
Jews. 

To  interpret  this  parable  as  encour- 
aging men  to  put  off  their  preparation 
for  futurity  till  death,  if  there  were  no 
other  objection,  would  contradict,  I  re- 
peat, all  the  scriptural  information  we 
have  on  this  subject.  This  would  ap- 
pear, if  you  should  carry  to  the  oracles 
of  divine  truth  any  question  whatever 
about  piety,  or  virtue,  or  the  qualifica- 
tion for  heaven.  What  is  piety  itself.'' 
A  momentary  exercise  ;  or  a  habit  ? 
Something  thrown  into  the  heart  in  a 
mass  ;  or  a  state  of  the  heart  itself, 
formed  by  long  effort  and  care  ?  Does 
the  great  qualification  for  heaven  con- 
sist in  one,  two,  or  ten  good  exercises  ; 
or  in  a  good  character  ?  And  to  what  is 
that  judgment  to  relate,  which  will  de- 
cide our  future  condition  ?  "  Who  will 
render,"  says  the  sacred  record,  "  to 
every  man  according  to  his  deeds  !  " 

But  still  further  to  decide  the  ques- 
tion, if  it  can  be  necessary,  let  it  be 
asked,  what  is  that  heaven  of  which  we 
hear  and  say  so  much  ?  What  is  heav- 
en ?  Are  we  still,  like  children,  fancy- 
ing that  heaven  is  a  beautiful  city,  into 
which  one  needs  only  the  powers  of 
locomotion  to  enter  ?  Do  we  not  know 
that  heaven  is  in  the  mind  ;  in  the  great- 
ness and  purity  and  elevation  of  our 
immortal  nature  ?  If  piety  and  virtue, 
then,  are  a  habit  and  state  of  mind 
expressed  and  acted  out  in  a  life  that 
is  holy  ;  if  the  judgment  has  relation  to 
this  alone ;  if  heaven  consist  in  this  ; 
what  hope  can  there  be  in  a  brief  and 
slight  preparation  ? 

II.  No,  my  friends,  the  terms  on 
which  we  receive  happiness,  —  and  I 
now  appeal  to  reason  in  the  second 
place,  —  the  terms  on  which  we  receive 
true,  moral,  satisfying  happiness,  cannot 
be  easy.  They  are  not ;  experience 
shows  that  they  are  not ;  life  shows 
that  they  are  not ;  and  eternity  will  but 
develop  the  same  strict  law  ;  for  it  is 
a  part  of  our  nature  ;  it  is  a  part  of 
the  nature  and  reason  of  things  The 
senses  may   yield  us  such  pleasure  as 


204 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


tliey  can  yield,  without  effort ;  taste 
may  delight  us,  and  imagination  may 
minister  to  us,  in  careless  reverie;  but 
conscience  does  not  offer  to  us  its  hap- 
piness on  such  terms.  I  know  not  what 
may  be  the  law  for  other  beings,  in 
some  other  sphere  ;  but  I  know  that  no 
truly,  morally  happy  being  was  ever 
made  here,  but  through  much  effort, 
long  culture,  frequent  self-denial,  and 
abiding  faith,  patience,  and  prayer.  To 
be  truly  happy  —  what  is  so  difficult  ? 
What  is  so  rare  .''  And  is  heaven,  think 
you,  the  blessed  consummation  of  all 
that  man  can  ask,  to  be  obtained  at  less 
expense  than  it  will  cost  to  gain  one 
pure,  calm  day  upon  earth  ?  For  even 
this  comparatively  trifling  boon,  one 
blessed  day,  one  day  of  religious  joy, 
one  day  of  joy  in  meditation  and  prayer, 
one  day  of  happiness  that  is  spiritual, 
and  not  physical  nor  circumstantial,  — 
even  this  comparatively  shght  boon,  I 
say,  cannot  be  gained  without  long  prep- 
aration of  mind,  and  heart,  and  habit 
There  are  multitudes  around  us  and  of 
us,  to  whom,  at  this  moment,  one  such 
day's  happiness  is  a  thing  just  as  impos- 
sible, as  it  would  be  in  that  day  to  make 
a  world  !  And  shall  they  think  to  escape 
this  very  law  of  happiness  under  which 
they  are  actually  Hving,  and  to  fly  away 
to  heaven  on  the  wings  of  imagination  ? 
—  to  pass  at  once  from  unfaithfulness 
to  reward,  from  apathy  to  ecstasy,  from 
the  neglect  and  dislike  of  prayer  to  the 
blessed  communion  of  heavenly  wor- 
ship, from  this  hour  of  being,  absorbed 
in  sense  and  the  world,  to  an  eternity  of 
spiritual  glory  and  triumph  ?  No  ;  be 
assured  that  facts  are  here,  as  they  are 
everywhere,  worth  more  than  fancies  — 
be  they  those  of  dreaming  visionaries 
or  ingenious  theologians  ;  if  you  are  not 
now  happy  in  penitence,  and  humility, 
and  prayer,  and  the  love  of  God,  you 
are  not  in  fact  prepared  to  be  happy  in 
them  hereafter.  No  ;  between  the  act- 
ual state  of  mind  prevailing  in  many, 
and  the  bliss  of  heaven,  "  there  is  a 
great  gulf  fixed,"  over  which  no  wing 
of   mortal  nor  angel   was  ever   spread. 


No  ;  the  law  of  essential,  enduring,  tri- 
umphant happiness,  is  labor  and  long 
preparation  for  it ;  and  it  is  a  law  which 
will  never,  never — never  be  annulled  ! 

There  is  a  law,  too,  concerning  habits. 
It  is  implied  in  the  following  language  : 
"  Can  the  Ethiopian  change  his  skin,  or 
the  leopard  his  spots  ?  Then  may  those 
who  are  accustomed  to  do  evil,  learn 
to  do  well."  Habit  is  no  slight  bond. 
Slightly  at  first,  and  gently  afterwards, 
may  it  have  drawn  its  silken  cords 
around  us  ;  but  not  so  are  its  bonds  to 
be  cast  from  us ;  nor  can  they,  like  a 
green  withe,  be  broken  by  one  gigantic 
effort.  No,  the  bonds  of  habit  are 
chains  and  fetters,  that  must  be  worn 
off.  Through  the  long  process  of  slow 
and  imperceptible  degrees,  they  must 
be  severed  with  weariness,  and  galling 
and  bitter  anguish. 

"  Can  it  be  supposed,"  says  an  elo- 
quent writer  and  preacher,  "  that,  where 
the  vigor  of  life  has  been  spent  in  the 
establishment  of  vicious  propensities  ; 
where  all  the  vivacity  of  youth,  and  all 
the  soberness  of  manhood,  and  all  the 
wisdom  of  old  age,  have  been  given  to 
the  service  of  sin  ;  where  vice  has  been 
growing  with  the  growth,  and  strength- 
ening with  the  strength  ;  where  it  has 
spread  out  with  the  limbs  of  the  strip- 
ling, and  become  rigid  with  the  fibres  of 
the  aged,  —  can  it,  I  say,  be  supposed 
that  the  labors  of  such  a  life  are  to  be 
overthrown  by  one  last  exertion  of  the 
mind,  impaired  with  disease  ;  by  the  con- 
vulsive exercise  of  an  affrighted  spirit  ; 
or  by  the  inarticulate  and  feeble  sounds 
of  an  expiring  breath  ?  " 

Besides,  the  rule  is  as  equitable  as, 
in  the  divine  ordination  of  things,  it  is 
necessary.  The  judgment  which  or- 
dains that  whatsoever  a  man  soweth, 
that  shall  he  also  reap,  is  a  righteous 
judgment.  It  is  easy,  no  doubt,  to  re- 
gret a  bad  life  when  it  is  just  over. 
When  death  comes,  and  the  man  must 
leave  his  sinful  indulgences  and  pleas- 
ures ;  or  when  he  has  no  longer  any 
capacity  for  jenjoying  them  ;  when  sick- 
ness has  enfeebled  the  appetites,  or  age 


I 


THE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 


205 


L 


has  chilled  the  passions,  then,  indeed,  is 
it  but  a  slight  sacrifice,  and  a  yet  poorer 
merit  in  him,  to  feel  regret.  But  regret, 
let  it  be  considered,  is  not  repentance ! 
And  while  the  former  may  be  easy  and 
almost  involuntary,  the  other,  the  re- 
pentance, may  be  as  hard  as  the  ad- 
verse tendencies  of  a  whole  life  can 
make  it.  Yes,  the  hardest  of  all  things, 
then,  will  be  to  repent.  Yes,  I  repeat, 
that  which  is  relied  upon  to  save  a  man, 
after  the  best  part  of  his  life  has  been 
lost,  has  become,  by  the  very  habits  of 
that  life,  almost  a  moral  impossibility. 

And  the  regret,  the  selfish  regret,  can 
it  be  accepted .''  I  ask  not  if  it  can  be 
accepted  by  our  Maker;  I  doubt  not  his 
infinite  mercy;  but  can  it  be  accepted 
by  our  own  nature  ?  Can  our  nature  be 
purified  by  it?  Can  the  tears  of  that 
dark  hour  of  selfish  sorrow,  or  the  awful 
insensibility  which  no  tear  comes  to  re- 
lieve —  can  either  of  them  purge  away 
from  the  bosom  the  stains  of  a  life  of 
sin  ?  Let  us  never  make  the  fearful  ex- 
periment !  Let  us  not  go  down  to  the  last 
tremendous  scene  of  life,  there,  amidst 
pain  and  distraction,  with  the  work  of 
life  to  do  !  Let  us  not  have  to  acquire 
peace  from  very  terror,  and  hope  from 
very  despair  ;  let  us  not,  thus,  trust  our- 
selves to  a  judgment,  "  that  will  render 
unto  us  according  to  our  deeds  ;  that 
will  render  —  mark  the  explanation  — 
to  them,  who  by  patient  continuance  in 
well-doing,  seek  for  glory,  honor,  and 
immortality,  eternal  life  ;  but  tribulation 
and  anguish  to  every  soul  that  doeth 
evil." 

III.  From  these  views  of  our  subject, 
drawn  from  Scripture  and  reason,  let  me, 
in  the  third  and  last  place,  refer  to  a 
no  less  decisive  consideration,  which  is 
independent  of  them  ;  a  consideration 
fully  borne  out  by  melancholy  facts.  It 
is  this  :  that  every  man  will  die  very 
much  as  he  lives  :  I  mean,  that  in  his 
character,  his  habits  of  feeling,  he  will. 
There  is  not  this  wide  difference  be- 
tween the  living  world  and  the  dying 
world,  which  is  generally  supposed. 
Character,  as  I  have  contended,  and  as 


we  all  see,  indeed,  is  not  formed  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  it  cannot  upon  any  known  law  or 
principle,  —  it  cannot,  but  in  contradic- 
tion to  every  known  law  and  principle, 
be  changed  in  a  moment.  Christiani.ty 
has  introduced  no  law  in  subversion  of 
the  great  laws  of  experience,  and  rational 
motive,  and  moral  action,  or  of  its  own 
established  principles.  Its  doctrine  of 
conversion  is  only  misunderstood  when 
it  is  supposed  to  provide  a  briefer  and 
easier  way  of  preparation  for  heaven 
than  watching  and  striving  and  persever- 
ing in  virtue,  and  patient  continuance  in 
well-doing.  I  say,  therefore,  and  repeat 
the  certain  and  solemn  truth,  that  every 
man  will  die  the  same,  essentially  the 
same,  that  he  has  lived. 

For  the  correctness  of  this  conclusion, 
I  have  soon  to  refer  to  a  single,  and,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  momentous  fact.  But  in 
the  mean  time  let  me  remark  that  there  is 
one  question  here,  which  I  view  with  a 
kind  of  apprehension  I  scarcely  know 
how  to  express  ;  with  almost  a  dread,  for 
once,  to  ask  what  the  simple  truth  is. 

My  brethren,  we  are  sometimes  called 
upon  to  pray  for  a  change  of  heart,  in 
the  sinful  and  neghgent  man,  as  he  is 
drawing  nigh,  in  horror  and  agony,  his 
last  hour  !  It  is  an  awful  situation  even 
to  him  who  only  ministers  at  that  dying 
bed.  What  shall  he  do?  what  can  be 
done.''^ — I  have  asked  myself.  Shall  I 
discourage  prayer,  even  in  the  uttermost 
extremity  .'*  Can  I,  when  I  hear  from 
those  lips,  that  are  soon  to  be  sealed 
in  death,  the  pathethic  entreaty,  "  Oh  ! 
pray  ;  "  can  I  refuse  to  pray  ?  I  do  not  ; 
I  cannot.  Prayer  is  our  duty  ;  events 
are  with  God.  But  I  must  say,  I  will 
say  —  I  will  tell  the  negligent  man  be- 
forehand —  what  I  fear.  I  fear,  I  do 
fear,  that  such  praying  is  nothing  better 
than  the  supplication  of  our  terror  and 
despair"!  I  fear  that  it  is  altogether  an 
irrational  and  unauthorized  praying  !  I 
fear  that  it  is  like  praying  that  guilt, 
and  even  a  whole  life  of  it,  may  feel  no 
enduring  remorse  ;  that  sin  may  not  be 
followed  by  sorrow  ;  that  vice  may  leap 
at  once  to  the  rewards  of  virtue  ;   that 


206 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


the  sword  which  a  man  has  plunged  into 
his  bosom  may  not  wound  him,  or  that 
the  envenomed  draught  he  has  taken 
may  not  poison !  I  fear  that  it  is  as  if 
we  should  take  our  station  on  the  banks 
of  the  mighty  river  that  is  pouring  its 
accumulated  waters  into  the  ocean,  and 
pray  that  they  may  turn  back  to  their 
fountain-head  ;  or  as  if  we  should  gaze 
upon  the  descending  sun  in  heaven,  and 
pray  that  he  may  stand  still  in  his  course  ! 
I  tremble  with  a  strange  misgiving,  as  if 
it  were  a  praying  not  to  God,  but  against 
God! 

For  what  is  this  prayer?  It  cannot 
harm  us  to  make  the  inquiry  now,  before 
that  crisis  comes.  What  is  this  prayer  ? 
\\.  is  a  prayer  that  the  flow  of  moral 
habits  may  turn  back  to  its  source  ;  that 
the  great  course  of  moral  causes  and 
effects  may  all  be  stopped ;  that  the 
great  laws  of  the  moral  universe  may 
all  be  suspended.  It  is  praying  against 
many  a  solemn  declaration  of  Holy  Writ. 
And  will  it  —  I  ask  —  will  the  prayer  be 
heard  "i  Again,  I  tremble  at  that  ques- 
tion ;  again,  my  misgivings  come  over 
me  ;  I  ask,  but  I  know  not  what  to  an- 
swer. I  know,  in  fact — <I  may  conjec- 
ture, and  hope  —  but  I  know  of  no  an- 
swer to  that  awful  question,  unless  it  be 
in  this  more  awful  language  :  "  Be  not 
deceived,"  —  it  sounds  like  a  warning  in 
my  ear, —  "be  not  deceived:  God  is  not 
mocked  :  "  man's  indulgence  may  flatter 
him;  plausible  systems  of  his  own  devis- 
ing may  encourage  him  to  venture  his 
soul  upon  an  easier  way  of  salvation  ; 
and  weaker  bands  than  those  of  almighty 
justice  might  have  been  escaped,  but^ 
"God  is  not  mocked;  for  whatsoever 
a  vnan  soweth," — not  what  he  wishes, 
when  the  seeds  of  sin  are  implanted,  and 
have  sprung  up,  have  grown  to  maturity 
--  I  cannot  read  it  so,  —  but  "  whatsoever 
a  man  soweth,  M«/  shall  he  also  reap." 

Tell  me  not  the  oft-repeated  tale  of  a 
death-bed  repentance.  I  turn  to  it  an 
incredulous  ear.  What  does  it  amount 
to,  even  when  it  comes  with  the  kindest 
testimony  of  partial  affection  ?  Alas  !  it 
is  doubtful,  even  in  its  utmost  latitude. 


and  in  the  moment  when  it  claims  our 
utmost  sympathy.  For  what  is  it.''  It 
is,  that  the  subject  of  this  charitable 
judgment  was  willing  to  die,  when  to 
die  was  inevitable;  that  he  sought  tor 
pardon,  when  he  felt  that  he  must  be 
pardoned  or  perish  in  his  sins  ;  that  he 
prayed,  but  it  was  when  Atheists  have 
prayed;  that  he  hoped;  ah,  he  hoped, 
when  it  had  become  too  terrible  to  ^i 
despair!  " 

And  now,  what  is  the  result  ?  What 
is  it,  that  tlie  issue  of  all  this  fearful,  I 
cannot  call  it  flattering,  experience  tells 
us  ?  What  is  the  fact,  on  which  this 
solemn  conclusion,  concerning  the  inefifi- 
cacy  of  a  death-bed  repentance,  rests  ?  In 
many  cases  it  is  revealed  only  in  another 
world,  and  is  beyond  our  scrutiny.  But 
when  it  is  known,  I  beg  it  may  be  sol- 
emnly considered  what  it  is,  and  what 
is  its  bearing  on  the  hopes  of  a  death- 
bed repentance.  The  result  is — and  I 
speak,  let  it  be  repeated,  of  a  fact  —  the 
result  is  almost  without  exception,  in 
cases  where  the  subject  of  such  experi- 
ence recovers,  that  he  returns  to  his  old 
habits  of  living,  without  any,  or  any  but 
a  very  slight  and  temporary  change.  In 
many  such  instances,  where  the  experi- 
ence has  been  very  bright  and  convin- 
cing, the  individual  retains  no  recollec- 
tion of  anything  he  said,  or  was  supposed 
to  have  felt.  It  was  all  a  delirium.  The 
moral  state,  as  well  as  the  mental  state, 
was  all  delirium.  And  there  is  too 
much  reason  to  fear  that  all  such  expe- 
rience is  a  moral  delirium,  at  best.  I 
would  not  willingly  disturb,  for  one  mo- 
ment, the  peace  of  a  fond  and  anxious 
friendship.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  state 
of  those  who  are  dead ;  but  I  must 
speak  of  the  dangers  of  those  who  are 
living.  And  surely,  if  there  are  any, 
this  side  of  the  retributions  of  eternity, 
who  could  most  fearfully  warn  us  not 
to  postpone  religion  to  a  dying  hour,  it 
would  be  those  who  have  hung  wit'^ 
anxious  watchings  around  the  last  hours 
of  the  disobedient  and  irreligious,  and 
have  trembled,  and  prayed,  and  wept  for 
their  welfare  ! 


THE   LAW   OF   RETRIBUTION. 


207 


My  friends,  I  have  only  time  to  pre- 
sent to  you,  and  to  myself,  one  practical 
question  :  are  we  habitually  ready  to 
dief  The  question,  my  brethren,  is 
not,  whether  we  expect  to  be  ready  at 
some  future  time.  It  is  not  whether  we 
mean  to  be  ready.  It  is  not  whether 
we  are  making  the  most  solemn  promises 
to  ourselves  that  we  will,  some  time, 
set  about  the  preparation  for  that  great 
hour.  But  the  question  is,  are  we  ready 
for  it  now  1  Are  we  habitually  ready  ? 
Are  we  convinced  that  we  are  to  be 
judged,  not  by  some  imaginary  life 
which  we  intend,  and  intend,  and  for- 
ever intend  to  lead,  and  which  we  never 
do  lead,  because  we  are  always  intend- 
ing it;  —  are  we  convinced,  I  say,  that 
we  are  to  ne  judged  not  by  that  imagi- 
nary life  which  we  are  forever  intending 
to  lead,  but  by  the  life  which  we  are 
now  actually  living?  Have  we  given  up 
the  folly  of  expecting  to  do  anything  in 
future  which  we  will  not  do  now  ;  of 
expecting  to  do  that  in  sickness  which 
we  cannot  do  in  health  ;  of  expecting 
to  do  that  in  death  which  we  cannot  do 
in  life  ?  Are  we  doing  just  as  much  to 
prepare  as  if  the  judgment  were  to  de- 
pend on  what  we  are  doing  ;  for  it  is  to 
depend  on  what  we  are  doing,  and  doing, 
and  doing,  through  the  whole  of  life  :  as 
much,  I  say,  as  if  the  judgment  were  to 
depend  on  these  hourly  deeds  which  we 
are  now  performing,  on  these  momen- 
tary feelings  which  we  are  now  cherish- 
ing ?  If  not,  then  there  ought  to  be  a 
revolution  in  our  lives — call  it  conver- 
sion, regeneration,  a  change  of  heart, 
I  care  not  by  what  name  —  but  I  say 
that  there  ought  to  be  a  revolution  in 
our  lives,  of  such  magnitude  and 
moment  that  the  eternal  judgment  only 
can  declare  it !  Are  we,  then,  habitually 
ready  to  die  ?  If  not  habitually,  we  never 
are,  for  religion  is  a  habit.  If  not  habit- 
ually ;  if  not,  at  least,  habitually  mak- 
ing  ourselves  ready,  there  is  reason  to 
fear  that  we  never  shall  be  ;  for  life  — 
do  you  not  perceive?  —  is  a  tissue  of 
thoughts,  purposes,  and  feelings,  which 
is  growing  stronger  as  it  lengthens  ;  so 


that  the  disinclination  to  prepare  for 
death  is  growing  every  moment,  while 
every  moment  the  time  for  it  lessens. 

There  is  a  vague  notion,  —  for  it  is 
the  hope  of  all  that  death  will  not  break 
into  the  midst  of  life,  —  a  vague  notion, 
with  many,  of  retiring  in  advancing  years 
from  the  cares  and  business  of  life  to 
make  this  preparation,  which  involves 
a  great  and  hazardous  mistake.  They 
seem  to  think  that  the  heart  will  become 
pure  and  spiritual  and  heavenly,  as  the 
state  of  life  becomes  quiet  and  free 
from  the  urgency  of  worldly  cares.  De- 
lusive expectation  !  as  if  all  growth  in 
nature  were  not  most  vigorous  amidst 
calm  and  silence  :  as  if,  in  like  manner, 
the  rooted  passions  of  the  soul  were 
not  likely  to  grow  stronger  and  more 
stubborn,  amidst  the  silence  and  quie- 
tude of  declining  years  !  What  is  the 
fact?  Did  you  ever  see  selfishness,  or 
avarice,  or  a  worldly  mind,  lose  its 
accustomed  power  in  such  circumstan- 
ces? On  the  contrary,  we  know  —  who 
has  not  witnessed  sad  and  striking  in- 
stances of  it  ?  —  we  know  that  nothing 
is  more  common  than  for  avarice  and 
worldliness  to  find  strength  in  leisure  and 
freedom  in  retirement  ;  that  they  fix  a 
stronger  grasp  upon  the  decaying  fac- 
ulties, and  fling  their  icy  bonds  over  the 
soul  amidst  the  winter  of  age.  As  well 
might  the  Ethiopian  change  his  com- 
plexion, by  retiring  from  the  scorching 
sun  to  his  shaded  hut ;  as  soon  might 
the  leopard  lose  his  spots,  barely  by 
plunging  into  the  solitudes  of  the  wilder- 
ness, wlien  the  flood  could  not  wash 
them  awa)'.  The  waters  of  death  are 
not  waters  of  ablution,  but  rather  do  they 
give  the  coloring  and  complexion  to 
our  destiny.  They  are  not  a  slow  and 
oblivious  stream  ;  but  rather  a  rushing 
torrent  that  bears  us  away  before  we 
are  aware.  Death  comes  suddenly  to 
all.  It  does  break  sooner  or  later  into 
the  midst  of  life.  It  comes  at  a  time 
when  we  think  not.  It  comes,  not  when 
all  our  plans  are  ready  for  it  ;  not 
with  harbingers  and  prophecies  and 
preparations;  not  with  a  heart-thrilling 


20S 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


message,  saying,  "  Set  thy  house  in  or- 
der, for  this  year  thou-  shalt  die  ; "  no  voice 
is  in  the  infectious  breath  of  the  air 
that  brings  contagion  and  death  with  it ; 
no  coming  step  startles  us  when  disease 
is  approaching  ;  no  summoning  hand 
knocks  at  the  gate  of  hfe,  when  its  last 
dread  foe  is  about  to  enter  its  dark  and 
guarded  passages  ;  no  monitory  convic- 
tion within  says,  "This  month,  this 
week,  I  shall  die ! "  No,  it  comes  at  a 
time  when  we  think  not  ;  it  comes  upon 
an  unprepared  hour,  unless  our  life  be 
preparation ;  it  finds  us  with  all  our 
faults,  with  all  our  sins  about  us  ;  it 
finds  us  that  which  life  has  made  us,  — 
finds  us  such  as  the  very  action,  habit, 
and  spirit  of  Hfe  have  made  us;  and  bids 
us  die  such  as  we  lived  ! 

Who  of  you  will  meet  his  end  when 
he  expects  it  ?  Perhaps  not  one.  Or 
if  you  should,  how  solemn  a  message 
would  you  address  to  the  living  !  Who 
of  us  has,  in  our  own  apprehension, 
been  brought  to  such  a  crisis,  but  has 
had  thoughts,  which  no  language  can 
utter,  on  this  momentous  concern  ?  We 
felt  that  then  was  not  the  time  to  pre- 
pare. "Oh!  not  now  —  not  here!"  is 
the  language  of  the  dying  man,  as  with 
broken  utterance  and  the  failing  and  fal- 
tering breath  of  life,  he  testifies  his  last 
conviction,  —  "  not  now,  not  here,  is  the 
place  or  the  time  to  prepare  for  death  ! " 
And  he  feels,  too,  that  all  which  the 
world  contains  vanishes  into  nothing 
compared  with  this  preparation  !  Are 
we,  then,  prepared  ?  —  not  by  a  preter- 
natural or  extravagant  state  of  feeling; 
not  by  glooms,  nor  by  raptures  ;  nor  by 
any  assurance,  nor  by  any  horror  of 
mind  ;  but  by  the  habitual  and  calm 
discharge  of  our  duty,  by  labors  of  kind- 
ness, by  the  spirit  of  devotion?  —  by  a 
temper  of  mind  kindred  to  that  heaven 
which  we  hope  to  enter  ?  Are  we  thus 
ready,  every  day,  every  hour  ?  On  the 
exchange,  in  the  office,  in  the  study; 
in  the  house  and  by  the  way;  in  the 
work-shop  and  in  the  field  ;  are  we 
ever  ready  ?  "  Blessed  are  those  ser- 
vants, whom  the  Lord  when  he  cometh 


shall   find   watching;  and   if    he    shall 

come  in  the    second  watch    or   in  the 

third  watch  and  find  them  so,  blessed 
are  those  servants." 


VI. 

COMPASSION   FOR  THE   SINFUL. 

MARKiii.  5:  "And  when  be  had  looked  round  about 
him  with  anger,  being  grieved  for  the  hardness  of 
their  hearts,  he  said  unto  the  man,  Stretch  forth  thy 

hand." 

That  part  of  this  passage,  only,  which 
relates  to  the  moral  temper  of  our 
Saviour,  is  proposed  for  your  present 
meditations.  It  is,  in  other  words,  and 
especially,  the  compassion  of  Jesus. 

In  reading  the  first  clause  of  the 
sentence  —  he  "  looked  round  about  him 
with  anger  "  —  I  suppose  that  many  may 
have  felt  an  emotion,  a  thrill,  almost, 
of  pain  and  doubt;  they  have  felt  that 
these  words,  by  themselves,  and  in  their 
simple  meaning,  were  in  painful  contrast 
with  all  their  ideas  of  our  Saviour's 
meekness  and  patience  ;  they  have  been 
ready  to  doubt  whether  the  words  could 
have  been  correctly  translated.  But 
how  entirely  and  delightfully  is  the 
mind  relieved  by  the  words  that  follow  — 
"being  grieved  for  the  hardness  of  their 
hearts  ! "  He  was  indignant  as  he  looked 
around  him,  and  witnes.sed  the  bitter 
enmity  and  the  base  hypocrisy  of  the 
Jews  ;  but  his  indignation  instantly  soft- 
ened into  pity;  he  was  grieved  at  the 
hardness  of  their  hearts. 

This  is  one  instance  of  that  sublime 
moral  harmony,  that  union  in  which  the 
most  opposite  qualities  met  and  mingled, 
that  so  entirely  singles  out  from  all 
other  models  the  character  of  our  heav- 
enly Teacher  and  Master.  We  recog- 
nize the  same  spirit  with  that  which  was 
so  pathetically  manifested  in  his  appeal 
to  Jerusalem.  "  O  Jerusalem  !  Jerusa- 
lem !  -  thou  that  killest  the  prophets 
and  stonest  them  that  are  sent  to  thee," 
—  here  is  the  tone  of  indignation  and 
reproach  ;  but  mark  how  instantly  it  is 


COMPASSION    FOR   THE   SINFUL. 


209 


redeemed  from  the  ordinary  character  of 
those  sentiments  —  "  thou  that  killest 
the  propliets  and  stonest  them  that  are 
sent  unto  thee  ;  how  often  would  I  have 
gathered  thy  children  even  as  a  hen 
gathereth  her  brood  under  her  wing, 
but  ye  would  not !  " 

The  spirit  with  which  we  should  re- 
gard the  faults  and  sins  of  mankind  is 
nearly  a  neglected  subject  in  morals  ; 
and  it  had  been  well  for  moral  reformers 
and  preachers  of  righteousness  if  they 
had  more  thoroughly  considered  it.  It 
is,  moreover,  a  very  practical  subject  to 
all  men.  For  we  are  constantly  brought 
into  contact  with  the  faults  and  trans- 
gressions of  mankind  ;  every  day  offers, 
from  this  cause,  some  annoyance  to  our 
feelings,  or  some  injury  to  our  interests  ; 
every  newspaper  that  is  taken  in  our 
hand  is  burdened  with  the  recital  of 
crimes  —  robberies,  murders,  piracies, 
wars.  Indeed,  this  constant  experience 
of  injustice  or  exasperation  in  some  or 
other  of  their  forms,  and  this  extensive 
observation  of  human  wickedness,  are 
a  part  of  our  moral  discipline  ;  and  it 
becomes  us  to  consider  how  we  should 
meet  it,  and  be  made  better  by  other 
men's  faults.  It  is,  indeed,  in  its  mild- 
est form,  a  sad  and  grievous  discipline, 
from  which  no  one  should  be  willing 
to  come  out  unprotited. 

There  is  another  general  observation 
applicable  to  this  subject.  As  we  ad- 
vance in  our  moral  discriminations,  we 
shall  always  find  that  things  before 
indifferent  become  interesting  ;  and 
things  distant,  it  may  be  added,  become 
near.  A  war,  for  instance,  breaks  out 
between  distant  nations.  A  man  may 
say  —  what  is  that  to  me  ?  What  is  the 
case  of  the  French  and  the  Austrians, 
of  the  Russians  and  the  Poles,  to  me  ? 
I  answer,  it  is  much  to  you.  For  every 
time  you  read  an  account  of  a  battle  ; 
every  time  you  read  of  the  prowess  of 
armies,  of  blood  and  carnage,  of  blazing 
battlements  and  groaning  hospitals,  you 
have  certain  feelings ;  and  they  are 
marked  with  a  strong  moral  complexion. 
You  are  pleased  or  pained ;  you  exult 


or  you  regret  ;  or  you  are  indifferent  ; 
and  to  any  refined  moral  sensibility 
these  states  of  mind  will  not  be  un- 
important. Or,  an  extensive  fraud  in 
some  public  institution,  although  it  m:xy 
not  touch  you  in  your  interests,  does 
touch  you  in  your  feelings  ;  and  there- 
fore does  concern,  though  not  your 
pecuniary,  yet  your  moral  welfare.  And 
while  others  think  that  they  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  with  words,  nothing  to  do 
but  to  talk,  and  speculate,  and  wonder, 
and  rail,  a  thoughtful  man  will  feel 
that  he  has  much  to  do  with  his  own 
heart.  Or,  when  the  poor  miserable 
victim  of  vice,  the  shattered  wreck  of  a 
man,  appears  before  the  public  eye,  he 
may  be  contemplated  with  laughter  or 
scorn;  but  from  a  man  who  breathes 
the  spirit  of  the  Christian  Master,  that 
spectacle  will  draw  forth  deeper  senti-' 
ments.  It  is  the  form  of  sacred  human- 
ity that  is  before  him;  it  is  an  erring 
fellow-being ;  it  is  a  desolate,  forlorn, 
forsaken  soul;  and  the  thoughts  of  good 
men,  that  gather  around  that  poor 
wretch,  will  be  far  deeper  than  those  of 
indifference  or  scorn.  And,  in  fine,  all 
human  offences,  —  that  whole  sj^stem 
of  dishonesty,  evasion,  circumventing, 
forbidden  indulgence,  and  intriguing 
ambition,  in  which  men  are  struggling 
together,  will  often  be  looked  upon,  by  a 
thoughtful  observer,  not  merely  as  the 
sphere  of  mean  toils  and  strifes,  but  as 
the  solemn  conflict  of  minds  immortal 
for  ends  vast  and  momentous  as  their 
own  being.  Sad  and  unworthy  strife 
indeed  !  and  let  it  be  viewed  with  indig- 
nation ;  but  let  that  indignation,  too, 
melt  into  pity. 

Such,  indeed,  is  the  spirit  recommend- 
ed in  our  text,  a  spirit  of  indignation  at 
human  faults  and  follies,  but  a  spirit,  too, 
which  leans  to  pity:  a  feeling  which,  al- 
though it  begins  often  with  indignation, 
always,  by  the  aids  of  reflection  and 
piety,  ends  in  pity. 

There  is  a  portion  of  indignation  in 
the  right  temper.  The  right  feeling  is 
not  a  good  natured  easiness  at  the  trans- 
gressions of  men,  nor  a  worldly  indiflfer- 


14 


2IO 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF    RELIGION. 


ence,  nor  a  falsely  philosophic  coldness, 
that  puts  on  an  air  of  reasoning,  and  says, 
'•  It  must  be  so,"  and  "  Men  were  made 
so,"  and  "  This  is  what  we  must  expect.'' 
Neither  is  it  a  worldly  laxity  of  con- 
science, that  accounts  everything  well 
that  passes  under  the  seal  of  public 
opinion.  It  is  a  decided  and  strong 
moral  feeling,  that  ought  to  be  awakened 
by  human  wickedness.  It  is  indigna- 
tion. 

But,  then,  it  is  not  a  harsh  and  cruel 
feeling.  It  is  not  peevishness  nor  irrita- 
tion. It  is  not  hasty  nor  angry  reproach. 
It  is  not  a  feehng  that  delights  in  denun- 
ciation. No  ;  but  the  words  of  warning 
fall,  as  they  did  from  the  lips  of  Jesus, 
mingled  with  lamentation.  Or,  the  words 
of  reproach  are  uttered  as  they  were 
by  Paul,  when  he  told  the  Philippians, 
and  told  them  even  weepings  that  some 
among  them  were  enemies  of  the  cross 
of  Christ. 

There  are  other  mistakes  which  we 
are  liable  to  commit,  and  other  wrong 
feelings  which  we  are  prone  to  cherish, 
towards  the  erring  and  guilty. 

Good  men  —  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  are  too 
.proud  of  their  goodness.  Here  are 
you,  a  respectable  individual  in  society. 
Dishonor  comes  not  near  you.  Your 
countenance  has  weight  and  influence. 
Your  robe  is  unstained.  The  poison- 
ous breath  of  calumny  has  never  been 
breathed  upon  your  fair  name.  Ah ! 
how  easy  is  it  to  look  down  with  scorn 
upon  the  poor,  degraded  offender  ;  to 
pass  by  him  with  a  lofty  step  ;  to  draw 
up  the  folds  of  your  garment  around 
you,  that  it  may  not  be  soiled  by  his 
touch  !  Yet  the  great  Master  of  virtue 
did  not  so  ;  but  he  descended  to  familiar 
intercourse  with  publicans  and  sinners. 

There  is  a  feeling,  I  say,  not  only  of 
scorn,  but  of  triumph,  often  springing  up 
from  the  survey  of  other  men's  faults 
Many  seem  to  think  themselves  better, 
for  all  the  sins  they  can  detect  in  others. 
And  when  they  are  going  over  with  the 
catalogue  of  their  neighbor's  unhappy 
derelictions  of  temper  or  conduct,  there 
is  often,  amidst  much  apparent  concern, 


a   secret   exultation,  that   poisons    and  jj 
blasts  all  their   pretensions  to   wisdom  \ 
and  moderation,  and  their  claims  even   i 
to  virtue  itself.     Nay,  this  feeling  goes 
so  far  that  men  take  actual  pleasure  in 
tiie  sins  of  others.     It  is  not  the  corrupt 
man  only ;  it  is  not  the  seducer  into  the 
path  of  evil  only,  that  does  this  ;  but  it 
is  every  man  whose  thoughts  are  often 
employed  in  agreeable    comparisons  of 
his  virtues  with  the  faults  of  his  neigh- 
bor. 

The  power  over  men's  faults,  which 
is  lost  by  a  harsh  or  haughty  treatment 
of   them,  would  of  itself  form  a  great 
subject,  and  one  that  much  needs  to  be 
commended  to  all  those  who  would  exert 
any  moral   influence    over  their  fellow- 
beings.     The  power   of  gentleness,  the 
subduing  influence  of  pity,  the  might  of 
love,  the  control  of  mildness  over  pas- 
sion, the    commanding  majesty  of  that 
perfect  character  which  mingles    grave 
displeasure  with  grief  and  pity  for  the 
offender,  —  these  things  have  been  too 
little  seen  in  the  world.      I  believe  that 
our  pulpits,  and  our  tribunals  of  justice, 
and  parental  authority  among  us,  must 
put  on   a  new  aspect   before   they  will 
appear  in  all  their  dignity,  their  vener- 
ableness,  their  power  and  beauty.     We 
scarcely  know,  as  yet,  what  we    might 
do  with  men's  passions  and  vices.     They 
are    commonly   reputed,    and    some    of 
them  in  particular,  to  be  untamable,  in- 
corrigible, and  fated  to  procure  the  ruin 
of  their  victims  ;  and    they  are  in  part 
made  so  by  our  wrong  treatment  of  them. 
The  human  heart  cannot  yield  to  such 
an  influence  as  we  too  often  endeavor  to 
exert  upon  it.     It  was  not  made  to  bow 
willingly  to  what  is  merely   human  ;  at 
least,  not  to  what  is  injir?/!  and  wrong 
in  human  nature.      If  it  yields  to  us,  it 
must  yield  to  what  is  divine  in  us.     The 
wickedness  of  my  neighbor  cannot  sub- 
mit  to  my  wickedness  ;   his   sensuality, 
for  instance,  cannot  submit  to  my  anger 
against  his  vices.     My   faults   are   not 
the  instruments  that  are  to  correct  his 
faults.     And  it  is  hence  that  impatient 
reformers,    and   denouncing   preachers, 


COMPASSION    FOR   THE   SINFUL. 


21  I 


and  hasty  reprovers,  and  angry  parents, 
and  irritable  relatives,  so  often  fail,  in 
their  several  departments,  to  reclaim  the 
erring. 

I  would,  therefore,  remind  them  that 
they  have  a  new  lesson  to  learn  from 
the  compassion  of  Jesus  ;  and  that  is, 
while  they  permit  in  themselves  the  live- 
liest sensibility  to  the  sins  of  men,  to 
mingle  with  it  the  deepest  commisera- 
tion for  them. 

I.  And  tliey  may  learn  this  lesson,  they 
may  find  it  enforced,  rather,  first,  by  con- 
sidering what  it  is  that  their  feelings 
and  thoughts  are  exercised  about. 

It  is  sin.  It  is  combined  guilt  and 
misery.  It  is  the  supreme  evil.  Whence 
shall  we  gather  comparisons  to  set  it 
forth  ?  Shall  we  name  sickness  ?  Sick- 
ness belongs  to  the  body;  the  corrupti- 
ble and  perishable  body.  Pain  ?  —  phys- 
ical pain  ?  The  body  is  its  instrument 
and  end.  Loss,  disappointment?  They 
are  worldly  accidents.  Dishonor?  It 
is,  comparatively,  a  shade  upon  a  name. 
But  a  moral  ofTence  possesses  all  these 
characters,  and  it  attaches  them  all  to 
the  soul.  It  is  sickness,  it  is  pain,  it  is 
loss,  it  is  dishonor,  in  the  immortal  part. 
It  is  guilt  ;  and  it  is  misery  added  to 
guilt.  It  is  calamity  in  itself:  and  it 
brings  upon  itself  in  addition  the  calam- 
ity of  God's  displeasure,  and  the  abhor- 
rence of  all  righteous  beings,  and  the 
soul's  own  abhorrence.  If  you  have  to 
deal  with  this  evil,  deal  faithfully,  but 
patiently  and  tenderly  with  it.  This  is 
no  matter  for  petty  provocation,  nor  for 
personal  strife,  nor  for  selfish  irritation. 

Speak  kindly  to  your  erring  brother. 
God  pities  him  ;  Christ  has  died  for  him  ; 
Providence  waits  for  him ;  the  mercy 
of  heaven  yearns  towards  him  ;  and  the 
spirits  of  heaven  are  ready  to  welcome 
him  back  with  joy.  Let  your  voice  be 
in  unison  with  all  those  powers  that  God 
is  using  for  his  recovery. 

Parent !  speak  gently  to  your  offend- 
ing child.  This  trait  of  parental  duty 
should  be  deeply  pondered.  A  tone  of 
grave  rebuke  should,  indeed,  be  some- 
times used :  perhaps   occasion  may  re- 


quire tliat  it  should  be  often  used  ;  but 
the  tone  of  peevish  complaint  and  anger, 
never.  There  is  a  different  language  ; 
and  how  much  more  powerful !  '•  Ah  ! 
my  child ! "  might  one  say,  in  the  man- 
ner, if  not  in  language,  "  my  child  !  what 
injury  is  all  this  doing  you  !  This  pas- 
sion, this  violence,  or  this  vice,  what  a 
bitter  cup  is  it  preparing  for  you  !  "  This 
language,  this  tone  from  the  grave  wis- 
dom of  a  father,  or  the  tender  anxiety  of 
a  mother,  might  have  saved  some  whom 
peevishness  and  provocation  have  driven 
farther  and  deeper  into  the  ways  of  trans- 
gression. 

But  let  us  put  the  strongest  case. 
Your  neighbor  has  done  you  grievous 
wrong  ;  and  he  has  the  face  to  tell  you 
so,  and  to  exult  in  his  dishonesty. 
What  man  is  there  whose  countenance 
would  not  be  flushed  with  momentary- 
indignation  at  being  so  confronted  with 
one  that  had  injured  him,  and  that  glo- 
ried in  the  injury?  And  let  us  concede 
thus  much  to  the  weakness  of  nature,  or 
even  to  the  first  impulse  of  virtue.  But 
the  next  feeling  should  be  unfeigned  re- 
gret and  pity.  Yes,  the  man  who  stands 
before  you,  triumphing  in  a  prosperous 
fraud  and  palpable  wrong,  is  the  most 
pitiable  of  human  beings.  He  has  done 
himself  a  deeper,  a  far  deeper,  injury  than 
he  has  done  to  you.  It  is  the  inflicter 
of  wrong,  not  the  sufferer,  whom  God 
beholds  with  mingled  displeasure  and 
compassion  ;  and  his  judgment  should 
be  your  law.  Where  amidst  the  bene- 
dictions of  the  Holy  Mount  is  there  one 
for  this  man?  But  upon  the  merciful, 
the  peacemakers,  the  persecuted,  they 
are  poured  out  freely ;  these  are  the  sa- 
cred names  upon  which  the  spirit  and 
blessing  of  Jesus  descend. 

II.  In  the  next  place,  it  may  temper 
the  warmth  of  our  indignation  against 
sin,  and  soften  it  into  pity  ;  it  may  well 
bring  us,  indeed,  to  imitate  the  compas- 
sion of  Jesus,  for  us  to  reflect  that  what 
others  are,  and  however  bad,  we,  in 
other  circumstances,  might  have  been  as 
they  are. 

We  are  all  men  of  like  passions,  pro- 


212 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


pensities,  exposures.  There  are  ele- 
ments in  us  all,  which  might  have  been 
perverted,  through  the  successive  pro- 
cesses of  moral  deterioration,  to  the  worst 
of  crimes.  The  wretch  whom  the  execra- 
tion of  the  thronging  crowd  pursues  to 
the  scaffold  or  the  gibbet  is  not  worse 
than  any  one  of  the  multitude  might 
have  become  in  similar  circumstances. 
He  is  to  be  condemned,  indeed  ;  but 
how  much  he  is  to  be  pitied,  let  his  burn- 
ing passions,  his  consuming  remorse, 
his  pallid  cheek,  his  sinking  head,  the 
mingled  apathy  and  agony  of  his  appre- 
hensions,—  let  these  tell. 

I  feel  that  I  am  speaking  of  a  case 
that  is  fully  practical.  There  is  a  vin- 
dictive feeling  in  society  towards  con- 
victed and  capital  offenders,  towards 
those  who  are  doomed  to  abide  the 
awful  severity  of  the  law,  that  does  not 
become  the  frail  and  the  sinful.  I  do 
not  adopt  the  unqualified  language,  that 
it  is  nothing  but  the  grace  of  God  that 
saves  us  from  being  as  bad  as  the  worst 
of  criminals.  But  it  is  certain  that  we 
owe  much  to  the  good  providence  of 
God,  ordaining  for  us  a  lot  more  favor- 
able to  virtue.  It  is  certain  that  we 
ail  had  that  within  us  that  might  have 
been  pushed  to  the  same  excess.  And 
therefore  a  silent  pity  and  sorrow  for 
the  victim  should  mingle  with  our 
detestation  of  the  crime. 

The  very  pirate,  that  dyes  the  ocean- 
wave  with  the  blood  of  his  fellow- 
beings  ;  that  meets  with  his  defenceless 
victim  in  some  lonely  sea  where  no  cry 
for  help  can  be  heard,  and  plunges  his 
dagger  to  the  heart  which  is  pleading 
for  life,  which  is  calling  upon  him  by 
all  the  names  of  kindred,  of  children  and 
home,  to  spare,  —  yes,  the  very  pirate 
is  such  a  man  as  you  or  I  might  have 
been.  Orphanage  in  childhood  ;  an  un- 
friended youth  ;  an  evil  companion  ;  a 
resort  to  sinful  pleasure  ;  familiarity 
with  vice  ;  a  scorned  and  blighted  name  ; 
seared  and  crushed  affections  ;  desper- 
ate fortunes ;  these  are  steps  that  might 
have  led  any  one  among  us  to  unfurl 
upon  the  high  seas  the   bloody  flag  of 


universal  defiance ;  to  have  waged  war 
with  our  kind  ;  to  have  put  on  the  terrific 
attributes,  to  have  done  the  dreadful 
deeds,  and  to  have  died  the  awful 
death,  of  the  ocean  robber.  How  many 
affecting  relationships  of  humanity  plead 
with  us  to  pity  him  !  That  head,  that 
is  doomed  to  pay  the  price  of  blood, 
once  rested  upon  a  mother's  bosom. 
The  h_ind  that  did  that  accursed  work, 
and  shall  soon  be  stretched,  cold  and 
nerveless,  in  the  felon's  grave,  was 
once  taken  and  cherished  by  a  father's 
hand,  and  led  in  the  ways  of  sportive 
childhood  and  innocent  pleasure.  The 
dreaded  monster  of  crime  has  once 
been  the  object  of  sisterly  love  and  all 
domestic  endearment.  Pity  him  then. 
Pity  his  blighted  hope  and  his  crushed 
heart.  It  is  a  wholesome  sensibilty. 
It  is  reasonable;  it  is  meet  for  frail 
and  sinning  creatures  hke  us  to  cher- 
ish. It  foregoes  no  moral  discrimi- 
nation. It  feels  the  crime ;  but  feels  it 
as  a  weak,  tempted,  and  rescued  creature 
should.  It  imitates  the  great  Master; 
and  looks  with  indignation  upon  the 
offender,  and  yet  is  grieved  for  him. 

III.  In  the  last  place,  I  would  set 
forth  the  intrinsic  worth  and  greatness 
of  this  disposition  as  a  reason  for  cher- 
ishing it.  This  rank  does  the  virtue  of 
compassion  hold  in  the  character  of  our 
Saviour. 

How  superior  is  the  man  of  forbear- 
ance and  gentleness  to  every  other  man, 
in  the  collisions  of  society  !  He  is  the 
real  conqueror :  the  conqueror  of  him- 
self ;  but  that  is  not  all ;  he  conquers 
others.  There  is  no  dominion  in  the 
social  world  like  this.  It  is  a  dominion 
which  makes  not  slaves  but  freemen  ; 
which  levies  no  tribute  but  of  gratitude; 
whose  only  monuments  are  those  of 
virtuous  example. 

No  man  may  claim  much  merit  merely 
for  being  indigtiani  at  the  faults  and  sins 
of  those  around  him.  It  is  better  than 
indifference,  better  than  no  feeling;  but 
it  is  only  the  beginning  and  youth  of 
virtue.  The  youthful,  untutored,  un- 
subdued mind  is  only  angry  with   sin, 


COMPASSION    FOR   THE    SINFUL. 


213 


and  thinks  it  does  well  to  be  angry. 
But  when  more  reflection  comes,  and  a 
deeper  consciousness  of  personal  defi- 
ciencies ;  and  a  more  entire  subjection 
to  the  meek  and  compassionate  spirit 
of  Jesus  Christ  is  wrought  out  in  the 
mind,  a  new  character  begins  to  develop 
itself.  Harsh  words,  borne  upon  the 
breath  of  a  hasty  temper,  do  not  ruffle 
the  soul  as  they  once  did.  Reproof  is 
received  with  meekness  and  in  silence. 
The  tongue  is  not  ever  ready,  as  if  it 
were  an  instrument  made  to  ward  off 
reproach.  The  peace  of  the  soul  does 
not  stand  in  the  opinion  of  others. 
Faults  are  estimated  with  forbearance. 
Mature  and  fi.xed  virtue  is  too  high  and 
strong  to  think  of  building  itself  up, 
like  a  doubtful  reputation,  upon  sur- 
rounding deficiencies.  Sins  are  more  im- 
mediately and  habitually  connected  with 
the  sufferings  they  must  occasion  ;  and 
therefore  they  more  surely  awaken  pity. 
The  man  of  advancing  piety  and  virtue 
is  growing  in  the  conviction,  indeed, 
that  the  only  real,  essential,  immitigable 
evil  is  sin.  He  mourns  over  it  in  him- 
self;  he  mourns  over  it  in  others.  It 
is  the  root  of  bitterness  in  the  field  of 
life.  It  is  the  foe  with  which  he  is  liold- 
ing  the  long  and  often  disheartening 
conflict.  It  is  the  cloud  upon  the  face 
of  nature.  That  cloud  overspreads  his 
neighbor,  with  himself.  And  he  pities, 
from  his  inmost  soul,  all  who  walk  be- 
neath it. 

Patience  with  the  erring  and  offend- 
ing is  one  of  the  loftiest  of  all  the  forms 
of  character.  "  Compassion  for  souls," 
though  the  phrase  is  often  used  in  a 
cant  and  technical  manner,  ought  to  be 
a  great  and  ennobling  sentiment.  Com- 
passion, indeed,  for  souls  ;  how  should 
it  transcend  all  other  compassion  !  Look 
over  the  world,  and  say,  where  are  its 
sufferings  ?  In  the  diseased  body,  in 
the  broken  limb,  in  the  wounded  and 
bruised  organs  of  sense  ?  In  the  deso- 
late dwelling  of  poverty  ;  in  hunger  and 
cold  and  nakedness  J*     Yes,  suflFering  is 


there  ;  and  Providence  has  put  a  tongue 
in  every  suffering  member  of  the  human 
frame,  to  plead  its  cause.  But  enter 
into  the  soul  ;  pass  through  these  out- 
works, and  enter  the  very  seat  of  power; 
and  what  things  are  there  ;  uttering  no 
sound  perhaps,  breathing  no  complaint, 
—  but  what  things  are  there  to  move 
compassion  ?  Wounded  and  bruised 
aiTections,  bliglited  capacities,  broken 
and  defeated  hopes  ;  desolation,  solitari- 
ness, silence,  sorrow,  anguish  ;  and  sin, 
the  cause  and  consummation  of  all  the 
deepest  miseries  of  an  afflicted  life. 
If  the  surgeon's  knife  should  cut  the 
very  heart,  it  would  hardly  inflict  a 
sharper  pang  than  anger,  envy,  smiting 
shame,  and  avenging  remorse.  Yet 
happiness  is  near  that  heart ;  happiness, 
the  breath  of  infinite  goodness,  the 
blessed  voice  of  mercy,  is  all  around  it ; 
and  it  is  all  madly  shunned.  Eternal 
happiness  is  offered  to  it,  and  it  rejects 
the  offer.  It  goes  on,  and  on,  through  life, 
inwardly  burdened,  groaning  in  secret, 
bleeding,  weltering  in  its  passions  ;  but 
it  will  not  seek  the  true  relief.  Its 
wounds  are  without  cause;  its  suffer- 
ings without  recompense  ;  its  life  with- 
out true  comfort  ;  and  its  end  without 
hope.  Compassion,  indeed,  for  souls  ! 
who  may  not  justly  feel  it  for  others,  and 
for  his  own  .'' 

So  Jesus  looked  upon  the  world  — 
save  that  lie  had  no  compassion  to  feel 
for  himself ;  and  so  fnuch  the  more 
touciiing  was  his  compassion  for  us. 
From  the  sublime  height  of  his  own  im- 
maculate purity  he  looked  down  upon  a 
sinful  and  degraded  and  afflicted  race. 
"  Weep  not  lor  me,"  he  said,  "  but 
weep  for  yourselves  and  your  children." 
So  Jesus  looked  upon  the  world,  and 
pitied  it.  He  taught  us,  that  we  might 
be  wise  ;  he  was  poor,  that  we  might 
be  rich  ;  he  suffered,  that  we  might  be 
happy  ;  he  wept,  that  we  might  rejoice  ; 
he  died  —  he  died  the  accursed  death 
of  the  cross,  that  we  might  live  —  live 
forever. 


214 


ON   THE   NATURE     OF   RELIGION. 


VII. 

GOD'S  LOVE  THE  CHIEF  RESTRAINT 
FROM  SIN,  AND  RESOURCE  IN  SOR- 
ROW. 

I  John  iv.  i6  :   "  God  is  love." 

It  was  a  saying  of  Plato,  that  "  the  soul 
is  mere  darkness  till  it  is  illuminated 
with  the  knowledge  of  God."  What 
Plato  said  of  the  soul  is  true  of  every- 
thing. Everything  is  dark  till  the  light 
of  God's  perfection  shines  upon  it. 
That  '■  God  is  love,"  is  the  great  cen- 
tral truth  that  gives  brightness  to  every 
other  truth.  Not  only  the  moral  system, 
but  nature,  and  the  science  of  nature, 
would  be  dark  without  that  truth.  I  am 
persuaded  it  might  be  shown  that  it  is 
the  great  essential  principle  which  lies 
at  the  foundation  of  all  interesting  knowl- 
edge. It  may  not  be  always  distinctly 
observed  by  the  philosopher ;  but  how 
could  he  proceed  in  those  investigations 
thai  are  leading  him  through  all  the  laby- 
rinths of  nature,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
conviction,  secretly  working  within  him, 
that  all  is  right,  that  all  is  well  ?  How 
could  he  have  the  heart  to  pursue  his 
way,  as  he  is  penetrating  into  the  mys- 
teries, whether  of  rolling  worlds  or  of 
vegetating  atoms,  if  he  felt  that  the  sys- 
tem he  was  exploring  is  a  system  of  bound- 
less malevolence  ?  He  would  stand 
aghast  and  powerless  at  that  thought. 
It  would  spread  a  shadow,  darker  than 
universal  eclipse,  over  the  splendor  of 
heaven.  It  would  endow  every  particle 
of  earth  with  a  principle  of  malignity 
too  awful  for  the  hardiest  philosophic 
scrutiny  ! 

The  Scriptures  assign  the  sam.e  pre- 
eminence to  the  doctrine  of  divine  good- 
ness which  it  holds  in  nature  and  phi- 
losophy. It  is  never  said,  in  Scripture, 
that  God  is  greatness,  or  power,  or 
knowledge  ;  but  with  a  comprehensive 
and  affecting  emphasis  it  is  written  that 
God  is  Love  ;  not  that  he  is  lovely,  not 
that  he  is  good,  not  that  he  is  benevolent, 
merely — that  would  be  too  abstract  for 
the  great,  vital,  life-giving  truth — but 


it  is  written,  I  repeat,  that  God  is 
Love  ! 

And  it  is  not  of  this  truth  as  an  ab- 
stract truth,  my  friends,  that  I  propose 
now  to  speak.  I  wish  to  consider  chiefly 
its  applications  ;  and  especially  its  appli- 
cations to  two  great  conditions  of  human 
life  ;  to  the  conditions  of  temptation  and 
sorrow.  Affliction,  we  know,  is  some- 
times addressed  with  worldly  consola- 
tions, and  sin  is  of  ten  assailed  with  denun- 
ciation and  alarm  ;  yet  for  both  ahke,  and 
for  all  that  makes  up  the  mingled  conflict 
and  sorrow  and  hope  of  life,  it  seems  to 
me  that  a  deep  and  affectionate  trust  in 
the  love  of  God  is  the  only  powerful, 
sustaining,  and  controlling  principle. 

Let  me  say  again,  an  affectionate 
trust ;  the  faith,  in  other  words,  that 
works  by  love.  It  is  not  a  cold,  sjiccu- 
lative,  theological  faith,  that  can  prepare 
us  to  meet  the  discipline  of  life.  It  is 
the  confidence  of  love  only  that  can  carry 
us  through.  Love  only  can  understand 
love.  This  only  can  enable  us  to  say, 
"  We  have  known  and  believed  the  love 
that  God  hath  to  us."  We  profess  to 
believe  in  God  ;  to  believe  in  the  divine 
perfection.  But  I  say,  my  brethren,  that 
we  do  not  properly  know  what  we  believe 
in,  without  love  to  it.  Love  only  can 
understand  love.  Love  only  can  give  to 
faith  in  divine  love  its  proper  character; 
and  especially  that  character  of  assur- 
ance and  strength  which  will  enable  us 
to  meet,  unshaken  and  unfaltering,  the 
temptations  and  trials  of  life. 

The  principle  that  is  to  meet  exigen- 
cies like  these,  that  is  to  hold  the  long 
conflict  with  sin  and  sorrow,  that  is  to 
sustain  triumphantly  the  burden  of  this 
mortal  experience,  must  be  intelligent, 
active,  penetrating,  and  powerful.  For 
the  problem  of  this  life,  my  brethren,  is 
not, readily  nor  easily  to  be  solved.  I 
know  that  there  is  light  upon  it,  wel- 
come light.  But  it  cannot  be  carried 
into  the  mazes  of  human  experience,  it 
cannot  illuminate  what  is  dark  and  clear 
up  what  is  difflcult,-without  much  reflec- 
tion—  and  reflection  upon  what,  if  not 
upon  the  character  of  the  Ordainer  of  this  i 


THE   LOVE   OF   GOD   TO   US. 


215 


lot  ?  —  without  much  reflection,  I  repeat, 
and  care  every  way  to  the  direction  and 
]X)sture  of  our  own  minds.  It  was  not 
intended  that  our  faith  should  be  a  pas- 
sive principle  ;  that  all  should  be  plain 
and  easy  to  it ;  that  moral  light  should 
fall  upon  our  path  as  clear,  obvious,  and 
bright  as  sunshine.  It  pleases  God  to  try 
the  reliance  of  his  earthly  children.  He 
would  have  tlieir  trust  in  him  to  be  a  no- 
bler act  than  mere  vision  could  be.  He 
would  have  their  faith  grow  and  strength- 
en by  severe  e.xercise.  He  would  say  to 
them  at  last,  not  only  "  Well  done,  good! 
—  but,  well  donG.,  faithful / — enter  ye 
into  the  joys  of  your  Lord:  enter  into 
joys  made  dear  by  sorrow,  made  bright 
by  the  darkness  you  have  experienced, 
made  noble  and  glorious  by  the  trying  of 
your  faith  whicii  is  more  precious  than 
of  gold." 

I  said  that  the  problem  of  this  life  is 
not  readily  nor  easily  to  be  solved.  I 
can  conceive  that  tins  may  be  an  unmean- 
ing declaration  to  those  who  have  not 
thought  much  of  life,  to  those  whose  lot 
has  been  easy,  and  whose  minds  have 
partaken  of  the  easiness  of  their  lot. 
But  there  are  those,  to  whom  the  visita- 
tion of  life,  to  whom  the  visitation  of 
thought  and  feeling,  has  been  a  different 
thing.  I  can  believe  that  there  are  some 
to  whom  I  speak,  whose  minds  have 
been  haunted  from  their  very  childhood 
with  that  mournful  and  touching  inquiry 
which  we  used  to  read  in  our  early  les- 
sons, "  Child  of  mortality,  whence  comest 
thou?"  Man  is,  indeed,  the  child  of  a 
frail,  changing,  mortal  lot;  and  yet  the 
creature  of  an  immortal  hope.  We  are 
ready  to  ask  such  a  being,  at  whom  we 
must  wonder,  as  it  seems  to  me,  whence 
camest  thou,  and  for  what  end?  Didst 
thou  come,  frail  being  1  from  the  source 
of  strength  and  wisdom  and  goodness  ? 
Why,  then,  so  feeble,  so  unwise,  so 
unworthy  ?  Why  art  thou  here,  and 
such  as  thou  art  —  so  strong  in  grief, 
and  so  weak  in  fortitude  !  so  boundless 
in  aspiration,  so  poor  in  possession  ! 
Why  art  thou  here?  —  with  this  strange- 
ly mingled  being;  so  glad  and  so  sor- 


rowful ;  so  earthly  and  so  heavenly  ;  so 
in  love  with  life,  and  so  weary  of  it ;  so 
eagerly  clinging  to  life,  and  yet  borne 
away  by  a  sighing  breath  of  the  evening 
air  !  Whence,  and  wherefore,  frail  man  ! 
art  thou  such  an  one  ?  All  else  is  well ; 
but  with  ///tv  all  is  not  well.  The  world 
is  fair  around  thee ;  the  bright  and 
blessed  sun  shineth  on  thee  ;  the  green 
and  flowery  fields  spread  far,  and  cheer 
thine  eye,  and  invite  thy  footstep  ;  the 
groves  are  full  of  melody  ;  ten  thousand 
happy  creatures  range  freely  through  all 
the  paths  of  nature  ;  but  ihou  art  not 
satisfied  as  they  are  ;  ihou  art  not  hap- 
py ;  thou  art  not  provided  for  as  they 
are :  earth  has  no  coverts  for  thy  shel- 
tering ;  thou  must  toil,  thou  must  build 
Houses,  and  gather  defences  for  thy 
frailty  ;  and  in  the  sweat  of  thy  brow 
must  thou  eat  thy  bread.  And  when  all 
is  done,  thou  must  die,  and  thou  know- 
est  it.  Death,  strange  visitant,  is  ever 
approaching  to  meet  thee  ;  death,  dark 
gate  of  mystery,  is  ever  the  termination 
of  thy  path  ! 

But,  my  brethren,  is  this  all  ?  To  live, 
to  toil,  to  struggle,  to  suffer,  to  sorrow, 
to  die,  —  is  this  all?  No,  it  is  not  all ; 
but  it  is  God's  love,  and  the  revelation 
of  God's  love  in  the  promise  of  immor- 
tality only,  that  can  assure  us  that  there 
is  more.  And  so  necessary  do  these 
seem  tome,  to  bear  up  tine  thinking,  feel- 
ing, suffering,  hoping,  inquiring  mind  ; 
so  necessary  is  it  that  a  voice  of  God 
should  speak  to  the  creatures  of  this 
earthly  disci pHne  ;  necessary,  as  that 
a  parental  voice  should  be  ready  and 
near  to  hush  the  cry  of  infancy;  that 
instead  of  stumbling  at  marvels  and  mir- 
acles, and  interpositions  and  teachings, 
I  confess  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
that  there  were  not  more  of  them.  I 
have  wondered  that  the  manifestations  of 
God  did  not  oftener  appear  in  the  blaz- 
ing bush  and  the  cloud-capt  mountam. 
I  have  wondered  that  the  curtain  of  mys- 
tery, that  hides  the  other  world,  were  not 
sometimes  lifted  up  ;  that  the  cherubim 
of  mercy  and  of  hope  were  not  some- 
times throned  on  the  clouds  of  the  even- 


2l6 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


tide  ;  that  the  bright  and  silent  stars 
did  not  sometimes  break  the  deep  still- 
ness that  reigns  among  them,  with  the 
scarcely  fabled  music  of  their  spheres ; 
that  the  rich  flood  of  morning  light,  as 
it  bathes  the  earth  in  love,  did  not  utter 
voices  from  its  throne  of  heavenly  splen- 
dor, to  proclaim  the  goodness  of  God. 
No,  I  wonder  not  at  marvels  and  mir- 
acles. That  scene  on  the  mount  of 
transfiguration  —  Moses  and  Ehas  talk- 
ing with  our  Saviour  —  seems  to  me,  so 
far  from  being  strange  and  incredible,  to 
meet  a  want  of  the  mind  ;  and  I  only  won- 
der, if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  that  it  is 
not  sometimes  repeated. 

Yet  why  should  I  say  this  ?  The  love 
of  God  to  us  is  sure  ;  and  it  is  a  sufficient 
assurance.  Trust  in  him  is  a  sustaining 
principle,  and  it  is  sufficient  strength. 
There  z's  another  state  of  being  for  us  — 
perish  all  reason  and  all  faith  if  it  is  not 
so  !  —  there  is  another  state  of  being  for 
us ;  and  though  the  eye  hath  not  seen 
it,  and  the  ear  hath  caught  no  sound  from 
its  wide  realm,  the  great  promise  and 
hope  are  sufficient. 

I  say,  the  love  of  God  is  sure.  He 
does  love  the  moral  beings  whom  he  has 
made  in  his  image  ;  loves  them,  I  doubt 
not,  in  their  fears  and  doubtings  and 
struggles  and  sorrows  ;  loves  them,  I  be- 
lieve, even  in  their  sins,  nay,  and  has 
commended  his  love  to  them  in  this  very 
character —  has  commended  his  love  to 
them,  in  that  while  they  were  yet  sinners, 
Christ  died  for  them. 

Can  you  doubt  whether  man  is  the  ob- 
ject of  God's  love  ?  Look  at  the  feeble 
insect  tribes  sporting  in  the  beams  of 
life,  happy  in  their  hour,  perishing  but 
to  give  life  to  others.  Is  he  not  a  kind 
Being,  who  made  even  these?  Is  it  not 
the  breath  of  love  in  which  even  they 
live  ?  Look  at  the  ranks  and  orders  of 
irrational  creatures,  that  inhabit  the 
fields,  the  groves,  the  mountains,  the  liv- 
ing streams  of  ocean.  Look  at  the  free 
and  fleet  rangers  of  the  forest.  Go,  thou, 
and  unfold  the  inward  frame  of  such  an 
one ;  trace  every  part  of  the  wonderful 
mechanism  ;  mark  every  sinew  ;  follow 


the  courses  of  its  life-blood  ;  see  every 
skilful  and  exquisite  adaptation  for  suste- 
nance, for  strength,  for  speed,  for  beauty. 
Is  not  this  the  workmanship  of  good- 
ness ?  Could  any  but  a  kind  and  gra- 
cious Being  have  done  this  ?  "  Ask,  now, 
of  the  beasts,"  says  Job,  "and  they  shall 
teach  thee  ;  and  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and 
they  shall  tell  thee  ;  or  speak  to  the  earth, 
and  it  shall  teach  thee  ;  and  the  fishes  of 
the  sea  shall  declare  unto  thee." 

But  turn,  now,  from  all  these,  and  look 
—  yes,  look  at  one  human  heart.  How 
infinite  the  difference  !  The  human 
heart  —  say  what  we  will  of  it,  let  the 
cynic  or  the  sceptic  say  what  he  will  — 
but  what  a  concentration  of  energies, 
what  a  gathering  up  of  solemn  thoughts, 
what  a  home  of  dear  and  gentle  affec- 
tions, what  a  deep  fountain  of  tears  and 
sorrows,  is  there .'  What  strugglings 
are  pent  up  within  its  narrow  enclosure  ; 
what  awful  powers  sleep  within  its  fold- 
ing bosom  ;  what  images  of  the  grand, 
the  godlike,  the  indefinite,  the  eternal, 
lie  in  its  unfathomable  depths  !  Doth 
not  the  Maker  of  that  heart  regard  it 
with  kindness?  Doth  he  not  pity  a  be- 
ing that  can  sorrow  ?  Doth  he  not  love 
a  being  whom  he  hath  made  capable  of 
love;  of  all  its  yearning,  of  all  its  ten- 
derness ?  Doth  he  not  care  for  a  being 
whom  he  hath  made  capable  of  improv- 
ing forever  ? 

Assuredly,  if  nature  speaks  truth,  if 
revelation  utters  wisdom,  he  does  love 
his  rational  offspring.  How  strong  is 
the  language  of  that  revelation  !  "  Can 
a  mother  forget  her  child  ?  Yea,  she 
may  forget,  yet  will  not  I  forget  thee." 

Let  this,  then,  be  settled  in  every  heart 
as  one  of  the  great  convictions  of  life  ; 
let  it  be  taken  to  the  soul  as  a  part  of 
the  armor  of  God  to  defend  it  against 
this  world's  temptations  and  calamities. 
We  may  not  all,  or  we  may  not  always, 
feel  the  need  of  it ;  but  we  do  all  need 
it,  and  we  need  it  always.  Always,  I  say  : 
for  we  are  always  exposed  to  sin,  and 
we  are  always  exposed  to  sorrow.  Let 
us  look  at  these  conditions  of  human  life 
for  a  few  moments,  to  see  how  the  appre- 


THE  LOVE   OF  GOD  TO   US. 


217 


hension  of  God's  love  to  us  is  fitted  to 
restrain  us  in  the  one  case,  and  to  com- 
fort us  in  the  other. 

Nothing  would  be  so  effectual  to  re- 
strain us  from  evil,  if  we  felt  it,  as  the 
love  of  God  to  us  ;  nothing  would  be  so 
effectual  to  recall  us  from  our  wanderings. 
It  is  a  lofty  conviction,  of  which  I  speak, 
my  brethren,  and  not  the  ordinary  and 
dull  acknowledgment,  the  mere  theo- 
logical inference,  that  God  is  good.  Let 
any  one  feel  that  God  is  as  truly  good  to 
him,  as  truly  loves  him,  is  as  really  inter- 
ested for  his  welfare,  as  his  father,  or 
his  most  devoted  friend  :  that  even  when 
he  is  rebellious  and  disobedient,  the 
good  and  blessed  God  pjties  him,  and 
pleads  with  him  to  return,  pleads  with 
him  even  through  the  sufferings  of  Christ, 
his  Son  ;  let  him  feel  that  the  kind  and 
gracious  Creator  has  fashioned  that 
wonderful  but  abused  mind  within  him, 
called  forth  those  sweet  but  neglected 
affections,  provided  dear  objects  for  them, 
given  him  home,  given  him  friends,  show- 
ered mercies  upon  him ;  let  him  thus 
feel  how  ungenerous  and  ungrateful  is 
the  evil  course  ;  and  surely  all  this,  if 
anything  can,  will  touch  him  with  con- 
viction and  move  him  to  repentance. 
Let  it  be  so  that  all  other  motives  have 
failed ;  but  who  of  us,  if  he  rightly  saw 
it,  could  lift  his  hand  against  that  which 
is  all  love  ?  Who  of  us,  if  he  felt  that 
love  to  him,  and  to  all  around  him,  —  who 
could  be  selfish,  contemptuous,  haughty, 
or  hard-hearted  towards  his  brother  ? 
Who  of  us,  if  he  saw  all  the  gifts  of  fife 
to  be  the  sacred  gifts  of  that  love,  could 
abuse  them  to  purposes  of  selfish  ambi- 
tion or  vicious  indulgence  .-'  —  The  spirit 
of  the  sinner,  the  spirit  of  sin,  I  mean, 
so  far  as  it  goes,  is  a  reckless  spirit. 
The  offender  cares  not,  very  much  in 
proportion  as  he  feels  that  nobody  cares 
for  him.  He  hardens  himself  against 
everything  the  more,  because  he  sup- 
poses that  everything  is  hardened  against 
•him.  And  when  he  goes  to  the  worst 
excesses  in  vice,  the  manifest  scorn  of 
his  fellow- creatures  is  the  last  influence 
that  steels  his  heart  against  every  better 


feeling.  And  yet,  even  then,  there  is 
sometimes  left  one  thought  Jhat  moves 
him  to  tears.  It  is  the  thought  of  his 
mother,  dwelling  alone,  perhaps,  in  his 
far  distant  and  forsaken  home  ;  it  is 
the  thought  of  his  mother,  who  sighs  in 
secret  places  for  him  ;  who  still  mingles 
his  outcast  name  with  every  evening 
prayer,  saying,  "  Oh,  restore  my  poor 
child  !  "  But  let  him  remember  that 
even  if  his  mother  should  forget,  God 
does  not  forget  him  ;  does  not  forsake 
him  ;  does  not  withdraw  all  his  mercies 
from  him.  His  friends  may  withdraw 
themselves  ;  he  may  have  no  earthly 
bosom  to  lean  upon  !  —  but  the  elements 
embosom  him  around  ;  the  air  breathes 
upon  him  a  breath  of  kindness  ;  the  sun 
shines  beneficently  upon  him  ;  the  page 
of  mercy  is  spread  for  him  ;  and  it  is 
written  over  with  invitations  and  prom- 
ises :  it  says,  in  accents  that  might  break 
a  heart  of  stone,  "  Turn,  thou  !  turn, 
thou  forsaken  one !  for  why  wilt  thou 
die  ? " 

So  effectual,  my  brethren,  did  we 
rightly  consider  it,  might  be  the  love  of 
God  to  restrain  us  from  evil  and  recall 
us  to  virtue  and  piety. 

Equally  might  it  avail,  and  equally 
indispensable  is  it,  to  comfort  us  in  afflic- 
tion. I  have  already  spoken  of  the 
afflicdons  of  life,  and  need  not  repeat 
what  I  then  said.  Suffice  it,  that  every 
heart  knows  what  it  has  to  suffer,  and  to 
struggle  with.  But  one  thing  I  am  sure 
of,  tliat  that  heart  can  find  no  repose  but 
in  a  firm  trust  in  the  infinite  love  of  God. 
I  speak  now  for  a  reasonable  mind,  for 
one  that  is  not  willing  to  suffer  blindly 
as  a  brute  suffers,  for  one  that  does  not 
find  it  enough  to  conclude  that  it  must 
suffer  and  cannot  help  it.  I  speak  for 
one  whom  sorrow  has  aroused  to  con- 
sider the  great  questions,  wherefore  he 
is  made,  and  why  he  is  made  to  suffer ; 
and  I  am  sure  that  such  an  one  must 
behold  GOODNESS  enthroned  and  reign- 
ing over  all  the  events  of  time  and  the 
destinies  of  eternity,  or.  for  his  mind, 
there  is  no  friend  nor  helper  in  the  uni- 
verse.    Ah  !  there  are  questions,  which 


2l8 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


nothing  can  answer,  but  God's  love; 
which  netting  can  meet,  but  God's 
promise  ;  which  nothing  can  calm,  but 
a  perfect  trust  in  his  goodness.  Speak 
to  the  void  darkness  of  affliction,  "the 
first  dark  day  of  nothingness"  after 
trouble  has  come  ;  speak  to  life  through 
all  its  stages  and  fortunes,  from  often- 
times suffering  infancy  to  trembling  age  ; 
speak  to  this  crowded  world  of  events, 
accidents,  and  vicissitudes  ;  ay,  or  speak 
thou  to  the  inward  world  of  the  heart, 
with  all  its  strifes,  its  sinkings,  its  mis- 
givings, its  remembrances,  its  strange 
visitings  of  long  gone  thoughts, 

"Touching  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly 
bound," 

and  none  of  these  can  answer  us;  we 
call  as  vainly  upon  them  as  the  priests  of 
Baal  upon  their  god.  There  is  shadow 
and  mystery  upon  all  the  creation  till 
we  see  God  in  it;  there  is  trouble  and 
fear  till  we  see  God's  love  in  it. 

But  give  me  that  assurance,  and 
though  there  are  many  things  which  I 
know  not,  many  things  which  I  can- 
not explain  nor  understand,  yet  I  can 
consent  not  to  know  them.  Enough, 
enough  to  know  that  God  is  good,  and 
what  he  does  is  right.  This  known, 
and  the  works  of  creation,  the  changes 
of  life,  the  destinies  of  eternity,  are  all 
spread  before  us  as  the  dispensations 
and  counsels  of  infinite  love.  This 
known,  and  then  we  know  that  the  love 
of  God  is  working  to  issues,  like  itself 
beyond  all  thought  and  imagination,  good 
and  glorious  ;  and  that  the  only  reason 
why  we  understand  it  not,  is  that  it  is 
too  glorious  for  us  to  understand.  This 
known:  and  what  then  do  we  say  ?  God's 
love  taketh  care  for  all,  nothing  is  neg- 
lected :  God's  love  watcheth  over  all, 
provideth  for  all,  maketh  wise  adapta- 
tions for  all  ;  for  age,  for  infancy,  for 
maturity,  for  childhood,  in  every  scene 
of  this  or  another  life ;  for  want,  for 
weakness,  for  joy,  and  for  sorrow,  and 
even  for  sin  ;  so  that  even  the  wrath  of 
man  shall  praise  the  goodness  of  God. 
All  is  good;  all  is  well;  all  is  right ;  and 


shall  be  forever.  This,  oh !  this  is  an 
inheritance,  and  a  refuge,  and  aiest  for 
the  mind,  from  which  the  convulsions  of 
worlds  cannot  shake  it. 

In  what  an  aspect  does  this  convic- 
tion present  the  scenes  of  eternity  ? 
We  are  placed  here  in  a  state  of  imper- 
fection and  trial,  and  much  that  seems 
like  mystery  and  mischance.  But  what 
shall  the  future  be,  if  the  light  of  God's 
goodness  is  to  shine  through  its  ages  ? 
I  answer,  it  shall  be  all  briglit  disclosure, 
full  consummation,  blessed  recompense. 
We  shall  doubtless  see,  what  we  can 
now  only  believe.  The  cloud  will  be 
lifted  up,  and  will  unveil  —  eternity  ! 
And  what  an  eternity  !  All  brightness  ; 
all  beatitude ;  one  unclouded  vision  ; 
one  immeasurable  progress  !  The  gate 
of  mystery  shall  be  past,  and  the 
full  light  shall  shine  forever.  Blessed 
change  !  That  which  caused  us  trial, 
shall  yield  us  triumph.  That  which  was 
the  deeper  darkness,  shall  be  but  the 
brighter  light.  That  which  made  the 
heart  ache,  shall  fill  it  with  gladness. 
Tears  shall  be  wiped  away,  and  beam- 
ings of  joy  shall  come  in  their  place. 
He  who  tried  the  soul  that  he  loved, 
shall  more  abundantly  comfort  the  soul 
that  he  approves.  That  God,  who  has 
walked  in  the  mysterious  way,  with 
clouds  and  darkness  around  aliout  him, 
will  then  appear  as  the  great  Revealer  : 
and  he  will  reveal  what  the  eye  hath 
not  seen,  nor  the  ear  heard,  nor  the 
heart  conceived. 

Let  me  insist,  in  close,  as  I  did  in  the 
beginning,  upon  the  necessity  of  this 
affectionate  trust  in  God.  We  cannot 
live  as  reasonable  beings  upon  any  con- 
viction less  lofty,  less  divine,  less  heart- 
felt than  this.  This  is  not  a  matter  of 
will  ;  it  is  a  matter  of  necessity.  Our 
minds  cannot  have  a  full  and,  at  the 
same  time,  safe  development ;  reflection 
and  feeling  cannot  safely  grow  in  us,  un- 
less they  are  guided,  relieved,  and  sus- 
tained by  the  contemplations  of  piety.  . 
The  fresh  and  unworn  sensibility  of 
youth  may  hold  on  for  a  while,  and 
may  keep  its  fountain  clear  and  bright ; 


SENTIMENTS  AND   PRINCIPLES. 


219 


but  by  and  by  changes  will  come  on  ; 
affliction  will  lay  its  chastening  hand 
upon  us  ;  disappointment  will  settle, 
like  a  chilling  damp,  upon  the  spirits  ,- 
the  mind  will  be  discouraged,  if  there  is 
nothing  but  earthly  hope  to  cheer  it  on; 
the  reasonings  of  misanthropy  and  the 
misgivings  of  scepticism  will  steal  into 
it  and  blight  its  generous  affections; 
morbid  sensitiveness  will  take  the  place 
of  healthful  feeling ;  all  this  will  natu- 
rally come  on,  with  the  growing  expe- 
rience of  life,  if  the  love  of  God  be  not 
our  support  and  safeguard.  Every  mind 
may  not  be  conscious  of  this  tendency, 
but  every  mind  that  thinks  much  and 
feels  deeply  will  be  conscious  of  it,  and 
will  feel  it  bitterly.  Your  body  may 
live  on  ;  but  your  soul,  in  its  full  devel- 
opment, in  its  deep  wants,  in  its  "strong 
hour  "  of  trial  and  of  reflection,  must 
pine,  and  perish,  and  die,  without  this 
holy  trust.  Let  it  not  so  perish.  Crea- 
ture of  God's  love !  believe  in  that 
love  which  gave  thee  being.  Believe  in 
that  love  which  every  moment  redeems 
thee  from  death,  and  offers  to  redeem 
thee  from  the  death  eternal.  Believe  in 
God's  love,  and  be  wise,  be  patient,  be 
comforted,  be  cheerful  and  happy  —  be 
happy  in  time  ;  be  happy  in  eternity  ! 


VIII. 


THE  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  SEN- 
TIMENTS  AND    PRINCIPLES. 

2  Samuel  xii.  5,7  :  "  And  David's  anger  was  greatly 
kindled  against  the  man,  and  he  said  to  Nathan,  As 
tlie  Lord  liveth,  the  man  that  hath  done  this  thing 
slial!  snrely  die.  And  Nathan  said  to  David,  Thou  art 
the  man !  " 

The  circumstances  attending  this 
celebrated  reproof  require  a  brief  no- 
tice, in  order  to  unfold  the  instruction 
which  it  conveys  to  us.  Tlie  charm,  I 
may  observe,  of  these  old  Bible  stories 
is,  that  tliey  are  always  records  of  the 
heart.  Kings  are  but  men,  and  palaces 
but  common  dwellings,  beneath  that  eye 
that  looks  through  all  human  disguises. 


The  robe  of  sanctity  itself  does  not  hide 
the  defects  that  lurk  beneath  it.  Priest 
or  patriarch,  seer  or  saint,  though  the 
man  be,  yet  the  Bible  will  have  us  see 
him  as  he  is. 

When  we  consider  what  David  was  in 
station,  and  repute,  and  actual  piety; 
the  King  of  Israel  ;  "  the  man  after 
God's  own  heart  ;  "  the  writer  of  holy 
psalms  which  are  sung  in  all  Christian 
nations  to  this  day  ;  what  is  it,  we  are 
ready  to  exclaim,  that  we  read  here  ? 
Why  is  it  that  this  man  stands  as  a 
trembling  culprit  before  the  searching 
eye  of  a  prophet  of  his  people  ?  Alas  ! 
David,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  was  a 
fallen  man.  That  which  every  good  man 
should  fear,  had  overtaken  him  ;  he  had 
fallen  !  He  had  been  guilty  of  deeds 
contrary  to  all  his  better  thoughts.  He 
had  been  guilty  of  crimes  ;  of  crimes 
which  fell  nothing  short  of  actual  mur- 
der ;  and  murder  committed  with  the 
most  hateful  intent  and  the  most  horri- 
ble deception. 

For,  observe  what  was  done,  in  that 
ancient  Hebrew  court  and  kingdom. 
To  possess  the  wife  of  Uriah,  David 
wishes  to  rid  himself  of  her  husband, 
a  devoted  servant  and  a  valiant  warrior 
in  his  armies.  And  what  now,  think 
you,  is  the  method  he  adopts  to  gain  his 
purpose  ?  He  sends  a  letter  by  this  same 
faithful  servant,  as  if  he  would  do  him 
honor;  he  sends  a  letter  by  him  to  the 
captain  of  the  host ;  and  methinks  the 
cheek  of  the  hardened  and  unscrupulous 
Joab  must  have  turned  pale  as  he  read 
the  words,  "  Set  Uriah  in  the  fore-front 
of  the  hottest  battle,  and  retire  from  him 
that  he  may  be  smitten  and  die  !  "  The 
cruel  mandate  is  obeyed  ;  and  the  man 
who  for  his  sovereign  had  bared  his 
breast  to  the  shock  of  battle  where  it 
raged  the  fiercest,  falls  a  victim,  not  to 
the  ordinary  fate  of  war,  but  to  the  per- 
fidy of  the  very  master  whom  he  served  ! 
The  unhallowed  design  is  accomplished  ; 
the  object  of  guilty  passion  is  obtained : 
T)3.v\d  possesses  the  wife  of  Uriah  ! 

But  although  conscience  slept  in  the 
bosom  of  the  king,  it  was  not  to   sleep 


220 


ON  THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


there  forever.  Time  passed  on  ;  but 
time  that  bears  in  its  bosom  the  burden 
of  guilt  is  hke  no  other  time;  heavy, 
dark,  portentous.  To  the  listening  ear  of 
the  conscience-stricken  man  something 
seems  to  be  coming,  he  knows  not  what, 
some  voice  will  break  forth  —  he  knows 
not  where.  And  a  voice  was  soon  to 
fall  on  David's  ear  that  should  change 
the  whole  complexion  of  his  guilty  deed. 
For  now  in  this  awful  crisis  must  not 
the  prophet  of  God  be  idle.  There  is  a 
stir  in  that  world  of  conscience  that  sur- 
rounds the  guilty  king,  of  which  he  thinks 
not.  Footsteps  are  heard  approaching 
the  royal  apartments  ;  steps  heavy  and 
perhaps  reluctant,  but  monitory  and 
determined  as  the  steps  of  Judgment. 
"  And  the  Lord,"  says  the  sacred  record, 
"sent  Nathan  unto  David." 

Let  us  observe  the  manner  of  his 
proceeding.  For  it  would  be  difficult 
to  select  a  more  beautiful  example  of 
ingenuity  and  fidelity  united,  than  ap- 
peared in  the  address  of  the  prophet 
on  this  trying  occasion.  He  begins 
with  a  parable ;  yet  a  parable  drawn 
with  such  masterly  skill,  that  it  has  to 
the  king  all  the  appearance  of  reality. 
"  There  were  two  men  in  a  city ;  the 
one  rich,  the  other  poor.  The  rich 
man  had  exceeding  many  flocks  and 
herds ;  but  the  poor  man,"  says  this 
simple  and  beautiful  parable,  "  had 
nothing,  save  one  little  ewe  lamb,  which 
he  had  bought  and  nourished  up  ;  and 
it  grew  up  together  with  him  and  his 
children ;  it  did  eat  of  his  own  meat, 
and  drank  of  his  own  cup,  and  was 
cherished  in  his  bosom,  and  was  unto 
him  as  a  daughter:"  a  familiar  and 
striking  description  of  the  affection 
which  a  whole  household  often  feels  for 
a  cosset,  or  pet  animal,  that  is  brought 
up  at  the  farm-house  door.  "  And  there 
came  a  traveller  unto  the  rich  man,  and 
he  spared  to  take  of  his  own  flock  and 
of  his  own  herd,  but  took  the  poor 
man's  lamb,  and  dressed  it  for  the  way- 
faring man  that  was  come  unto  him." 
Imagine  now  the  grief  of  this  poor  fam- 
ily, as  the  cherished  lamb  is  torn  from 


their  little  enclosure  and  slaughtered 
before  their  eyes,  and  you  have  the 
whole  picture  which  the  prophet  drew. 
It  is  a  tale  of  humble,  rural  life  indeed; 
but  the  royal  justice  is  awakened  and 
bursts  out  into  strong  indignation.  "  As 
the  Lord  liveth,"  says  David  —  it  is  the 
form  of  a  Jewish  oath  ;  —  as  if  lie  had 
said,  "  By  the  justice  of  the  living  God, 
the  man  that  hath  done  this  thing  shall 
surely  die."  Oh  !  then,  with  what  eye 
was  it,  think  you,  that  tlie  fearless 
prophet  looked  into  the  very  soul  of  his 
poor  blinded  master  and  said,  "  Thou 
art  the  man  !  "  I  remember  a  picture 
of  this  scene,  drawn  by  a  master's  hand. 
The  prophet  stands  erect  before  the 
throned  monarch,  with  pointed  finger 
and  an  eye  sad,  but  fixed  and  searcli- 
ing;  and  the  majesty  of  an  earthly  king- 
dom cowers  and  shrinks  away  before 
the  majesty  of  virtue  ! 

We  naturally  ask  how  such  a  rebuke 
could  have  been  received:  and  we  are 
not  only  told  that  David  said  at  the 
time,  "  I  have  sinned  against  the  Lord," 
but  we  are  referred  also  to  that  un- 
equalled penitential  psalm,  the  51st, 
which  Jewish  tradition  has  assigned  to 
this  period  of  David's  life. 

But  the  observation  to  which  I  wish 
now  to  draw  your  particular  attention  is 
this :  that  the  man  who  felt  all  this 
indignation  at  a  certain  act  of  baseness 
and  injustice  was  the  very  man  that  did 
it ;  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  who 
did  the  far  worse  act  which  was  but 
shadowed  forth  in  the  parable.  David 
abhorred  a  simple  act  of  oppression. 
Of  what  was  he  guilty  .-"  Of  oppression, 
treachery,  adultery,  murder,  —  all  con- 
summated in  one  single  tissue  of  crimes. 
His  anger  was  greatly  kindled  against 
a  certain  supposed  offender  ;  he  was 
even  religious  in  his  abhorrence  ;  "As 
the  Lord  liveth,"  is  his  declaration, 
"  the  man  that  hath  done  this  thing 
shall  surely  die;"  and  yet — and  yet, 
David  was  the  man  who  did  it ! 

This  is  the  point,  then,  to  which  I 
wish  to  bring  your  meditations ;  the 
difference,  that  is  to  say,  between  sen- 


SENTIMENTS   AND    PRINCITLES. 


221 


timents  and  principles.  Let  me  attempt, 
first  to  define,  next  to  illustrate  it ;  and, 
finally,  to  consider  tlie  decision  to  which 
it  nuist  bring  each  mind  with  regard  to 
itself. 

I.  There  are  two  kinds  of  religion  in 
the  world  ;  and  all  other  religious  dif- 
ferences are  trifling  compared  with  this. 
There  is  a  religion  of  imagination,  and 
there  is  a  religion  of  reality.  There  is 
an  ideal  and  an  actual  religion  ;  a  re- 
ligion of  the  head,  and  a  religion  of 
the  heart.  Or,  to  speak  more  exactly, 
there  is  a  religion  which  is  occasionally 
and  transiently  felt  in  the  heart,  but 
which  does  not  constitute  the  character 
of  a  man :  and  there  is  a  religion  which 
dwells  there  habitually,  and  is  the  pre- 
dominating disposition  and  mind  of  the 
man.  This  is  the  difference  between 
sentiments  and  principles.  Sentiments 
are  temporary  impressions  of  goodness 
and  virtue  ;  principles  are  abiding  and 
controlling  impressions  of  goodness  and 
virtue.  Sentiments  are  general  and  in- 
voluntary ;  they  do  not  rise  to  the  char- 
acter of  virtue  ;  a  man  can  scarcely  help 
sometimes  feeling  them:  they  spring 
from  the  act  of  God's  creation  like 
bladed  grass  or  opening  flowers;  and 
this  is  one  sense  in  which  God  works 
within  us,  though  I  believe  devoutly 
that  he  puts  forth  interpositions  also, 
for  our  times  and  seasons  of  need. 
Principles,  on  the  other  hand,  are  per- 
sonal, intentional,  particular  :  they  are 
brought  home  to  the  heart ;  they  are 
acted  out  in  the  life  ;  they  are  our  own 
act;  they  are  the  very  form  of  that  act, 
through  which,  God  helping,  we  work 
out  our  own  salvation.  We  could  do 
nothing  without  the  help  of  God  ;  but 
that  supposed,  we  have  a  work  to  do  ; 
and  it  is  the  very  work  of  virtue,  the 
very  work  of  our  salvation.  Now  it  is 
precisely  short  of  this  point,  I  fear,  that 
most  men  stop.  They  have  sentiments, 
but  not  principles.  This  is,  for  us  at 
the  present  day,  the  very  point  of  con- 
version. To  pass  over  from  sentiments 
to  principles  is  the  very  process  of  con- 
version.    We  are  not  utterly  bad  ;   we 


have  some  good  feelings,  some  occa- 
sional religious  emotions  ;  but  in  the 
eye  of  the  Gospel,  many  of  us  fall  short 
utterly,  fatally.  And  when  I  utter  this 
solemn  word,  fatally,  I  am  not  pro- 
nouncing some  mere  arbitrary  pulpit 
decision  ;  I  am  declaring  the  very  laws 
of  our  nature.  For  without  something 
more  than  sentiments,  without  princi- 
ples of  goodness  and  piety,  we  are  not 
prepared  to  be  happy  here  or  hereafter. 
Happiness  lies  deeper  than  sentiments. 
In  short,  it  is  but  the  old  story  of  human 
deficiency :  we  approve  the  right,  but 
pursue  the  wrong.  We  may  be  bad 
men,  with  all  our  transient  good  feel- 
ings. When  David  said,  "As  the  Lord 
liveth,  the  man  that  hath  done  this  thing 
shall  surely  die  !  "  that  was  an  honest 
burst  of  indignation  at  wrong;  and  yet, 
at  this  very  moment,  he  was  in  the 
commission  of  that  very  wrong;  nay, 
of  a  far  worse  than  that.  You  see, 
then,  that  although  our  discrimination 
is  drawn  from  the  unusual  sphere  of  a 
monarch's  life,  it  strikes  far  and  wide 
and  deep ;  it  strikes,  in  fact,  at  the 
great  religious  defect  of  the  world  I  I 
solemnly  believe  that  no  point  could 
be  put  forward  for  the  consideration  of, 
a  religious  audience,  more  vital,  more 
momentous,  than  this. 

II.  Let  us  now  endeavor  to  illustrate  it. 

The  instance  which  is  presented  in  the 
life  of  David  is  not  the  only  one  to  be 
found,  of  a  total  contradiction  between 
a  man's  general  sentiments  and  his  par- 
ticular conduct.  We  see  the  same  thing 
around  us  every  day.  Who  abets  injus- 
tice, fraud,  oppression,  covetousness,  re- 
venge, envy,  or  slander  ?  Not  one.  But 
are  there  no  such  things  in  the  world .'' 
Are  there  not  many  to  be  found  who 
are  guilty  of  these  things  ?  Ay,  guilty  of 
these  very  things.  And  yet,  I  tliink,  I 
could  speak  a  parable  upon  any  one  of 
these  vices  ;  I  could  set  forth  in  a  story 
the  wickedness  of  injustice,  or  the  cru- 
elty of  oppression,  or  the  baseness  of 
slander,  or  the  miseries  inflicted  by  unbri- 
dled indulgence  ;  I  could  set  before  you 
the  injured  and  ruined  victims  of  wrong  ; 


222 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


I  could  make  you  hear  the  cry  of  their 
distress  ;  yes,  I  could  speak  a  parable  at 
which  the  anger  of  every  hearer  should 
be  greatly  kindled  ;  and  yet  to  how  many 
of  these  same  hearers  might  I  turn  with 
the  home-put  rebuke  of  the  prophet,  and, 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  loudest  excla- 
mation, say  to  him,  "  Stop,  good  friend  ! 
hold  back  a  little  the  edge  of  thy  re- 
proach ;  spare  thyself  a  litde  ;  thou  art 
the  very  man  ! "  "  What,  I  ?  "  —  might 
be  his  exclamation.  Yes,  thou.  Thou  art 
thyself  in  some  relation  unjust,  or  oppres- 
sive, or  envious,  or  indulgent  to  thyself, 
or  a  careless  talker  of  others.  "  There- 
fore, thou  art  inexcusable,  O  man,  who- 
soever thou  art  that  judgest,"  says  St. 
Paul ;  "for  wherein  thou  judgest  another, 
thou  condemnest  thyself:  for  thou  that 
judgest,  doest  the  same  things." 

I  believe,  as  we  extend  our  observa- 
tion of  life,  that  we  shall  find  it  less  and 
less  safe  to  rely  upon  men's  general  sen- 
timents and  general  conversation.    More 
and  more  do  we  demand  to  know,  not 
what  they  say,  but  what  they  do.     It  is 
amazing  to  see  how  some  men  can  talk 
of  virtue  and  a  virtuous  parentage,  whose 
life  denies  both.       I  have  been   struck 
sometimes  with  observing  what  a  mar- 
vellous facility  some   bad  men  have  of 
quoting  Scripture.     It  seems  to  comfort 
their  evil  consciences  to  use  good  words, 
and  to  gloze  over  bad  deeds  with  holy 
texts,  wrested  to  their  purpose.     Nay, 
there  are  not  wanting  instances  where 
the  more  a  man  talks  about  the  Bible 
the  less  he  feels  it;  the  more  he  talks 
about  virtue,  the  less  he  has  of  it ;  and 
you    may  sometimes  discover  the  very 
point  of  his  deficiency  by  the  extraordi- 
nary strength  of  his  language  about  that 
very  thing.     Out   of  the  abundance   of 
the  heart,  it  is  true,  the  mouth  speaketh  ; 
but  it  sometimes  speaks  the  very  con- 
trary of  what  the  man  practises.    When 
you  are  talking  in  general  about  religion 
and  virtue,  and  find  your  neighbor  ever 
drawing  the    conversation  to  a   certain 
point,  mark  that  point ;  it  may  be  that 
he  would  make  amends  for  some  fault 
there,  or  he   would   spread    out    some 


flimsy  veil  of  words,  some  subtle  distinc- 
tions to  shield  his  faults  ;  or  his  guilty 
consciousness  draws  him  to  it  with  a 
kind  of  strange  fascination.  When  you 
find  a  person  very  suspicious  of  others 
in  some  respects,  look  to  it  whether  he 
be  not  an  offender  there.  So  the  moment 
of  a  man's  departure  from  his  old  faith 
is  often  signalized  by  the  most  violent 
struggles  and  the  loudest  protests  against 
heresy.  And  so  a  man  may  express  the 
strongest  disgust  at  sin,  at  self-indul- 
gence, at  sensuality  in  all  its  forms  : 
nay,  and  in  a  sense  he  may  feel  such 
disgust ;  and  yet  in  some  points  he  may 
be,  —  secretly  if  not  openly,  in  a  less 
measure  if  not  in  a  greater,  in  one  form 
if  not  in  another,  in  imagination  if  not  in 
act,  in  food  if  not  in  drink,  in  opium  if 
not  in  alcohol,  in  indolence  if  not  in  pas- 
sion, —  he  may  be  a  vicious  man  and  a 
sensualist. 

It  is  this  contrariety  which  is  often 
witnessed  between  what  is  felt  at  church 
and  what  is  done  abroad  in  the  world. 
Virtue  and  vice,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
those  terms,  must,  in  this  place,  be  mere 
matters  of  reflection  and  feeling.  There 
is  no  opportunity  for  the  practice  of 
either.  Men  yield  to  the  argument 
here,  with  most  undesirable  facility  and 
readiness,  because  nothing  is  to  follow. 
Nay,  it  is  very  easy  and  very  safe,  while 
at  church,  to  feel  upon  these  matters. 
And  a  man  shall  to-day  be  rapt  in  ad- 
miration of  the  noble  and  lovely  virtues 
of  Christianity,  and  yet  to-morrow  shall 
find  him  so  different  a  man  that  he  shall 
scarce  know  himself.  When  the  sun 
shall  rise  again,  that  is  to  light  him  forth 
to  his  earthly  pursuits,  when  the  atmos- 
phere of  worldly  gains  and  competitions 
grows  warm  about  him,  when  the  fervid 
courses  of  unlawful  pleasure  again  bring 
on  the  fever  of  the  passions,  all  his  fine 
emotions,  alas  !  about  virtue,  all  his  gen- 
erous abhorrence  of  selfishness  and  sen- 
sual crime,  shall  be  as  the  morning  cloud 
that  passeth  away.  That  cloud  may  be 
tinged  with  colors  of  gold.  It  may  be 
bright  and  beautiful,  like  the  fine  sen- 
timents that  we  entertain  about  virtue. 


SENTIMENTS   AND   PRINCIPLES. 


223 


What  do  they  avail,  so  long  as  they  dwell 
in  the  airy  regions  of  the  imagination  ? 
We  walk  not  on  the  cloud,  but  in  the  rug- 
ged path,  where  nothing  but  principles 
can  sustain  and  bear  us  onward.  I  do 
not  say  that  such  emotions  as  I  have  de- 
scribed are  necessarily  false  or  fictitious. 
Nay,  they  may  be  quite  sincere  and  real 
for  the  time  ;  and  this  only  increases  the 
danger.  A  man  may  be  really  interested 
in  religion  in  a  certain  way,  while  he  is 
seriously,  fatally,  deficient  in  virtue.  I 
have  known,  perhaps  you  all  have  known, 
instances  of  this,  which  are  enough  to 
overwhelm  one  with  astonishment  and 
dismay.  It  is  common  to  resolve  such 
cases  into  blank  hypocrisy;  but  such, 
I  confess,  is  not  always  my  solution. 
Men  have  I  known  who  have  prayed  most 
fervently,  and  I  could  not  doubt  most 
sincerely ;  and  yet  who  have  constantly 
been  guilty  of  things,  so  bad  and  base, 
or  so  ungenerous  and  unrighteous,  that 
robbery  and  murder,  the  crimes  that  fill 
the  dockets  of  your  criminal  courts, 
could  scarcely  be  more  heinous  !  What 
an  awful  example  of  this  is  held  up  to  us 
in  the  passage  of  Scripture  history  from 
which  I  am  discoursing!  That  the  writer 
of  the  psalms,  —  the  most  perfect  devo- 
tional compositions,  inspiration  apart, 
that  the  world  ever  saw  ;  compositions 
which,  considering  the  age  in  which  they 
appeared,  prove  their  own  inspiration,  — 
that  the  writer  of  the  psalms  could  have 
been  the  seducer  of  Bathsheba,  and  the 
murderer  of  her  husband,  is  a  fact  that 
may  well  put  every  man  upon  his  guard  ! 
And  indeed  such  is  the  inconsistency, 
and  waywardness,  and  self-deception  of 
the  human  heart,  that  I  am  tempted  to 
think  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that 
a  man  may  be  quite  a  good  man,  or  what 
the  world  calls  quite  a  good  sort  of  man 
in  general,  and  yet  a  very  bad  man  in 
particular  ;  a  good  sort  of  man  at  church, 
and  yet  a  bad  man  in  the  world  ;  or  a 
good  sort  of  a  man  in  public,  and  yet  a 
bad  man  in  his  family  ;  or  a  good  sort  of 
man  at  home  and  on  common  days,  but 
a  very  bad  man  on  holidays,  or  a  very 
bad  man  when  he  is  on  a  journey,  or  a 


very  bad  man  when  he  goeth  to  a  strange 
city !  And  in  how  low  a  measure,  in  how 
doubtful  a  character,  in  what  a  dishon- 
oring comparison,  is  he  a  good  man,  who 
is  bad  just  when  occasion  offers  or  op- 
portunity permits  !  He  is  not  a  good  man 
at  all  ! 

At  the  risk  of  wearying  you  with  mul- 
tiplicity of  illustration,  I  must  invite  your 
attention  to  another  contrast;  for  the 
point  is  one  of  the  most  vital  importance. 
And  that  is  the  contrast,  not  between  the 
general  feeling  and  the  particular  conduct, 
but  between  the  general  and  the  partic- 
ular feeling.  For  we  must  go  further, 
and  say,  that  while  a  man's  general  feel- 
ing about  abstract  rectitude  may  be  very 
correct,  his  particular  feeling  about  the 
specific  qualities  that  constitute  recti- 
tude, or  the  specific  actions  that  it  re- 
quires of  him,  may  be  decidedly  wrong. 

Have  we  never  heard  one  say  tiiat  he 
wished  he  were  a  Christian,  that  he  de- 
sired to  be  a  good  man  .''  But,  now  do 
you  take  some  pertinent  occasion  to  re- 
mind him  that  goodness  requires  him 
to  resist  a  certain  passion,  to  sacrifice  a 
certain  indulgence,  to  control  his  appe- 
tite at  a  feast,  or  to  keep  his  temper  in  a 
dispute  :  and  then  he  will  find  that  he 
does  not  wish  to  be  good.  Thus  it  was 
with  the  young  man  in  the  Gospel,  who 
came  to  our  Saviour  to  be  instructed. 
So  amiable  and  good  did  he  appear,  that 
Jesus,  when  he  looked  upon  him,  loved 
him.  And  yet,  when  he  put  that  fair- 
seeming  youth  to  the  test,  he  was  found 
utterly  wanting.  "  Sell  all  that  thou  hast," 
he  said,  "  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  come, 
follow  me."  When  he  heard  that  saying 
he  was  very  sorrowful,  for  he  was  very 
rich.  He  could  do  many  things  :  but  he 
could  not  do  that.  Jesus  at  a  distance 
seemed  an  attractive  person,  but  he 
found  it  different  when  he  came  to  under- 
stand him.  Ah!  how  beautiful  upon  the 
ffiountains  are  the  feet  of  them  that 
"  preach  good  tidings  "  ;  they  are  glori- 
ous forms  as  they  stand  on  high,  invest- 
ed with  the  hues  of  distant  scenery  and 
clothed  with  the  radiance  of  heaven  ; 
but  let  them  come  down,  the  plain  and 


224 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


humble  preachers  of  a  cross,  of  self- 
renunciation,  and  then  we  find  that  they 
wear  a  rough  garb  and  a  stern  face,  and 
we  like  them  not.  No,  we  do  not  under- 
stand our  Gospel  when  we  merely  admire 
it.  Religion,  a  man  says,  is  a  good  thing, 
and  the  Gospel  is  glad  tidings,  and  the 
name  of  the  Saviour  is  a  gracious  name, 
and  he  wonders  that  anybody  can  say 
that  the  human  heart  dislikes  them  ;  but 
let  the  Gospel  say  to  him,  as  it  said  to 
Herod,  "  Thou  must  not  have  this  wo- 
man ;  or  thou  must  not  have  this  cup  of 
intoxication  ;  or  thou  must  not  have 
this  property  which  thou  hast  unjustly 
got ;  "  and  then  he  is  ready  to  hate  it  for 
its  interference  with  his  pursuits  and 
pleasures.  Yes,  the  Gospel  is  then  a 
different  thing  ;  no  longer  a  speculative, 
but  an  experimental  thing ;  no  longer 
a  sentimental,  but  a  practical  thing  ;  no 
longer  a  lovely  and  a  lulling  song,  of  one 
that  "hath  a  pleasant  voice  and  can  play 
well  upon  an  instrument,"  but  a  harsh 
sound,  and  a  word  of  rebuke,  and  a  stone 
of  stumbling,  and  a  rock  of  offence. 
So  was  it  predicted  of  our  Saviour,  our 
embodied  religion  ;  so  did  he  foresee 
that  he  would  be  regarded  ;  so  was  he 
regarded  ;  and  why  ?  Because,  unlike 
the  celebrated  teachers  of  antiquity,  he 
penetrated  beyond  the  regions  of  vague 
sentiment, —  beyond  the  regions  where 
moralizers  and  philosophers  had  wo- 
ven their  fine  theories  and  spread  out 
their  beautiful  maxims,  —  penetrated,  I 
say,  to  the  depths  of  the  heart,  brought 
out  its  hidden  iniquities,  arraigned  the 
cherished  prejudices  and  darling  passions 
of  the  very  age  and  country,  and  of  the 
very  people  amidst  whom  he  livfed. 
Therefore  were  they  angry  with  him  in 
tlie  sanctuary,  were  ready  to  stone  him  in 
the  street,  hurried  him  to  the  brow  of  a 
precipice  to  cast  him  down,  and  finally 
bore  him  as  a  victim  to  the  awful  mount 
of  Calvary.  Yes,  Calvary  bears  eternal 
witness  to  the  sacrifice  of  one  whom  men 
crucified,  because,  not  content  with  de- 
livering to  them  fine  sentiments,  he  told 
them  the  cutting,  keen-piercing,  anger- 
provoking  truth. 


It  is  a  tremendous  thing  to  consider, 
that  out  of  the  bosom  of  a  world  of  fine 
sentiments  such  passions  can  spring. 
Had  any  one  stood  up  in  the  synagogue 
at  Jerusalem,  the  Sunday  before  the 
Crucifixion,  and  discoursed  eloquently 
on  the  beauties  of  virtue  —  of  gentleness, 
candor,  and  loving  kindness  —  the  peo- 
ple would  have  heard  him  with  pleasure  ; 
the  preacher  would  have  been  admired. 
On  the  Friday  following,  they  hurried 
the  living  representative  of  all  these  vir- 
tues to  death  — to  the  ignominious  death 
of  the  cross  ! 

But  the  world  is  not  essentially 
changed.  That  Jewish  province  is  not, 
as  we  are  wont  to  consider  it,  cut  off 
from  the  great  world  of  humanity.  The 
same  world  now  lives  and  breathes 
around  us;  a  world  of  fine  sentiments 
and  foul  practices,  of  good  maxims  and 
bad  deeds  ;  a  world  whose  darker  pas- 
sions are  not  only  restrained  by  custom 
and  ceremony,  but,  strange  to  say,  veiled 
over  even  from  itself,  by  beautiful  senti- 
ments. I  see  this  terrible  solecism  every- 
where. I  have  seen  it  in  Romish  sen- 
timentalism,  covering  infidelity  and  vice  ; 
in  Protestant  substitution,  lauding  spirit- 
uality and  faith,  and  neglecting  homely 
truth  and  candor  and  generosity ;  in 
ultra-liberal  refinement,  mounting  to 
heaven  in  its  dreams  and  wallowing 
amidst  the  mire  of  earth  in  its  deeds.  I 
see  it  in  literature.  Bad  men  and  wo- 
men can  write  good  books  —  i.  e.  books 
in  which  virtue  is  praised  Nay,  so 
excellent  is  public  sentiment  that  they 
dare  not  write  any  other.  And  suppose 
a  book  of  a  different  character  to  be 
written.  Suppose  that  a  book  were 
written  in  praise  of  sin  —  i.  e.  in  evident 
and  unblushing  praise  of  it  Wh)',  the 
worst  man  among  us  would  abhor  the 
book — would  throw  it  down  in  disgust. 
Find  a  man  that  is  dishonest,  and  show 
him  a  book  right  heartily  employed  upon 
teaching  men  how  to  deceive  and  de- 
fraud, and  he  could  not  bear  it.  Find 
a  cruel  man  — one  who  is  every  day  say- 
ing and  doing  unkind,  hard,  and  bitter 
things — and   show   him  this  character 


SENTIMENTS   AND    PRINCIPLES. 


225 


spread  out  and  eulogized  in  a  hoolv,  and 
he  could  not  suppress  his  indignation 
at  it;  his  feelings  would  break  out  into 
speech  ;  he  would  say  it  was  a  monstrous 
book.  And  yet  some  weak  sufferer  by 
his  side,  whose  gentle  and  tender  spirit 
was  every  day  wounded  by  his  violence 
or  his  satire,  might  turn  to  him  aston- 
ished, and  say,  "It  is  thou!  —  it  is 
thou  !  "  Find  the  grossest  sensualist, 
and  open  to  him  a  work  like  some  of 
the  late  French  fictions,  over  whose 
pages  is  drawn  the  slime  of  every  sen- 
sual vice,  and  drawn  as  if  to  paint  and 
illuminate  the  page  ;  and  with  an  air  of 
horror  he  would  exclaim  that  it  was  a 
work  of  the  most  shameless  profligacy 
that  ever  was  seen.  And  yet  some 
companion  in  evil  might  turn  to  him 
and  say  :  "  Why,  I  am  surprised  at  this  ; 
I  thought  you  would  like  this  book. 
Why,  thou  art  the  very  man  ! " 

Well,  it  is  fortunate,  no  doubt,  that 
this  sentiment  lives;  it  is  well  that  it  is 
not  dead  and  cannot  easily  die.  But  let 
us  not  mistake  it  for  something  better 
than  it  is  ;  let  us  not  be  deceived  by  it ; 
that  is  the  only  point  about  which  I  am 
anxious.  Let  us  see  and  settle  it  with 
ourselves,  that  there  may  be  a  world  of 
religious  sentiment,  and  yet  a  world 
of  little  or  no  religion.  The  religious 
state  of  many  minds,  we  must  believe, 
alas !  is  no  better  than  this ;  there  is  a 
vague  and  general  sentiment  of  religion 
'n  them,  but  no  particular  devotion,  no 
habitual  piety.  Religion  plays  about 
their  minds,  like  the  brilliant  but  cold 
lights  that  sometimes  flash  across  the 
northern  sky.  There  are  occasional 
splendors  of  thought  about  the  man, 
md  rich  gleams  of  fancy,  and  transient 
corruscations  that  kindle  the  whole 
heaven  of  his  imagination  ;  but  no  vital 
warmth  penetrates  the  heart  ;  all  is 
cold  and  sterile  there  as  the  regions  of 
the  northern  pole.  He  does  nothing; 
he  gains  no  victories  over  himself  ;  he 
makes  no  progress  ;  he  is  just  where  he 
was  years  ago;  there  is  nothing  about 
his  cultivation  of  religion,  determined 
and  resolute  and  regular,  like  his  culti- 


vation of  anything  else  —  his  estate,  his 
profession,  his  knowledge.  His  relig- 
ion, the  grand  interest  of  his  being,  he 
leaves  to  take  its  chance  in  general  and 
inefficient  sentiment. 

III.  The  defect  is  fatal ;  and  it  is  this 
that  I  would  insist  upon  for  a  moment 
in  close  :  that  no  religion  meets  the  Gos- 
pel demand,  or  the  demand  of  our  own 
nature  for  happiness,  but  that  which 
passes  from  sentiment  into  principle. 

TJie  notions  of  religion  that  are  float- 
ing loosely  upon  the  mass  of  society 
have  indeed  their  uses.  They  bless 
society  as  a  mass.  So  excellent  a  thing 
is  religion  that  it  can  touch  nothing 
which  it  does  not  in  some  respect  bene- 
fit; that,  even  when  it  floats  upon  the 
surface,  it  is  like  a  holy  oil  that  tames 
down,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  waves  of 
passion  that  are  sweHing  beneath.  But, 
my  brethren,  when  I  look  into  those 
deep  waters  beneath,  when  I  look  into 
the  awful  depths  of  a  human  heart,  I 
see  the  need  of  a  power  that  shall  pene- 
trate to  the  very  abysses  of  that  ocean 
to  which  human  nature  may  well  be 
compared.  To  send  down  light,  tran- 
quillity, purity,  into  those  deeps  of  the 
soul  — no  breeze  upon  the  surface,  nor 
brightening  smile  upon  the  face  of  life, 
can  do  that.  That  smile  is  lovely,  that 
breeze  js  refreshing;  but  deep,  oh  !  deep 
down  in  the  heart  must  stir  the  wrest- 
ling energies,  the  profound  movements, 
that  will  sway  it  to  virtue  and  happiness. 
It  is  no  vague  sentimentalism  that  will 
save  a  man,  but  it  must  be  a  work,  and 
a  care,  and  a  watching,  and  a  striving, 
that  will  save  him. 

Take  the  question  for  a  moment  out 
of  the  province  of  religion.  Does  an  ad- 
miration for  the  fine  arts  make  any  one 
an  artist?  Do  just  sentiments  about 
trade  make  any  one  a  merchant?  Do 
general  maxims  about  industry  make 
any  one  an  industrious  man  ? 

We  do  not  understand  the  supreme, 
the  unutterable  interest  embraced  in  re- 
ligion, when  we  think  to  give  less  to  it 
than  our  whole  heart.  We  do  not  un- 
derstand our  nature,  when  we  think  to 


226 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


shuffle  off  its  stupendous  charge  as  most 
men  do.  No  interest  on  earth  can  so 
ill  brook  our  levity  or  negligence.  What 
is  the  matter  with  life  but  this  ?  Why 
is  it  that  so  many,  and  so  many  who 
consider  themselves  quite  good  Chris- 
tians too,  are  living  such  a  poor,  lame, 
halting  life  ;  so  ill-adjusted  to  the  scene 
around  them,  so  unhappy  amidst  crav- 
ing wants,  and  disturbing  passions,  and 
pains  of  self-reproach,  but  because  they 
will  not  give  their  whole  hearts  to  truth 
and  purity,  to  goodness  and  to  God? 

I  think,  too,  that  there  must  be  spe- 
cial meditations  and  special  resolves  in 
this  matter.  I  say  not  in  what  form : 
but  the  things  must  be.  We  want  re- 
ligion, indeed,  to  flow  through  the  whole 
of  life  ;  but  it  must  have  fountains  and 
supplies,  or  it  cannot  flow  on  :  it  must 
have  these,  or  it  will  be  lost  in  the 
sands  of  vague  and  barren  abstraction. 
In  the  vast  and  desolate  wastes  of  Africa, 
travellers  tell  us  of  certain  spectral  illu- 
sion —  the  mirage  of  the  desert  —  which 
spreads  before  them  beautiful  visions 
of  fertility  and  verdure,  that  cheat  the 
eye  and  rob  the  heart.  Such,  alas  I  are 
piety  and  goodness  to  many  a  moral 
traveller.  They  are  but  visions  ;  ever 
in  the  distance  ;  never  approached, 
never  made  realities.  The  fertility  and 
verdure  of  a  fruitful  and  beautiful  piety 
are  never  seen  in  them  ;  and  they  never 
reach  the  land  of  that  better  life  which 
they  are  forever  going  to  lead.  There, 
before  them,  is  the  gushing  fountain, 
the  cooling  shade,  the  peaceful  repose  ; 
but  they  never  reach  it.  In  the  bar- 
ren waste  of  an  unfaithful  life  they 
die,  and  never  set  foot  on  the  promised 
land  ! 

What  a  sad  result,  alas !  of  so  many 
good  sentiments,  of  so  many  good 
thoughts,  of  so  many  enthusiastic 
dreams  of  good,  of  so  many  solemn 
protests  against  evil !  When  Hazael 
said,  with  indignant  protestation,  "But 
what !  is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he 
should  do  this  thing  ? "  we  read,  and 
it   is   one   of    those   touching   traits   of 


which  the  Bible  is  so  full,  that  the  man 
of  God  looked  upon  him  and  wept. 
And  well  might  he  weep.  Well  might 
any  man  weep,  if  he  will  ever  weep  over 
anything,  at  this  sad  contradiction  in  the 
lives  of  many.  What  a  mournful  thing 
it  is,  indeed,  to  contemplate  —  nothing 
on  earth  so  mournful :  on  the  one  hand, 
sentiments  noble,  powers  divine,  a  na- 
ture formed  for  immortal  glory,  and 
a  preparation  of  means  infinite  as  the 
grace  of  heaven ;  life  given,  and  a 
Saviour  dying  to  redeem  !  —  and  on  the 
other  hand,  utter  failure  of  the  end,  life 
spent  in  vain,  the  burial  of  the  soul  in 
sense  and  worldliness  ;  existence,  as 
to  all  spiritual  purposes,  a  blank  ;  the 
grand  opportunity  a  defeat  ;  the  season 
gone,  the  harvest  past,  the  summer 
ended,   and  the  soul  not  saved  ! 

If  we  would  not  have  it  so,  permit 
me  to  make  one  suggestion  in  close. 
And  permit  me,  too,  to  make  it  a  word 
of  exhortation.  It  is  this.  If  any  one 
here  has  a  good  feeling,  let  him  go  and 
do  something;  let  him  do  some  good 
thing.  If  your  minds  are  at  any  time 
impressed  with  the  contemplation  of 
any  virtue  —  be  it  prayer  or  watchful- 
ness, or  disinterestedness,  or  brotherly 
love,  or  the  greatness  and  sanctity  of  a 
holy  life  —  see  that  you  immediately  set 
about  putting  it  in  practice.  Be  sure 
that  the  occasion  will  soon  enough  come, 
if  you  will  only  watch  for  it.  Thus 
fix  and  embody  vague  sentiment  in  dis- 
tinct action.  Thus  let  every  week's 
practice  carry  out  each  Sunday's  medi- 
tation. The  preaching  of  angels  will 
do  you  no  good  without  this  !  So  only 
can  your  Sabbaths  help  your  week-days. 
So  only  can  you  make  any  day  safe. 
You  may  say  and  think  what  you  will, 
to-day;  your  meditations,  I  had  almost 
said,  may  be  lofty  enough  to  be  food  for 
angels  ;  your  minds  may  be  enraptured 
with  themes  that  are  divine  ;  your  hearts 
may  melt  in  the  tenderness  of  their 
religious  emotions  ;  but  if  you  carry  no 
holy  thoughts  with  you  into  the  scenes 
of  business  and  care  and  temptation,  tc^' 


THE   CROWN   OF  VIRTUE. 


227 


morrow  you  may  fall !  —  you  may  find 
the  precipice  of  ruin  to  be  but  one  step 
from  tiie  mount  of  meditation  ! 

That  which  our  present  meditation 
demands  of  us,  is  the  universal  doing 
of  what  we  feel  to  be  right.  It  is  to 
substitute  doing,  for  our  idle  dreaming 
of  right.  It  is  to  break  up  this  eternal 
contradiction  between  our  sentiments 
and  principles.  It  is  upon  this  that 
our  Saviour  ever  laid  the  chief  stress. 
Doing,  doing,  is  ever  the  burden  of  his 
exhortation.  "  He  that  heareth  my 
sayings,  and  doeth  them"  —  is  his  con- 
stant language.  As  if  he  had  known 
that  men  would  admire  the  beauty  of 
'  his  character,  and  would  be  liable  to 
stop  there,  ever  does  he  press  them  to 
this  point. 

That  which  the  present  moment  de- 
mands of  us  is  a  solemn  determination 
so  to  do.  Will  you  make  it  ?  Pardon 
this  directness ;  I  would  use  no  im- 
proper freedom  with  you.  I  speak  with 
deep  respect  to  the  mind,  to  the  great 
nature  that  is  capable  of  such  a  deter- 
mination. Will  you  make  it  ?  I  would 
press  this  question  in  no  stern  or  re- 
pulsive manner.  It  is  the  most  glorious 
determination  that  can  be  made  on  earth 
or  in  heaven.     IVi/l  you  make  it  1 

You  will ;  may  I  not  say  so  ?  You 
will  —  you  must.  Good  life,  happy 
death,  joy  of  heaven,  blessed  eternity, 
hangs  upon  the  decision  !  — yes,  hangs, 
it  may  be,  upon  the  very  decision  that 
you  shall  form  this  day!  For  it  is  only 
going  on  and  on  in  the  same  way,  with- 
out any  such  decision,  that  leads  men 
to  perdition :  that  leads  them  to  the 
failure  of  all  high  and  sacred  piety  and 
virtue.  Avoid  it;  I  vncst  press  this 
point  upon  your  consideration :  avoid 
that  way  as  you  value  your  soul.  In 
the  name  of  reason,  in  God's  name,  set 
about  the  work  of  your  salvation  imme- 
diately. "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth 
to  do,  do  it  quickly ;  for  there  is  no 
work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  in  the 
grave  whither  thou  goest." 


IX. 
THE   CROWN   OF   VIRTUE. 

Revelation  ii.  lo  :  "  Be  thou  faithful  unto  death, 
and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  life." 

The  image  which  is  here  employed 
to  set  forth  the  reward  of  Christian  fidel- 
ity, is  a  crown.  Now  a  crown  is  tiie 
symbol  of  the  highest  distinction.  It  is 
tins  circumstance  that  draws  my  atten- 
tion in  the  passage  of  Scripture  before 
us.  For  it  is  the  crown  of  virtue,  its 
unrivalled  distinction,  that  I  propose  to 
you,  Christian  brethren,  as  the  subject 
of  this  our  present  meditation. 

And  this  idea  of  the  grandeur  of 
Christian  virtue,  let  me  observe  —  lest 
any  one  should  think  that  it  oflTends 
against  the  humility  of  tlie  Gospel  —  is 
frequently  introduced  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament. Our  Saviour  says  in  his  last 
prayer,  "  Father,  the  hour  is  come  ;  glo- 
rify thy  son,  that  thy  son  also  may 
glorify  thee."  He  desires  to  be  vindi- 
cated ;  he  desires  to  be  honored ;  and 
this,  that  virtue,  that  Divinity,  may  be 
honored.  Our  text  speaks  of  a  crown. 
It  is  a  familiar  word  in  the  Scriptures. 
It  is  frequently  used  to  set  forth  the 
glory  of  virtue.  We  constantly  hear  of 
"a  crown  of  righteousness,  a  crown  of 
glory,  an  incorruptible  crown."  Often 
and  emphatically  is  the  very  lowliest 
of  the  virtues,  humility,  represented  as 
exalting  its  possessor  to  the  highest 
honor.  This  feeling  of  the  dignity  of 
goodness,  of  the  grandeur  of  the  Chris- 
tian character,  I  may  here  observe,  es- 
pecially marks  the  writings  of  Paul. 
Goodness  is  always,  in  his  conception, 
something  magnificent,  Godlike,  glo- 
rious. When  he  says.  "  Wliom  he  pre- 
destinated, them  he  also  called,  and 
whom  he  called,  them  he  also  justified," 
he  cannot  stop,  without  adding,  '•  whom 
he  justified,  them  he  also  glorified. " 
This  idea  of  Christian  virtue  was  pressed 
out  into  bolder  prominence  in  his  mind, 
perhaps,  because  he  knew  that  the  great 
and  wise  of  this  world  looked  down 
upon  him  with  scorn.     Paul,  as  a  man 


228 


ON   THE  NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


of  learning  and  genius,  might  justly 
compare  himself  with  the  distinguished 
men  of  his  time  ;  and  he  was  the  more 
likely  to  be  moved  by  their  judgment  ; 
and  he  knew  that  that  judgment  was 
contemptuous.  Therefore,  glorying  — 
not  submitting  to  the  reproach  —  was  a 
very  characteristic  bias  of  his  mind.  "  I 
glory,"  he  says,  "  in  tribulation  ;  "  I  glory 
in  the  evil  name  and  hard  fortune  that 
you  despise.  Paul  was  a  true  and  mag- 
nanimous devotee  to  the  only  true  worth  ; 
and  sanctity,  in  the  dust,  was  more  mag- 
nificent, in  his  eyes,  than  the  throne  of 
the  world.  He  calls  upon  the  Christians 
to  think  humbly,  indeed,  but  yet  to  think 
loftily  of  themselves.  He  tells  them 
that  they  are  "  the  temples  of  God,  sons 
of  God,  partakers  of  the  Divine  nature." 
And  when  he  is  speaking  of  his  own 
noble  strife  after  perfection,  observe 
how  his  thoughts  ascend  to  the  highest 
climax.  "  I  press  forward,"  he  says  —  it 
is  an  onward  and  an  upward  course  — 
"  I  press  forward  towards  the  mark  — 
for  the  prize  —  of  the  high  calling  —  of 
God." 

Such  honor,  then,  my  brethren,  do 
I  challenge  for  the  righteous  course.  I 
speak  of  the  crown  of  virtue.  True,  it 
may  overshadow  a  mortal  brow,  and  men 
may  not  see  its  glory.  True,  it  may 
overshadow  a  countenance  pale  and 
wasted,  or  marred  with  disease  ;  it  may 
be,  like  the  crown  of  thorns  which  Jesus 
wore,  stained  with  blood;  but  what 
earthly  diadem  was  ever  invested  with 
such  glory  as  that  crown  of  thorns  ?  It 
was  once  indeed  the  badge  of  ignominy, 
the  mark  for  scourging  and  spitting  ;  but 
now,  one  of  those  thorns,  —  I  make  the 
comparison  reverently,  —  one  of  those 
thorns,  platted  by  the  Roman  soldiery 
for  the  head  of  the  glorious  Sufferer  and 
Conqueror,  would  be  dearer  to  us  than 
the  brightest  gem  that  ever  shone  on 
the  brow  of  earthly  monarch  ! 

It  is  the  CROWN  of  virtue  then,  my 
jrethren,  of  which  I  will  speak.  And 
iome  need  is  there  still  in  the  world 
to  set  forth  its  lofty  distinction.  Not 
only  is  the  good  man's  honor  often  dis- 


esteemed,  or  less  esteemed  than  it  ought 
to  be,  but  there  are  various  other  feel- 
ings in  society,  and  especially  strifes 
for  worldly  preference  and  pre-eminence, 
which  commend  this  subject  to  our  se- 
rious consideration.  Let  us  then  first 
enter  for  a  moment  into  some  of  those 
prevailing  states  of  mind  which  make 
this  subject,  the  greatness  of  virtue,  an 
interesting  and  practical  topic  of  reflec- 
tion. 

All  men  desire  distinction.  All  men 
feel  the  need  of  some  ennobling  object' 
in  life.  These  sentiments  —  the  desire, 
that  is  to  say,  of  eminence,  and  the  de^ 
sire  of  a  worthy  object  —  are  indeed  dis- 
tinct in  their  character  ;  but  they  often^ 
combine  to  produce  a  feeling  of  discon- 
tent with  the  ordinary  lot  of  life.  It  may 
be  remarked,  indeed,  independently  of 
moral  considerations,  that  those  persons 
are  usually  most  happy  and  satisfied  in 
their  pursuits  who  have  the  loftiest  ends 
in  view.  Thus  I  have  observed  that 
artists,  mechanicians,  and  inventors,  all 
those  classes  who  are  seeking  to  find 
principles  or  to  develop  beauty  in  their 
work,  seem  most  to  enjoy  it.  And  just 
in  proportion  as  beau  ideal  enters  into 
any  pursuit  ;  for  example,  just  in  pro- 
portion as  the  farmer  proposes,  not  mere 
subsistence  as  his  end,  but  the  beautify- 
ing of  his  estate,  and  the  most  scientific 
culture  of  it,  is  he  hkely  to  be  happy 
amidst  his  labors.  This,  it  appears  to 
me,  is  one  of  the  signal  testimonies 
which  all  human  employments  give  to 
the  high  demands  of  our  nature.  Ava- 
rice is  said  to  be  a  very  absorbing  pas- 
sion ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  the  pursuit 
of  wealth  as  wealth  ever  gives  such  sat- 
isfaction as  it  does  to  bring  the  hum- 
blest, although  a  comparatively  useless, 
piece  of  machinery  to  pe?-fectioft.  If 
wealth,  indeed,  be  sought  for  ends  of 
philanthropy,  or  for  the  relief  of  kindred, 
or  for  the'payment  of  just  debts,  it  has 
a  noble  beau  ideal,  and  a  noble  satisfac- 
tion ;  but  exactly  in  proportion  as  the 
aims  of  the  seeker  run  down  on  the  scale 
of  motive  from  the  dearness  of  family 
and  of  principle  to  the  desire  of  display 


THE  CROWN   OF   VIRTUE. 


22Q 


or  of  pleasure,  does  the  pursuit  become 
an  unsatisfying  drudgery. 

This  is  felt  to  be  too  much  the  char- 
acter of  most  iiuman  conditions  and  em- 
])loyments.  There  are  doubtless  many 
individual  e.xceptions  ;  but  with  the  pur- 
suits of  multitudes  there  is  connected  a 
painful  conviction  that  they  neither  sup- 
ply a  sufficient  object  nor  confer  any 
satisfactory  honor.  "  I  liv%,"  says  one, 
"  I  labor,  I  do  business.  What  is  it  all 
for.?  What  ultimate  end  am  I  to  gain 
by  it  ?  I  live  ;  I  die  ;  the  wave  passes 
over  me  ;  and  soon  the  world  will  not 
know  that  such  a  being  ever  existed. 
If  I  were  an  artist,  and  could  paint  the 
canvas  or  chisel  the  marble  or  lift  the 
dome  ;  or  could  write  books  of  poetic 
inspiration,  or  of  lofty  morals  and  phi- 
losophy ;  or  could  establish  a  reputation 
for  ability  or  eloquence,  by  any  of  which 
the  world  might  know  me,  it  would  be 
with  me  an  object  and  an  ambition." 

Now  to  this  state  of  mind  it  is,  that 
I  come  to  propose  a  yet  nobler  aim.  To 
this  man  it  is,  that  I  come  to  speak  of  a 
crown  ;  a  crown  of  righteousness.  For 
I  say  that  in  true  and  right  living,  in 
the  imitation  of  Christ,  in  piety  and 
self-culture,  every  man  may  attain  the 
highest  nobleness  and  grandeur  known 
on  earth  or  in  heaven  ;  that,  in  a  higher 
sense  than  he  thinks  of,  he  may  be  an 
artist,  and  the  greatest  of  artists  —  an 
author,  and  the  greatest  of  authors ; 
that  more  than  his  speech,  his  life,  may 
be  eloquent.  I  say  that  every  man  has 
a  work  to  do  in  himself,  greater,  sub- 
limer,  than  any  work  of  genius;  and 
that  he  works  upon  a  nobler  material 
than  wood  and  marble  —  upon  his  own 
soul.  I  say  to  every  man,  thou  shouldst 
be  a  greater  than,  as  mere  artist  or  au- 
thor, was  Homer  or  Shakspeare,  Phidias 
or  Raphael. 

Let  us  see  if  this  proposition  is  fairly 
chargeable  with  extravagance.  What  is 
it  that  the  great  author,  or  the  great  ar- 
tist, does  ?  I  answer  that,  in  the  high- 
est effort  of  his  power,  he  but  portrays 
what  every  man  should  be.  That  which 
in  him  is  but  conception,  in  us  must  be 


action.  For  what  does  he  portray,  and 
what  is  his  conception  ?  1  answer  again, 
it  is  nothing  but  moral  beauty;  mag- 
nanimity, or  fortitude,  or  love,  or  for- 
giveness ;  the  soul's  greatness.  If  you 
look  at  the  great  paintings,  what  do 
they  represent .''  The  glory  of  the  Christ, 
the  loveliness  of  the  Madonna,  the  peni- 
tence or  love  of  some  saint,  the  forti- 
tude and  forgiveness  of  the  martyr,  or 
some  historic  scene  in  which  a  noble 
action  is  celebrated.  And  what  is  all 
this  but  a  portraying  of  virtues,  com- 
mended to  our  admiration  and  imita- 
tion.'' To  catch  that  almost  living  por- 
traiture of  heroism  and  goodness,  to 
embosom  it  in  our  hearts,  to  embody  it 
in  our  lives,  —  this  is  the  practical  reali- 
zation of  those  great  ideals  of  art. 

And  so  in  all  great  writing;  in  the 
highest  poetry,  in  the  highest  tiction,  in 
the  highest  literature,  the  object  of  the 
writer  is  to  presfent  his  loftiest  ideal 
of  all  possible  loveliness  and  grandeur. 
He  is  engaged  in  the  work  of  nobly  con- 
ceiving and  describing  what  it  is.  But 
for  us  is  reserved  the  higher  work,  of 
more  nobly  realizing  it  in  our  own  char- 
acter and  life.  And  this,  it  is  put  with- 
in our  power,  with  God's  help,  to  do. 
The  sphere  of  action  may  be  different, 
but  the  thing  to  be  attained  —  purity, 
sanctity,  self-sacrifice,  love  —  is  essen- 
tially the  same  in  all.  The  magnanimity 
of  heroes,  celebrated  on  the  historic 
or  poetic  page ;  the  constancy  and  faith 
of  the  martyr,  or  the  beauti fulness  of 
saintly  love  and  pity,  glowing  on  the 
canvas;  the  delineations  of  truth  and 
right  that  breathe  life  from  the  lips  of 
the  eloquent,  are,  in  essence,  only  that 
which  every  man  may  feel  and  practise 
in  the  daily  walks  of  life.  If  it  is  a 
nobler  thing  to  be  a  hero  than  it  is  to 
describe  one,  to  endure  martyrdom  than 
to  paint  it,  to  do  right  than  to  plead  for 
it,  then  is  the  work  of  virtue  nobler 
than  any  work  of  genius.  In  this  view 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  idea,  had  he  applied 
it  to  this  point,  is  a  just  one  ;  that  action 
is  greater  than  writing.  A  good  man  is 
a  nobler  object  of  contemplation  than  a 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


great  author.  To  be,  is  greater  than  to 
describe.  It  has  been  said  that  "there 
are  but  two  things  worth  living  for  :  to 
do  what  is  worthy  of  being  written,  or 
to  write  what  is  worthy  of  being  read." 
It  is  true  ;  and  I  maintain  that  the 
greater  of  these  is  the  doing. 

I  desire  no  one  to  give  too  easy  an 
assent  to  this  proposition.  I  seek  rath- 
er for  that  difficult  assent  which  yields 
to  argument,  which  ripens  into  convic- 
tion, and  results  in  action.  If  what  I 
maintain  is  true,  it  is  not  an  abstract 
theorem  nor  an  ingenious  speculation. 
It  takes  hold  of  the  entire  principle  and 
plan  of  a  man's  life.  If  it  is  true  that 
every  man  has  to  do  the  noblest  thing 
that  any  man  can  do  or  describe,  what 
an  appeal  is  this  to  the  courage,  cheer- 
fulness, energy,  and  dignity  of  human 
existence  !  Who,  then,  shall  think  his  a 
life  doomed  to  mediocrity  or  meanness, 
to  vanity  or  toil,  or'  to  any  ends  less 
than  heavenly  and  immortal  ?  Who  shall 
say,  "  The  grand  prizes  of  life  are  for 
others;  I,  alas!  can  be  nothing  "  ?  But 
is  it  not  true  ?  I  have  referred  for  com- 
parison to  what  are  considered  as  the 
noblest  works  of  man ;  works  of  genius  ; 
works  which  draw  universal  attention 
and  admiration;  which  fill  the  world  with 
their  renown  ;  which  give  to  successful 
authors  and  artists  such  an  enviable  posi- 
tion among  men  ;  and  I  say  that  there  is 
something  greater  for  every  man  to  do 
than  this.  For  suppose,  now,  that  you 
were  possessed  of  the  loftiest  power  of 
unfolding  that  sense  of  beauty  which 
dwells  more  or  less  in  all  minds  ;  suppose 
that,  in  the  high  and  solemn  meditations 
of  genius,  you  had  portrayed  scenes  and 
cliaracters  of  such  moral  beauty  and 
sublimity  that  they  fired  the  breasts 
of  millions,  and  drew  tears  of  sympathy 
from  the  eyes  of  nations  ;  and  suppose, 
too,  that  the  lofty  feeling  of  your  own 
heart  furnished  the  living  portraiture. 
But,  let  me  ask  you,  would  it  not  be  a 
still  nobler  thing  for  you  to  go  and  do 
that  which  you  had  described ;  to  be  the 
model  that  you  drew  ?  And,  believe 
me  —  for  this   is   a   point   on   which    I 


must  insist,  again  and  again  —  believe 
me,  the  loftiest  action  that  ever  was 
described,  is  not  more  magnanimous 
than  that  which  we  may  find  occasion 
to  do  in  the  daily  walks  of  hfe  ;  in 
temptation,  in  distress,  in  bereavement, 
and  in  the  solemn  approach  to  death. 
In  the  great  providence  of  God,  in  the 
great  ordinances  of  our  being,  there  is 
opened  to  ev%ry  man  a  sphere  for  the 
noblest  action.  Nay,  and  it  is  not  in 
extraordinary  situations,  where  all  eyes 
are  upon  us,  where  all  our  energy  is 
aroused  and  all  our  vigilance  is  awake, 
that  the  highest  efforts  of  virtue  are  usu- 
ally demanded  of  us  ;  but  it  is  rather  in 
silence  and  seclusion,  amidst  our  occu- 
pations and  our  homes;  in  wearing  sick- 
ness that  makes  no  complaint;  in  sorely 
tried  honesty  that  asks  no  praise ;  in 
simple  disinterestedness  wliich  hides 
the  hand  that  resigns  its  advantage  to 
another. 

I  seek,  my  friends,  to  ennoble  com- 
mon life.  I  know  that  it  has  been  al- 
most exclusively  the  office  of  the  moral 
teachers  of  mankind  to  celebrate  con- 
spicuous virtue,  —  virtue  in  extraordinary 
circumstances.  Nay,  even  biography, 
though  professing  to  give  us  the  true  life 
of  a  man,  has  mostly  contented  itself 
with  giving  us  the  hfe  of  a  hero,  a  states- 
man, an  author,  or  a  philanthropist. 
But  there  is  still  another  work  to  be  done ; 
and  that  is  to  go  down  into  the  obscure 
and  as  yet  unsearched  records  of  daily 
conduct  and  feeling  ;  to  portray  not  the 
ordinary  virtue  of  an  extraordinary  life, 
but  the  more  extraordinary  virtue  of  or- 
dinary life.  Yes,  my  brethren  ;  what  is 
done  and  borne  in  the  shades  of  privacy, 
in  the  hard  and  beaten  path  of  daily  care 
and  toil,  full  often  of  uncelebrated  sac- 
rifices ;  in  the  suffering,  and  sometimes 
insulted  suffering,  that  wears  to  the 
world  nothing  but  a  cheerful  brow  ;  in 
the  long  strife  of  the  spirit,  carried  on 
against  pain,  and  penury,  and  neglect, 
carried  on  in  the  inmost  depths  of  the 
heart ;  yes,  I  repeat,  what  is  done  and 
borne,  what  is  wrought  and  won  here, 
is  a   higher   glory,  and   shall  inherit  a 


THE   CROWN    OF   VIRTUE. 


2^1 


brighter  crown.  And  I  pray  you  to  ob- 
serve how  emphatically  this  was  the  teach- 
ing of  our  Saviour.  "  Ye  know,"  he  says 
to  his  disciples,  that  "the  princes  of  the 
nations  exercise  dominion  over  them  ; 
but  it  shall  not  be  so  among  you.  But 
whosoever  will  be  great  among  you,  let 
him  be  your  minister,  and  whosoever 
will  be  cliief  among  you,  let  him  be  your 
servant ;  even  as  the  Son  of  Man  came, 
not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minis- 
ter, and  to  give  his  life  a  ransom  for 
many."  And  again  he  said,  "Whoso- 
ever exalteth  himself  shall  be  humbled, 
and  he  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be 
exalted."  Yes,  humility,  forgetfulness 
of  self,  self-sacrifice,  these  were,  in  the 
mind  of  Jesus,  the  true  distinctions. 

I  am  sensible,  I  repeat,  that  the  world 
has  by  no  means  yet  arrived  at  this  point 
of  view.  There  is  as  yet  so  little  wis- 
dom, so  little  spirituality,  infused  into 
the  mass  of  public  sentiment,  that  a 
thing  to  be  admired  must  be  conspic- 
uous, must  be  surrounded  with  visible 
splendor,  or  invested  with  the  halo  of 
fame,  must  bear  a  title  of  honor  or  a 
name  of  greatness.  A  man,  to  be  hon- 
ored, must  be  a  great  general  or  states- 
man, a  great  author  or  artist.  But  I 
anticipate  that  the  time  will  come,  when 
it  will  be  said  to  the  greatest  of  these  — 
)'es,  I  repeat,  when  some  one,  pointing 
to  a  good  man,  will  say  to  a  man  great  as 
Shakspeare  or  Raphael,  "You  are  but 
a  describer  ;  here  is  the  doer  ;  you  have 
drawn  or  moulded  a  model  of  saintly 
beauty  and  goodness  ;  here  is  the  living 
original.  Be  thyself  that  same,  and  thou 
shalt  be  greater  than  thou  now  art.  If 
thou  wilt  not,  then  do  I  venerate  him 
more  than  I  admire  you.  All  the  strug- 
glings  of  genius  in  thee  have  never 
equalled  the  strugglings  of  virtue  in  him. 
He  is  one  who  realizes  all  the  beautiful 
conceptions  of  your  art.  If  such  as  he 
had  not  existed  —  if  such  as  he  had  not 
breathed  out  through  form,  and  act,  and 
countenance,  the  beauty  of  goodness, 
patience,  and  heroism,  thine  art  had 
never  existed.  Thou  art  but  a  copyist; 
he  is  the  origfinal." 


Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  true.  Good- 
ness is  the  great  inspirer,  refiner,  glori- 
fier  of  the  world.  Let  that  be  gone  from 
the  world,  and  the  light  of  art,  of  litera- 
ture, of  history,  is  gone  out  entirely. 
The  treasures  of  the  world  are  its  vir- 
tues —  sanctity,  self-sacrifice,  patience, 
constancy,  heroism,  martyrdom.  It  is 
goodness  only  that  we  love  —  other 
things  we  may  admire,  beauty,  wit,  for- 
tune —  but  it  is  goodness  only  that  we 
love;  and  in  the  humblest  shades  of  ob- 
scurity we  love  it.  It  is  this  whose  life 
we  cherish  more  tiian'  our  own  life.  It 
is  this  whose  lonely  grave  we  bedew 
with  our  tears,  saying,  "  Let  us  go  and 
die  with  it." 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  assign  to 
simple  virtue  the  place  that  belongs  to 
it.  I  call  the  quality  of  which  I  speak, 
virtue.  I  can  well  imagine  that  it  may 
surprise,  if  not  displease,  some  persons 
that  I  use  this  word  so  frequently.  I 
suppose  it  sounds  in  their  ears  as  if  it 
stood  for  a  kind  of  heathenish  excellence. 
I  mean  by  it,  then,  let  me  say,  all  that  I 
can  mean  by  human  excellence  and  sanc- 
tity ;  all  that  is  meant  by  righteousness, 
holiness,  spirituality.  And  I  use  it  more 
frequently  than  I  do  some  of  these 
words,  because  they  seem  to  me  to  be 
invested  with  false  and  blinding  asso- 
ciations. I  fear  that  we  do  but  half  feel 
the  bond,  when  it  is  laid  upon  us  by  the 
words,  holiness,  godliness,  grace.  I  fear 
that  if  I  had  spoken  in  this  discourse  of 
the  grandeur,  the  supreme  distinction 
of  holiness  or  spiritunlify,  though  there 
might  have  been  an  easier  assent,  the 
truth  would  not  have  come  home  to  us 
—  home  to  our  dwellings  and  our  every- 
day lives.  I  may  err  on  this  point  ; 
but  I  certainlv  do  use  this  word,  virtue, 
from  an  anxietv  to  go  down  to  the  very 
grounds  of  a  spiritual  and  good  life.  It 
seems  to  me  peculiarly  to  appertain  to 
the  matured  excellence  of  a  human  be- 
ing. Infants  may  have  innocence,  and 
angels  may  have  sanctity  ;  but  when  I 
would  describe  the  struggle  of  sacred 
principle  in  a  man,  the  most  comprehen- 
sive word,  the  word  that  reveals  at  once 


232 


ON   THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGION. 


the  character  of  the  conflict,  that  bears 
the  marks  at  once  of  the  strife  and  vic- 
tory upon  it,  is  virtue  ;  patient,  coura- 
geous, enduring,  victorious  virtue  ! 

But  is  all  this  which  I  have  been  say- 
ing, true  ?  or  ns  it  a  mere  fine  theory  ? 
Can  the  routine  and  drudgery  of  life  be 
raised  to  heroism  and  grandeur?  Is  it 
true  tiiat  common  life  opens  a  field  for 
the  noblest  action  of  virhich  a  man  is  ca- 
pable ?  Is  it  true  that  the  artist's  model, 
the  poet's  dream,  the  philosopher's  the- 
ory, and,  more  than  all,  the  high  teach- 
ing of  the  very  Christ  himself,  may  thus 
be  realized  in  the  daily  walks  of  men  ? 
This  is  the  grand  assumption  on  which 
my  discourse  has  proceeded  ;  and  now 
let  me  spend  a  few  moments,  in  close,  in 
attempting  to  make  this  ground  a  little 
more  apparent,  and  thus  to  bring  what 
I  have  now  been  saying  to  a  practical 
issue. 

And  in  one  word,  is  not  all  this  proved 
to  us  Christians  by  the  example  of  our 
divine  Master  ?  It  is  an  example  in  the 
sphere  of  common  life  —  not  on  a  throne 
nor  in  a  palace,  but  in  humble  abodes, 
in  daily  intercourse.  Now  suppose  that 
the  story  of  his  life  had  been  a  mere 
fiction,  —  that  is  to  say,  look  upon  it  as 
a  mere  literary  production  ;  and  would 
you  not  say  that  it  is  the  most  beautiful 
conception  ever  embodied  in  the  records 
of  human  speech  ?  that  such  a  divine 
ideal  of  life,  such  majesty,  such  loveli- 
ness was  never  before  portrayed  on  any 
human  page  .'*  But  it  is  no  fiction  ;  it  is 
reality.  All  the  world  has  agreed  that 
the  reality  alone  can  account  for  the  por- 
traiture ;  that  the  Apostles  never  could 
have  drawn  such  a  life,  if  they  had  not 
seen  it.  Now  after  this  reality  it  is 
our  duty  and  aim  as  Christians  to  follow. 
Was  ever  a  higher  aim  than  this  pro- 
posed to  mortal  aspiration  and  eiTort  ? 

But  let  us  enter  into  this  matter  a 
little  in  detail.  Here  opens  to  me  a 
volume  ;  and  I  can  only  touch  upon  two 
or  three  passages  in  this  grandeur  of 
the  Christian  life. 

What  is  the  bright  word  that  is  writ- 
ten on  this  volume  of  life,  from  which 


rays  out  on  every  side  an  ineffable 
splendor.?  Duty!  Not  mean,  cowering, 
slavish  duty;  but  high,  magnificent, 
glorious  duty. 

Let  an  instance  suffice  instead  of  pre- 
cepts. A  few  years  ago  died  in  Ports- 
mouth (England)  a  poor  man,  a  crip- 
pled shoe-mender.  A  humble  man  of 
a  humble  calling  ;  and  yet  around  his 
gate,  when  he  died,  is  seen  a  collection 
of  weeping  children.  Why  is  this  .-'  A 
few  words  will  tell  the  story  of  a  life  un- 
known to  fame,  but  beautiful,  glorious, 
I  had  almost  said,  as  the  ministry  of 
angels.  This  man,  —  John  Pounds  was 
his  name, — of  such  humble  and  busy 
toils,  and  of  such  infirmity  that  he 
seemed  destined  to  be  a  burden  on 
charity,  saw  around  him  in  the  streets, 
poor,  neglected  children,  growing  up  to 
ignorance  and  vice ;  such  as  you  may 
see,  any  day,  around  you.  He  had  no 
money  to  give  tJiem ;  he  had  no  time  to 
give  them  ;  he  had  no  spacious  dwell- 
ing to  receive  them,  even  if  he  had 
had  time.  What  then  did  he  do  ?  He 
gathered  them  around  his  knees  as  he 
sat  and  worked  on  his  humble  bench, 
and  there  he  instructed  them.  For  forty 
years,  I  think,  he  thus  taught  successive 
companies  of  poor  children,  and  raised 
hundreds  to  virtuous,  reputable,  and 
happy  life.  The  tale  sjaeaks  for  itself. 
Is  there  no  bright  word  written  on  the 
pages  of  common  life  —  ay,  and  of  the 
humblest  life  ? 

Again,  what  is  the  dark  word  that  is 
written  in  this  volume  of  life,  spreading 
a  shadow  over  all  its  pages  ?  Tempta- 
tion !  It  is  no  strange  lot.  It  is  the  lot 
of  common  life.  Every  man  is  a  tempted 
man.  Every  day  we  meet  those  awful 
hours  in  which  the  great  controversy 
between  right  and  wrong  is  pleaded  in 
our  bosoms.  Then  the  senses'  allure- 
ment steals  upon  us  ;  then  ambition, 
or  anger,  or  envy  invades  the  peace  of 
our  minds  ;  then  the  world's  great  show, 
or  "  the  world's  dread  laugh,"  demands 
our  homage  or  threatens  our  freedom. 
Must  we  not  fight  every  hour  with  these 
besetting   foes  of  the    spirit?      In    the 


THE   CROWN   OF  VIRTUE. 


233 


depths  of  the  heart,  in  deepest  silence 
where  praise  comes  not ;  with  sohiary 
prayer  and  patience,  must  we  not  strive  ? 
And  here  in  this  post  within,  to  Jje  held 
against  all  the  world,  believe  me,  deeds 
are  to  be  done  and  victories  to  be  gained, 
compared  with  which  the  prowess  of 
battles  and  the  splendor  of  triumphs 
fade  away  !  "  Greater  is  he  that  rulcth 
his  spirit,"  says  the  sacred  proverbialist, 
"than  he  that  taketli  a  city." 

What  is  the  power  within,  that  holds 
this  sublime  conflict?  It  is  God's  vice- 
gerent in  the  soul,  the  sovereign  and 
majestic  conscience.  What  on  earth  so 
noble  !  Lo  !  a  man  —  "  faithful  found 
among  the  faithless  ;  "  and  to  this  man 
the  slightest  whisper  of  his  conscience 
is  more  than  the  echoing  fame  of  ages  ; 
the  simple  purpose  of  rectitude  is  more 
than  all  the  blandishments  of  beauty 
and  love ;  and  the  single,  self-poised 
feeling  of  integrity  in  the  heart  is  more 
riches  to  him  than  the  wealth  of  king- 
doms. Ah  !  what  an  elevation  is  that ! 
when  the  secret,  invisible  feeling  in 
the  heart,  that  says,  "  I  will  do  right," 
weighs  more,  and  is  worth  more  with 
its  possessor,  than  all  the  riches  of  the 
world ;  yes,  when  the  whole  accumu- 
lated magnificence  of  the  world  could 
not  buy  from  him  that  simple  feeling. 
I  have  seen  the  homage  of  loyalty  to 
kings,  the  lowly  and  graceful  prostra- 
tion before  the  symbols  of  the  majesty 
of  earth  ;  and  I  will  confess  that  I 
thought  it  beautiful ;  the  bare  feeling  of 
reverence  wins  my  sympathy  ;  but  what 
is  it  all,  compared  with  the  deep  and 
lowly  homage  of  a  man  to  the  awful 
sovereignty  within  him  ! 

And  so  the  righteous  man  liveth  ; 
pure,  calm,  strong,  inwardly  moved, 
and  moved  from  within  ;  self-subsisting, 
and  dependent  neither  upon  fashion,  for- 
tune, nor  fame.  Shall  I  say,  it  is  the  life 
of  a  sage,  of  a  philosopher  ?  It  is  more. 
It  is  the  life  of  Christ  in  the  soul ;  and  it 
is  the  study  and  imitation  of  Christ  that 
must  lead  us  to  it. 

One  more  great  hour  there  is,  for  the 
Riind's  trial  ;   the  hour  that  cometh  to 


all ;  the  time  to  die  !  Many  a  man  has 
fought  battles,  who  had  no  arms  for  the 
last  conflict.  Many  a  man  has  painted 
pain  and  agony,  who  could  not  endure 
them  ;  and  has  described  in  thriUing 
terms  and  tones  the  terrors  of  the  last 
hour,  whose  spirit  has  sunk  before  those 
terrors  when  they  came. 

We  speak  of  martyrdoms,  and  they 
are  glorious.  But  there  are  long  years 
of  sickness  and  pain  now  conducting 
the  steps  of  some  we  know  to  the  grave, 
in  which  is  endured  the  suffering  of  a 
hundred  martyrdoms.  But  the  briefer 
hours  of  mortal  disease,  —  what  a  specta- 
cle do  they  present !  The  mind  weighed 
down  by  infirmity,  overshadowed  by 
surrounding  gloom  and  upon  the  rack 
of  pain  ;  what  a  picture  is  it  upon  the 
dark  curtain  of  death  !  I  have  seen 
it ;  in  the  silent  and  shaded  chamber  ; 
amidst  low  and  hushed  voices,  with  ^obs 
and  tears  around  it ;  or  amidst  the  aw- 
ful stillness  of  constrained  affection  — 
no  curtain  fold  disturbed,  no  sigh  rising 
upon  the  breathless  air  ;  and  I  have  seen 
it,  thus  encompassed,  shining  as  the 
face  of  an  angel !  Oh  !  mortal  languor 
and  paleness,  it  is  true,  were  there  ; 
marked  and  marred  was  that  face  with 
the  hard  buffetings  of  disease  ;  but  it 
was  tranquil  and  resigned,  and  full  of 
immortal  trust.  The  righteous  men  that 
walked  in  the  fiery  furnace  unhurt  shone 
not  more  gloriously  than  did  that  Chris- 
tian soul  in  its  parting  hour.  How  full 
of  consideration  was  it,  one  while  — 
speaking  not  much  of  itself,  because 
others  could  not  bear  it !  —  how  full 
of  wisdom,  at  another  time,  uttering  its 
calm,  natural,  and  rational  meditations 
on  life,  and  death,  and  the  world  unseen  ; 
speaking,  indeed,  with  all  the  wisdom  of 
Socrates  ;  and  more  —  how  much  more 
than  all  his  trust. 

My  brethren,  I  have  thus  attempted 
to  speak  to  you  of  the  greatness  of  vir- 
tue. Does  not  the  theme  minister  to 
the  humblest  life  among  us  a  glorious 
encouragement?  What  would  we  great- 
er than  what,  in  opportunity,  God  hath 
given  to    us    all  ?     What  ?     A    brave 


234 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


apparel  —  a  rich  mansion  —  the  circle 
ot"  a  golden  crown  !  And  for  this  is  the 
crown  of  nobleness  and  sanctity  to  be 
accounted  nothing?  And  shall  we  let 
poor  worldly  discontent  and  base  de- 
spite eat  into  that  heart  where  may  be 
fashioned  divine  and  immortal  faculties  ? 
Shall  we  let  the  humbleness  of  earthly 
fortunes  shade  the  brow  which  may  be 
radiant  with  the  crown  of  virtue  ?  What 
should  we  have  thought  of  Raphael 
painting  the  Transfiguration,  if  he  could 
have  let  the  shadow  of  a  Roman  cloud 
disturb  his  equanimity  ?  What  should 
we  have  thought  of  Milton  writing  the 
Paradise  Lost,  if  he  could  have  let  the 
flashing  tinsel  of  a  passing  courtier's 
mantle  make  him  envious  ? 

Ah  !  we  believe  not  —  here  is  the 
difficulty.  We  believe  not  in  ourselves  ; 
we  believe  not  in  Christ ;  we  believe  not 
in  God.  Well  may  we  pray  the  Lord 
evermore  to  increase  our  faith.  Come, 
faith  of  Christ  !  faith  of  the  crucified  and 
the  victorious  !  faith  of  him  who  said  to 
the  unjustly  persecuted  and  suffering, 
rejoice,  and  be  exceeding  glad  !  —  come, 
and  save  us  from  our  earth-born  miser- 
ies, our  miseries  born  of  pride  and  in- 
gratitude and  worldliness. 

Couldst  thou,  my  friend,  but  once 
enter  into  thyself,  and  learn  to  be  quiet, 
to  know  thyself,  to  commune  with  God, 


and  to  breathe  the  spirit  of  Jesus  Christ- 
couldst  thou  learn  to  find  thy  kingdom 
thy  riches,  within,  to  explore  and  enjoy 
the  treasures  of  a  spiritual  and  immortal 
soul  ;  couldst  thou  learn  all  the  dignity, 
the  calmness  and  blessedness,  of  that 
■inward  life  ;  how  nobly  shouldst  thou 
then  walk  amidst  the  gauds  and  shows 
of  this  world  !  How  shouldst  thou  walk, 
indeed,  upon  the  high  places  of  the 
world,  and  possess  the  earth,  nature, 
life,  being,  anew.  Thou  shouldst  be 
greater  than  the  greatest  of  this  world, 
wiser  than  the  wisest,  and  only  less 
blessed  and  glorious  than  the  angels  of 
heaven  ! 

There  is  a  crown  of  earthly  royalty, 
that  demandeth  homage.  There  is  an- 
other crown,  too,  which  is  of  earth,  but 
which  is  yet  more  glorious  —  the  crown 
that  genius  wears  —  such  as  was  once 
placed  on  the  brow  of  Petrarch,  amidst 
assembled  multitudes,  in  the  Eternal 
City.  But  know,  O  man  of  righteous- 
ness and  fidelity  and  truth  !  thou  who 
seekest  a  nobler  prize  —  know  that  the 
time  shall  come  when,  amidst  assembled 
worlds,  a  brighter  crown  shall  be  placed 
on  the  brow  of  virtue.  "  Be  thou  faith- 
ful unto  death,"  saith  the  Judge  of  all 
hearts,  "and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown 
of  life." 


ON   COMMERCE   AND    BUSINESS. 


X. 


ON  THE  MORAL  LAW  OF  CON- 
TRACTS. 

I  Thessalonians  iv.  6:  "That  no  man  go  be- 
yond and  defraud  his  brother  in  any  matter." 

I  PROPOSE  to  invite  your  attention  in 
a  series  of  three  or  four  Sabbath  even- 
ing discourses,  to  the  moral  laws  of 
trade,  the  moral  end  of  business,  and  to 


the  moral  principles  which  are  to  govern 
the  accumulation  of  property.  The  first 
of  these  subjects  is  proposed  for  your 
consideration  this  evening ;  and  it  is 
one,  as  I  conceive,  of  the  highest  inter- 
est and  importance. 

This  country  presents  a  spectacle  of 
active,  absorbing,  and  prosperous  busi- 
ness, which  strikes  the  eye  of  every 
stranger  as  its  leading  characteristic. 
We  are  said  to  be  and  we  are  a  people, 


THE   MORAL   LAW   OF   CONTRACTS. 


235 


beyond  all  others,  devoted  to  business 
and  accumulation.  This,  though  it  is 
often  brought  against  us  as  a  reproach, 
is  really  an  inevitable  result  of  our  po- 
litical condition.  I  trust  that  it  is  but 
the  first  development,  and  that  many 
better  ones  are  to  follow.  It  does, 
however,  spring  from  our  institutions  : 
and  I  hold,  moreover,  that  it  is  honor- 
able to  them.  If  half  of  us  were  slaves, 
that  half  could  have  nothing  to  do  with 
traffic.  If  half  of  us  were  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  peasantry  of  Europe,  the 
business  transactions  of  that  half  would 
be  restricted  within  a  narrow  sphere, 
and  would  labor  under  a  heavy  pres- 
sure. But  where  liberty  is  given  to  each 
one  to  act  freely  for  himself,  and  by  all 
lawful  means  to  better  his  condition, 
the  consequence  is  inevitably  what  we 
see  :  a  universal  and  unprecedented 
activity  among  all  the  classes  of  society, 
in  all  the  departments  of  human  indus- 
try. The  moral  principles,  then,  appli- 
cable to  the  transaction  of  business 
have  strong  claims  upon  our  attention  ; 
and  seem  to  me  very  proper  subjects  of 
discussion  in  our  pulpits. 

There  are  moral  questions,  too,  as  we 
very  well  know,  which  actually  do  inter- 
est all  reflecting  and  conscientious  men 
who  are  engaged  in  trade.  They  are 
very  frequently  discussed  in  conversa- 
tion ;  and  very  different  grounds  are 
taken  by  the  disputants.  Some  say  that 
one  principle  is  altogether  right ;  and 
others,  that  another  and  totally  different 
one  is  the  only  right  principle.  In  such 
circumstances,  it  seems  to  me  not  only 
proper,  but  requisite,  for  those  whose 
office  it  is  to  speak  to  men  of  their  duties, 
that  they  should  take  up  the  discussion 
of  these  as  they  would  of  any  other 
moral  questions.  I  am  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  we  are  liable,  scholastic  and  re- 
tired men  as  we  are,  to  give  some  ground 
to  men  of  business,  for  anticipating 
that  our  reasonings  and  conclusions  will 
not  be  very  practical  or  satisfactory.  I 
can  only  say,  for  myself,  that  I  have, 
for  some  time,  given  patient  and  careful 
attention  to  the  moral  principles  of  trade  ; 


that  I  have  often  conversed  with  men 
of  business,  that  I  might  understand  the 
practical  bearings  and  difficulties  of  the 
subject  ;  that  I  have  also  read  some  of 
the  books  in  which  the  morality  of  con- 
tracts is  discussed  ;  and  although  a  cler- 
gyman, I  shall  venture,  with  some  confi- 
dence as  well  as  modesty,  to  offer  you  my 
thoughts  on  the  points  in  question.  I 
say  the  points  in  question  ;  and  I  have 
intimated  that  there  are  points  in  debate, 
questions  of  conscience  in  business, 
which  are  brought  into  the  most  serious 
controversy.  I  have  even  known  sen- 
sible men,  themselves  engaged  in  trade, 
to  go  to  the  length  of  asserting,  not  only 
that  the  principles  of  trade  are  immoral 
and  unchristian,  but  that  no  man  can  ac- 
quire a  property  in  this  commerce  with- 
out sacrificing  a  good  conscience  ;  that 
no  prosperous  merchant  can  be  a  good 
Christian.  I  certainly  think  that  such 
casuists  are  wrong  ;  but  whether  or  not 
they  are  so,  the  principles  which  bring 
them  to  a  conclusion  so  extraordinary 
evidently  demand  investigation. 

In  preparing  to  examine  this  opinion, 
and  indeed  to  discuss  tlie  whole  subject, 
it  will  not  be  improper  to  observe,  in  the 
outset,  that  trade  in  some  form  is  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  human  condition. 
Better,  it  has  been  said,  on  the  supposi- 
tion already  stated  —  better  that  com- 
merce should  perish  than  Christianity; 
but  let  it  be  considered  whether  commerce 
can  perish.  Nothing  can  be  more  evident 
than  that  the  earth  was  formed  to  be 
the  theatre  of  trade.  Not  only  does  the 
ocean  facihtate  commerce,  but  the  diver- 
sity of  soils,  climes,  and  products  re- 
quires it.  So  long  as  one  district  of 
country  produces  cotton,  and  another 
corn  ;  so  long  as  one  man  liv^  by  an  ore- 
bed  which  produces  iron,  and  another 
on  pasture-lands  which  grow  wool,  there 
must  be  commerce.  In  addition  to  this, 
let  it  be  considered  that  all  human  indus- 
try inevitably  tends  to  what  is  called  "  the 
division  of  labor."  The  savage  who 
roams  through  the  wilderness  may  pos- 
sibly, in  the  lowest  state  of  barbarism, 
procure  with  his  own  hand  all  that  suffices 


236 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


for  his  miserable  accommodation;  the 
coat  of  skins  that  clothes,  the  food  that 
sustains,  and  the  hut  that  shelters  him. 
But  the  moment  society  departs  from 
that  state,  there  necessarily  arise  the 
different  occupations  of  shepherd,  agri- 
culturist, mechanic,  and  manufacturer, 
the  products  of  whose  industry  are  to  be 
exchanged  ;  and  this  exchange  is  trade. 
If  a  single  individual  were  to  perform 
all  the  operations  necessary  to  produce  a 
piece  of  cloth,  and  yet  more  a  garment  of 
that  cloth,  the  process  would  be  exceed- 
ingly slow  and  expensive.  Human  intel- 
ligence necessarily  avails  itself  of  the 
facility,  the  dexterity,  and  the  advantage 
every  way,  which  are  to  be  obtained  by 
a  division  of  labor.  The  very  progress 
of  society  is  indicated  by  the  gradual  and 
growing  development  of  this  tendency. 

Besides,  it  has  been  justly  observed 
by  a  celebrated  writer  on  this  subject, 
that  "  there  is  a  certain  propensity  in 
human  nature  to  truck,  barter,  and  ex- 
change one  thing  for  another.  It  is 
common  to  all  men,  "  he  says,  "and  to 
be  found  in  no  other  race  of  animals, 
which  seem  to  know  neither  this  nor 
any  other  species  of  contracts.  No- 
body," he  observes,  "  ever  saw  a  dog 
make  a  fair  and  deliberate  exchange  of 
one  bone  for  another,  with  another  dog. 
Nobody  ever  saw  one  animal  by  its 
gestures  and  natural  cries  signify  to 
another,  this  is  mine,  that  yours  ;  I  am 
willing  to  give  this  for  that."  * 

Trade,  then,  being  a  part  of  the  in- 
evitable lot  of  cultivated  humanity,  the 
question  is  not  about  abolishing,  but 
about  the  moral  principles  that  are  to 
regulate  it. 

Let  us  first  inquire  how  we  are  to 
settle  this  question.  What  is  the  pro- 
cess of  mirid  by  which  we  are  to  ascer- 
tain and  estabhsh  the  moral  laws  of 
trade  .'' 

Does  the  natural  conscience  declare 
them  ?  Is  there  any  instinctive  prompt- 
ing of  conscience  that  can  properly 
decide  each  case  as  it  arises  in  the 
course  of  business  ?     Is  there  any  voice 

*  Adam  Smith. 


within,  that  says  clearly  and  with  au- 
thority, "  Thou  shalt  do  thus  and  so  ?  " 
I  think  not.  The  cases  are  not  many, 
in  any  department  of  action,  where 
conscience  thus  reveals  itself.  But  in 
business  they  are  peculiarly  rare,  be- 
cause the  questions  there  are  unusually 
complicated.  You  offer  to  sell  to  your 
neighbor  an  article  of  merchandise. 
You  are  entitled  of  course,  i.  e.  in  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  to  some  advance 
upon  what  it  cost  you.  But  what  that 
is,  depends  on  many  circumstances. 
Conscience  will  hardly  mark  down  the 
just  price  in  your  account-book.  Con- 
science, indeed,  commands  us  to  do 
riglit  ;  but  the  question  is,  what  is  right  ? 
This  is  to  be  decided  by  views  far  more 
various  and  comprehensive  than  tlie 
simple  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

The  Scriptures,  like  'conscience,  are 
a  general  directory.  They  do  not  lay 
down  any  specific  moral  laws  of  trade 
They  command  us  to  be  upright  an-' 
honest ;  but  they  leave  us  to  consider 
what  particular  actions  are  required  by 
those  principles.  They  command  us  tc 
do  unto  others  as  we  would  have  ther-i 
do  to  us  ;  but  still  this  is  not  specific. 
A  man  may  unreasonably  wish  that 
another  should  sell  him  a  piece  of 
goods  at  half  its  value.  Does  it  follow 
that  he  himself  ought  to  sell  on  those 
terms  .''  The  truth  is,  that  the  golden 
rule,  like  every  other  in  Scripture,  is  a 
general  maxim.  It  simply  requires  us 
to  desire  the  welfare  of  others,  as  we 
would  have  them  desire  ours.  But  the 
specific  actions  answering  to  that  rule, 
it  leaves  us  to  determine  by  a  wise 
discretion.  The  dictates  of  that  dis- 
cretion, under  the  governance  of  the 
moral  law,  are  the  principles  that  we 
seek  to  discover. 

Neither,  on  this  subject,  can  I  accept 
without  question  the  teachings  of  the 
common  law  ;  because,  I  find,  that  its 
ablest  expounders  acknowledge  that 
its  decisions  are  sometimes  at  variance 
with  strict  moral  principle.  I  do  not 
think  it  follows  from  this,  that  the  gen- 
eral principles  of  the  common  law   are 


THE   MORAL   LAW   OF   CONTRACTS. 


237 


wrong,  or  abet  wrong.  Nay,  I  con- 
ceive that  they  may  approach  as  near 
to  rectitude  as  is  possible  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  yet  necessarily  involve 
some  practical  injustice  in  their  oper- 
ation. This  results,  in  fact,  from  their 
very  utility,  their  very  perfection,  as  a 
body  of  laws.  For  it  is  requisite  to 
their  utility,  that  they  should  be  gen- 
eral, that  they  should  be  derived  from 
precedents  and  formed  into  rules;  else, 
men  will  not  know  what  to  depend  upon, 
nor  how  to  govern  themselves  ;  and 
there  would  neither  be  confidence,  nor 
order,  nor  society.  But  general  rules 
must  sometimes  bear  hard  upon  indi- 
viduals ;  the  very  law  which  secures 
justice  in  a  thousand  cases  may,  and 
perhaps  must,  from  the  very  nature  of 
human'  affairs  and  relationships,  do  in- 
justice in  one.  Indeed,  the  law  of  chan- 
cery, or  of  equity,  has  been  devised  on 
purpose  to  give  relief.  But  even  chan- 
cery has  its  rules  which  sometimes  press 
injuriously  upon  individual  interests  ; 
and  no  human  laws  can  attain  to  a 
perfect  and  unerring  administration  of 
justice.  For  this  perfect  justice,  how- 
ever, we  seek.  We  are  asking  what  it 
is  to  do  no  wrong  to  our  fellow-man, 
whether  the  law  permits  it  or  not.  We 
are  asking  how  we  shall  stand  acquitted, 
not  merely  at  the  bar  of  our  country, 
but  at  the  bar  of  conscience  and  of 
God. 

I  must  add,  in  fine,  that  questions 
about  right  and  wrong  in  the  contracts 
of  trade  are  not  to  be  decided  by 
any  hasty  impulses  of  feeling,  or  sug- 
c:;estions  of  a  generous  temper.  I  have 
often  found  men,  in  conversation  on 
this  subject,  appealing  to  their  feelfngs; 
but  however  much  I  have  respected 
those  feelings,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
that  they  were  not  the  proper  tribunal. 
Nay,  they  have  often  appeared  to  me 
to  mistake  the  point  at  issue.  If  a 
merchant  has  a  large  store  of  provis- 
ions in  a  time  of  scarcity,  would  it  not 
be  a  very  noble  and  praiseworthy  thing, 
it  is  said,  for  him  to  dispose  of  his 
stock    without    enhancing    the    price  ? 


But  the  proper  question  is  not,  what  is 
generous,  but  what  is  just.  And  be- 
sides, he  cannot  be  generous,  or  what 
is  the  same  thing  in  effect,  he  cannot 
establish  a  generous  principle  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  his  store.  For  if  he  sells 
in  large  quantities,  selling,  that  is,  at  a 
low  rate,  it  will  avail  nothing,  because 
the  subordinate  dealers  will  raise  the 
price.  Or,  if  he  undertakes  to  sell  to 
each  family  what  it  wants  ;  any  one  of 
them  may  take  the  article  to  the  next 
warehouse,  and  dispose  of  it  at  the  en- 
hanced price.  On  the  contrary,  there  are 
circumstances,  undoubtedly,  in  which  a 
man  may  take  undue  advantage  of  a  mo- 
nopoly ;  but  this  will  be  a  case  for  fu- 
ture consideration.  For  the  present,  it 
is  sufficient  to  observe,  what  I  think 
must  be  obvious,  that  the  great  ques- 
tions before  us  are  to  be  decided,  not 
by  any  enactments  of  law,  nor  any  im- 
mediate dictate  of  conscience,  or  spe- 
cific teaching  of  Scripture,  or  single  im- 
pulse of  good  feeling,  but  by  broad  and 
large  views  ot  the  whole  subject.  Con- 
science, and  Scripture,  and  right  feeling 
are  to  govern  us  ;  but  it  is  only  under 
the  guidance  of  sound  reasoning. 

Let  me  beg  your  indulgence  to  one 
or  two  further  preliminary  observations. 
The  questions  to  be  discussed  are  of 
great  importance,  and  scarcely  of  less 
difficulty.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  over- 
rate the  importance  of  a  high,  and  at 
the  same  time  just,  tone  of  commercial 
morality.  I  am  addressing  merchants, 
and  young  men  who  are  to  be  the  fu- 
ture merchants  of  this  city  and  country. 
I  am  addressino:  them  on  the  morality 
of  their  daily  lives,  on  tlie  principles 
that  are  to  form  their  character  for 
time  and  eternity ;  and  while  I  task 
myself  to  speak  with  the  utmost  care 
and  deliberation,  I  shall  not  be  thought 
unreasonable,  I  trust,  if  I  invite  the 
patient  attention  of  those  who  hear  me 
to  share  in  the  task. 

There  is,  then,  on  this  subject  a  dis- 
tinction to  be  made  between  principles 
and  rules.  Principles,  the  principles, 
that    is    to   say,  of    truth,  justice,    and 


2.^8 


ON   COMMERCE   AND    BUSINESS. 


beneficence,  are  clear  and  immutable  ; 
the  only  difficulty  is  about  the  applica- 
tion of  them,  i.  e.  about  rules.  Prin- 
ciples, I  say,  are  to  be  set  apart,  at 
once  and  entirely,  from  all  doubt  and 
uncertainty.  They  hold  their  place  on 
high,  like  unchanging  lights  in  the 
heavens.  The  only  question  is,  how, 
in  obedience  to  their  direction,  we  are 
faithfully  and  surely  to  work  our  trav- 
erse across  the  troubled  ocean  of  busi- 
ness. Here,  I  say,  is  all  the  difficulty. 
Rules,  I  repeat,  result  from  the  applica- 
tion of  principles  to  human  conduct,  and 
they  must  be  affected  by  the  circum- 
stances to  which  they  relate.  Thus,  it  is 
an  immutable  principle  in  morals,  that 
I  should  love  my  neighbor,  my  fellow- 
being,  and  desire  to  promote  his  hap- 
piness. This  principle  admits  of  no 
qualification  ;  it  can  suffer  no  abate- 
ment in  any  circumstances.  But  when 
I  come  to  consider  what  I  shall  do  in 
obedience  to  this  principle  ;  what  I  shall 
do  for  the  poor,  the  sick,  or  the  dis- 
tressed ;  by  what  acts  I  slTall  show  my 
kindness  to  my  neighbor,  or  my  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  the  world  ;  when,  in 
other  words,  I  come  to  consider  the 
rules  of  my  conduct,  I  am  obliged  at 
once  to  admit  doubts  and  difficulties. 
The  abstract  principle  cannot  be  my 
law,  without  any  regard  to  circum- 
stances, though  some  moral  reformers 
would  make  it  such.  I  must  go  on  the 
right  line  of  conduct,  it  is  true,  but 
where  that  line  shall  lead  me,  is  to  be 
determined  by  a  fair  consideration  of 
the  cases  that  come  before  me.  If  it 
is  not,  I  shall  contravene  the  very  prin- 
ciple on  which  I  am  acting.  If,  for 
instance,  I  do  nothing  but  give,  give  to 
the  poor,  I  shall  be  doing  them  an  in- 
jury, not  a  kindness.  The  great  law  of 
benevolence,  in  fact,  as  truly  requires 
discretion  as  it  enforces  action. 

This  distinction  fully  applies  to  the 
subject  we  are  about  to  examine.  Rec- 
titude, justice,  benevolence,  truth-telling, 
are  immutable  laws  of  trade,  as  they 
are  of  all  human  conduct.  There  is  no 
certain  extent  to  which  they  go ;    they 


apply  without  limit  to  every  department 
and  every  transaction  in  business  ;  they 
are  never  to  be  contravened.  But  in 
laying  down  practical  rules  for  traffic, 
we  immediately  meet  with  difficulties, 
and  are  obliged  to  leave  a  great  deal  to 
the  honest  judgment  of  the  trader.  He 
must  do  right,  indeed  ;  that  is  the  great 
law ;  but  what  is  right  ?  Let  us  now 
more  nearly  approach  this  question, 
having  narrowed  it  down  to  a  question 
about  rules,  and  more  closely  apply  our- 
selves to  the  difficulties  involved  in  it. 

And  here,  I  must  ask  you  to  consider 
as  a  further  and  final  preliminary  topic, 
the  language  of  the  legal  writers  on  this 
subject.  It  is  common  with  those 
writers  to  make  a  distinction  between 
moral  and  legal  justice ;  or,  in  other 
words,  between  the  demands  of  con- 
science and  the  decisions  of  their  courts. 
Conscience,  for  instance,  demands  that 
a  certain  contract  shall  be  annulled, 
because  there  was  some  concealment  or 
deception  ;  but  the  courts  will  not  annul 
it,  unless  the  injury  be  very  great.  In 
short,  it  is  a  matter  of  degrees.  Up 
to  a  certain  extent,  the  law  will,  in  fact, 
protect  a  man  in  doing  what  is  wrong, 
in  doing  that  which  violates  his  con- 
science ;  beyond  a  certain  extent,  it  will 
not  protect  him.  This  distinction  is 
founded  on  the  policy  of  the  law  and 
the  policy  of  trade.  "In  law,"  says 
Pothier,  "a  party  will  not  be  permitted 
to  complain  of  sHght  offences,  which  he, 
with  whom  a  contract  is  made,  has  com- 
mitted against  good  faith ;  otherwise 
there  would  be  too  many  contracts  to 
be  rescinded,  which  would  open  the 
way  for  too  much  litigation,  and  would 
derange  commerce."  *  And  again,  "  The 
interests  of  commerce  will  not  easily 
permit  parties  to  escape  from  bargains 
which  they  have  concluded  :  they  must 
lay  the  blame  to  their  not  having  been 
better  informed  concerning  the  defects 
of  the   article   sold."  f     And   again   he 

*  Traits  des  Obligations,  Part.  I.  ch.  i.  Sec.  i. 
Art.  3-  §  3- 

1  Tiait^  du  Contrat  de  vente,  Part.  II.  ch.  2. 
Art.  2. 


THE   MORAL   LAW    OF   CONTRACTS. 


239 


says,  "This  rule  is  wisely  established 
for  the  security  and  freedom  of  com- 
merce, which  demand  that  no  one  should 
easily  be  off  from  his  bargains  ;  other- 
wise men  would  not  dare  to  make  con- 
tracts, for  fear  that  he  with  whom  they 
had  bargained  should  imagine  that  he 
was  injured,  and  upon  that  ground  (of 
mere  imagination  or  pretence)  should 
commence  an  action."  Hence,  Pothier 
says,  that  the  wrong  of  which  the  courts 
will  take  cognizance  must  be  an  enor- 
mous wrong.* 

Now  there  is,  doubtless,  a  certain  ex- 
pediency here  ;  a  certain  policy  of  trade, 
a  certain  policy  of  the  law.  It  is  expe- 
dent  that  a  fair  field  be  opened  in  busi- 
ness for  ingenuity,  sagacity,  and  atten- 
tion ;  and  that  ignorance,  indolence,  and 
neglect  should  meet  with  loss.  "  The 
common  law,"  says  Chancellor  Kent, 
"affords  to  every  one  reasonable  pro- 
tection against  fraud  in  dealing;  but  it 
does  not  go  the  romantic  length  of  giving 
indemnity  against  the  consequences  of 
indolence  and  folly,  or  a  careless  indif- 
ference to  the  ordinary  and  accessible 
means  of  information."  f 

What  is  the  nature,  and  what  is  the 
amount,  of  this  concession  to  expediency? 
Let  us  carefully  consider  this  question, 
for  much  depends  upon  it. 

Legal  expediency,  then,  is  not' to  be 
so  construed  as  to  warrant  the  supposi- 
tion that  it  lends  a  sanction  to  what  is 
wrong.  It  may,  from  necessity,  permit 
or  protect  fraud,  but  does  not  abet  it. 
A  man  is  not  to  consider  himself  an 
honest  man,  simply  because  the  law 
gives  him  deliverance.  For  the  law  can- 
not take  cognizance  of  the  secret  inten- 
tions, nor  of  slight  deviations  from  truth. 
If  every  man  who  says  he  has  got  a  bad 
bargain,  and  who  thinks  he  has  been 
cheated,  could  be  heard  in  court,  our 
tribunals  would  be  overwhelmed  with 
business.  No  human  tribunal  can  de- 
scend to  the  minutiae  of  injustice.  But 
the   law,    I    repeat,    does   not   sanction 

*  Trait^  des  Obligations,  Part.  I.  ch.   i.     Sec.   i. 
Art.  3.  §3. 
t  Commentaries. 


what  it  does  not  undertake  to  prevent, 
any  more  than  tlie  infinite  providence 
sanctions  those  abuses  which  arise  from 
its  great  law  of  freedom. 

This 'being  the  nature  of  the  conces- 
sion to  expediency,  no  principle  being 
compromised,  we  may  say  that  the  ex- 
tent of  the  concession  must  be  consid- 
erable. It  is  certainly  expedient  that 
every  man  be  put  upon  his  own  discre- 
tion, sagacity,  and  attention,  for  success. 
In  business,  as  in  everything  else,  a 
premium  is  set  upon  these  qualities  by 
the  hand  of  providence.  It  is  expedient, 
in  other  words,  that  every  man  should 
take  care  of  himself.  Others  are  not 
to  step  forward  at  every  turn  to  rescue 
him  from  the  consequences  of  his  indo- 
lence or  inattention.  The  seller  is  not 
required  to  give  his  opinioti  to  the  buyer. 
If  he  knows  of  any  defect  in  his  mer- 
chandise, not  apparent  to  the  buyer,  he 
is  bound  to  state  it :  but  he  is  not  re- 
quired to  give  his  opinion.  The  buyer 
has  no  business  to  ask  it  of  him;  he  is 
to  form  an  opinion  for  himself.  If  he 
is  relieved  from  doing  this,  he  will  al- 
ways remain  in  a  sort  of  mercantile 
childhood. 

Nor  do  I  know  that  there  is  anything 
in  Scripture,  or  in  the  laws  of  human 
brotherhood,  that  forbids  this  honest, 
not  fraudulent,  but  honest,  competition 
between  men's  exertions,  faculties,  and 
wits.  We  are,  indeed,  to  do  to  others 
as  we  would  have  them  do  to  us  ;  but  we 
ought  not  to  wish  them  to  do  anything 
to  us  which  is  inconsistent  with  the  gen- 
eral welfare  of  the  community,  with  the 
lawful  and  necessarystimulants  toaction. 
We  may  have  unreasonable  desires  :  we 
would,  perhaps,  that  our  rich  neighbor 
should  present  us  with  half  of  his  for- 
tune ;  but  unreasonable  desires  are  not 
the  measure  of  our  duties.  Not  what- 
ever we  wish,  but  what  we  lawfully  wish 
from  others,  should  we  do  to  them.  And, 
lawfully,  we  can  no  more  wish  that  they 
should  give  to  our  indolence  and  negli- 
gence the  benefit  of  their  sagacity  and 
alertness  in  making  a  contract,  than  that 
they  would  give  to  our  poverty  the  half 


240 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


of  that  wealth  which  their  superior  in- 
dustry or  talent  had  earned  for  them. 
Thus,  too,  when  it  is  said  that  we  ought 
to  treat  all  men  as  brethren  ;  it  is  true, 
indeed,  so  far  as  that  relation  is  expres- 
sive of  the  general  relationships  of  so- 
ciety. But  while  there  should  be  a 
brotherly  community  of  feeling,  there 
cannot  be  a  brotherly  identity  of  inter- 
ests between  the  members  of  society  ; 
and,  therefore,  they  are  not  bound  to 
deal  with  one  another  as  if  they  belonged 
to  a  community  of  Shakers,  or  of  New 
Harmony  men.  We  are  not  to  break 
down  the  principle  of  individuality,  of 
individual  interests,  of  individual  aims  ; 
while  at  the  same  time  we  are  to  hold 
it  in  subjection  to  the  laws  of  sacred 
honesty,  and  of  a  wise  philanthropy. 

Besides,  it  is  not  only  expedient  and 
right,  but  it  is  inevitable,  that  individual 
power  and  talent  should  come  into  play 
in  business.  A  man's  sagacity,  it  is  ob- 
vious, he  must  use ;  that  is  to  say,  his 
mind  he  must  use  ;  for  he  has  nothing 
else  to  go  by.  He  may  use  it  unjustly,  to 
the  heinous  injury  of  his  weaker  neigh- 
bor ;  but  still  he  must  use  it.  So  also 
with  regard  to  the  power  acquired  by  a 
large  property,  or  by  a  monopoly,  it  is  in- 
evitable that  it  should  be  used.  To  some 
extent,  the  possessor  cannot  help  using 
it.  Wealth  has  credit ;  and  monopoly, 
usually  implying  scarcity,  carries  an  en- 
hanced price  with  it,  and  such  results 
are  unavoidable.  Finally,  superior  ac- 
tual knowledge  may  and  must  be  used, 
to  some  extent.  In  every  department  of 
business  superior  knowledge  is  gained 
by  attention,  and  it  may  and  must  be 
acted  upon,  albeit  to  the  hurt  or  injury 
of  those  who  know  less,  or  have  devoted 
less  time  and  thought  to  the  subject.  A 
man  has  made  an  improvement  in  some 
machinery  or  manufacture,  and  he  is  en- 
titled to  some  reward  for  the  attention 
he  has  given  to  it ;  the  government  will 
give  him  a  patent.  A  man  has  been  to 
India  or  to  South  America,  to  acquaint 
himself  with  a  certain  branch  of  busi- 
ness ;  and  he  comes  home  and  acts  upon 
his  knowledge,  and  he  has  a  perfect  right 


to  do  so.  He  is  not  bound  to  commu- 
nicate his  knowledge  to  his  brother 
merchants  who  are  engaged  in  the  same 
trade  ;  and  perhaps  his  knowledge  so 
much  depends  upon  actual  observation 
and  experience,  that  he  cannot  communi- 
cate it.  In  like  manner,  a  trader  may 
obtain  a  superior  knowledge  of  business, 
and  of  the  facts  on  which  it  depends,  by 
a  close  observation  of  things  immedi- 
ately around  him,  and  he  must  act  upon 
it  ;  he  cannot  employ  himself  in  going 
about  to  see  whether  other  men  have 
got  the  same  enlarged  views.  Nor  have 
other  men  any  right  to  complain  of  this. 
The  unskilful  painter  or  sculptor,  the 
ignorant  lawyer  or  physician,  might  as 
well  complain  that  their  more  distin- 
guished brethren  were  injuring  their 
business,  and  taking  all  the  prizes  out 
of  their  hands. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  set  forth  the 
claims  of  individual  enterprise  as  having 
a  useful,  a  beneficent  tendency.  These 
claims,  I  have  all  along  implied,  are  sub- 
ject to  certain  limitations.  And  these 
limitations  are  set  by  the  laws  of  honesty 
and  philanthropy.  That  is  to  say,  a  man 
may  pursue  his  own  interest ;  he  may 
use  his  endeavor,  sagacity,  ability  ;  but 
in  the  first  place,  he  shall  not  pursue 
any  traffic  or  make  any  contract  to  the 
injury' of  his  neighbor;  unless  that  in- 
jury is  one  that  inevitably  results  from  a 
general  and  good  principle,  —  that  is  to 
say,  from  the  healthful  action  of  busi- 
ness ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  he  shall 
not  pursue  his  own  ends  to  the  extent 
of  committing  any  fraud. 

This  last  limitation  is  the  one  of  the 
most  palpable  importance,  and  demands 
that  we  should  distinctly  mark  it.  What, 
then,  is  a  fraud  in  contracts  ?  In  order 
to  answer  the  question,  let  us  ask  what 
is  a  contract  ?  A  contract  is  a  mutual  en- 
gagement, to  exchange  certain  goods  for 
other  goods,  or  certain  goods  for  money  ; 
and  the  essence  of  the  engagement  lies 
in  the  supposed  equivalency  of  the  things 
that  are  exchanged.  This  results  from 
the  very  nature  of  the  case  and  of  the 
human  mind.     For  it  is  not  the  part  of  a 


THE   MORAL   LAW   OF  CONTRACTS. 


241 


rationnl  being  to  give  more  for  less.  If 
vou  bargain  away  anything  to  your  neigh- 
bor, you  of  course  seek  from  him  what 
to  you  is  equivalent.  But  how  are  you 
to  judge  of  this  equivalency  ;  of  the 
value,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  article  of- 
fered to  you  ?  There  are  two  grounds 
on  which  you  may  judge.  You  may 
know  the  articles  as  well  as  the  seller ; 
you  may  know  as  much  about  it,  every 
way,  as  he  does.  This  is  ordinarily  the 
case  between  trader  and  trader.  But 
between  the  merchant  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  this  is  usually  not  the  case. 
And  here  the  ground  on  which  you  pro- 
ceed is  that  of  confidence  in  the  good 
faith  of  the  seller.  You  could  make  up 
no  satisfactory  opinion  on  the  value  of 
the  article  offered  to  you,  if  you  did  not 
believe  that  it  is  what  it  purports  to  be, 
what  it  appears  to  be,  what  the  price  in- 
dicates it  to  be.  If,  then,  there  is  any 
secret  defect  in  the  article  not  apparent 
to  you,  or  if  there  is  any  circumstance 
unknown  to  you,  materially  affecting  its 
value,  or  if  the  price  set  upon  it  is  any 
other  than  the  market  price,  there  is 
fraud.  Wherever  the  contracting  par- 
ties stand  in  totally  different  relations  to 
the  matter  in  hand,  the  one  knowing 
something,  some  secret,  which  the  other 
does  not  and  cannot  know,  there'xs,  fraud. 
The  contract  is  morally  vitiated.  The 
obvious  conditions  of  a  contract  are  not 
complied  with.  It  is  well  known  by  one 
of  the  parties  that  the  grand  condition, 
that  of  equivalency,  does  not  exist  in 
the  case. 

Let  us  now  look  back,  for  a  moment, 
upon  the  ground  which  we  have  passed 
over  in  this  preliminary  discussion.  I 
have,  in  the  first  place,  attempted  to 
show  that  no  single  suggestion  or  dictate 
of  conscience,  or  Scripture,  or  of  gen- 
erous feeling,  or  of  the  law,  is  sufficient 
to  solve  the  moral  questions  that  arise 
in  trade.  In  the  next  place,  I  have  said 
that  there  is  a  distinction  to  be  made 
between  principles  and  rules  ;  the  prin- 
ciples of  moral  conduct  being  clear  and 
certain  ;  the  rules  only,  the  specific  ac- 
tions under  these  principles,  that  is  to 


16 


say,  being  liable  to  doubt.  I  thus  wished 
to  set  one  department  of  this  suliject 
above  all  question.  In  the  third  place, 
I  applied  myself  to  the  consideration  of 
rules.  And  here  I  attempted  to  show 
that  while,  on  the  one  hand,  it  is  ex- 
pedient that  ample  scope  be  given  to 
human  ingenuity,  sagacitv,  and  alertness 
in  business,  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  they  are  never  to  transgress  the 
bounds  of  philanthropy,  honesty,  and 
justice. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  examine  some 
of  the  cases  to  wiiich  these  general  rea- 
sonings apply. 

I.  The  first  is  the  ordinary  case  of 
buying  and  selling,  i.  e.  under  ordinary 
circumstances. 

And  here,  it  is  expedient  and  neces- 
sary that  men  in  their  dealings  with 
one  another  should  be  put  to  the  use 
of  their  senses  and  faculties.  There  is 
a  discretion  and  there  is  a  duty  proper, 
respectively,  to  the  seller  and  to  the 
buyer.  Each  of  them  has  his  part  to 
act,  his  business  to  attend  to,  and  nei- 
ther of  them  is  bound  to  assume  the 
duty  of  the  other.  In  ordinary  cases 
there  is  no  difficulty  with  this  maxim, 
no  temptation  to  dishonesty,  no  possi- 
bility of  deception. 

The  article  is  open  to  inspection  ;  its 
qualities  are  as  obvious  to  the  buyer  as 
to  the  seller.  The  buyer  is  supposed  to 
know  his  own  business,  his  own  occa- 
sions ;  the  buyer  is  fairly  supposed  best 
to  know  what  the  article  is  worth  to 
him,  not  the  seller  ;  and  it  is  for  him 
to  decide  whether  he  will  purchase,  and 
what  he  will  give.  The  seller  cannot 
be  expected  to  enter  into  the  circum- 
stances of  the  buyer,  and  to  ascertain 
by  inquiry  what  he  intends  to  do  with 
the  article  he  purchases  ;  whether  he 
can  turn  it  to  good  account  ;  or  whether 
he  could  not  buy  more  advantageously 
somewhere  else;  all  this  belongs  to  the 
province  of  the  buyer  :  it  is  his  business 
to  settle  all  these  questions.  And  he  is 
not  only  best  able  to  decide  them,  but 
he  is  as  competent  to  judge  of  the  qual- 
ity of  the  goods  which  are  offered  him 


242 


ON    COMMERCE   AND    BUSINESS. 


as  the  seller,  for  they  are  alike  open  to 
the  inspection  of  both. 

This  free  action,  this  competition,  we 
have  already  said,  is  to  be  restrained  in 
trade,  as  in  everything  else,  by  perfect 
fairness  and  honesty.  At  that  point  in 
our  preliminary  discussion,  the  theoreti- 
cal question  about  the  nature  of  a  con- 
tract presented  itself;  in  our  present 
inquiry,  the  natural  and  practical  ques- 
tion is  about  price.  What  is  the  just 
price  of  an  article  ?  A  man  has  some- 
thing to  sell ;  he  wishes  to  deal  hon- 
estly ;  the  question  then  is,  what  shall 
he  ask  for  it  .''  If  he  can  settle  this  ques- 
tion, all  is  plain.  How  shall  he  settle  it  ? 
What  is  it  that  determines  a  price  to  be 
just  .''  Evidently,  not  any  abstract  con- 
sideration of  value.  There  can  be  no 
such  thing  as  abstract  value.  The 
worth  of  a  thing  depends  on  the  want 
of  it.  Originally,  it  is  true,  i.  e.  in  the 
first  rude  state  of  society,  men,  in  ex- 
changing the  products  of  their  labor, 
would  naturally  estimate  the  value  of 
each  article  by  the  labor  required  to 
produce  it.  But  even  this  estimate, 
though  approaching  nearest  to  it,  would 
not  present  us  with  an  abstract  and  ab- 
solute value  ;  and  it  would  soon  be  dis- 
turbed by  circumstances,  effectually  and 
beyond  recovery.  Labor  would  not  be 
an  accurate  measure  of  value,  because 
one  man's  labor,  through  its  energy  and 
ingenuity,  would  be  worth  far  more  than 
another  man's.  That  primitive  rule,  too, 
inaccurate  as  it  is,  would  soon,  I  repeat, 
be  disturbed  by  circumstances.  For 
suppose  that  one  man  had  manufactured 
axes,  and  another  shoes  ;  circumstances 
would  inevitably  arise  that  would  give 
one  or  another  of  these  articles  a  facti- 
tious value.  In  the  winter  season,  when 
protection  was  needed  for  the  person, 
and  in  the  summer,  which  was  favorable 
to  the  felling  of  timber,  the  value  of 
those  articles  must  be  constantly  fluctu- 
ating ;  it  would  be  factitious  ;  it  could 
not  be  determined  by  the  amount  of 
labor.  And  as  we  depart  farther  from 
those  primitive  exchanges,  we  find  cir- 
cumstances, numerous,  complicated,  and 


very  artificial,  which  affect  value.  The 
wants,  fancies,  and  fashions  of  society  ; 
the  state  of  crops  and  markets,  and  of 
trade  all  over  the  world ;  the  variations 
of  the  seasons  ;  the  success  or  failure 
of  fisheries  ;  improvements  in  machin- 
ery ;  discoveries  in  art ;  and  the  regu- 
lations of  governments,  —  all  these 
things,  and  many  more,  conspire  alter- 
nately to  fix  and  disturb,  from  day  to 
day,  that  ever  fluctuating  thing  called 
price.  It  is  not  any  or^e  man's  judg- 
ment or  conscience  that  can  ascertain 
the  value  of  anything,  but  millions  of 
individual  judgments  go  to  make  up  the 
decision.  It  is  in  vain  to  say  that  such 
and  such  things  are  worth  little  or  noth- 
ing ;  that  they  are  unnecessary  or  use- 
less ;  or  that  they  confer  no  advantage 
proportionate  to  their  cost  ;  that  is  not 
the  question.  What  will  they  fetch  ?  is 
the  question.  You  may,  in  a  fit  of  gener- 
osity, or  a  scruple  of  conscience,  sell 
them  for  less  ;  but  the  moment  they  are 
out  of  your  hands  they  will  rise  to  the 
level  of  the  market :  you  have  lost  the 
difference,  and  gained  nothing  for  your 
generous  principle.  In  fine,  //le  vahte  of 
a  thing  I's  the  market  p7'ice  of  it.  This 
is  the  only  intelligible  idea  of  value, 
and  the  only  reasonable  adjustment  of 
price.  It  is  certainly  most  likely  to  be 
reasonable  ;  for  a  multitude  of  judg- 
ments have  been  employed  upon  it,  and 
have  settled  it.  It  is  the  legislative 
voice  of  the  whole  world  ;  and  it  would 
be  as  unjust  and  inexpedient,  as  it  is  im- 
possible, to  resist  it. 

The  way  of  honesty,  then,  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  traffic,  seems  to  be  very 
clear.  The  terms  on  which  we  are  to 
buy  and  sell  are  established  for  us  by  a 
very  obvious  rule.  In  a  general  view, 
we  may  say  that  conscience  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  afiixing  a  price.  That  is 
determined  by  a  thousand  circumstances 
and  a  million  voices.  The  trader  must 
buy  at  the  market  price,  and  he  must 
sell  accordingly.  He  does  not  deter- 
mine the  price,  but  the  suffrage  of  a 
whole  city,  or  of  twenty  cities,  deter-, 
mines  it.     All   that   conscience   has  to, 


THE    MORAL   LAW    OF   CONTRACTS. 


243 


I 


do  with  price,  therefore,  is,  not  to  go 
beyond  the  usage  of  the  market.  And 
for  the  rest  the  rule  is,  to  make  no  false 
representation,  and  to  conceal  no  latent 
defect. 

In  this  view,  the  moral  course  in  al- 
most the  entire  business  of  trade  seems 
to  be  exceedingly  plain  ;  and  certainly 
it  is  most  grateful  to  reflect  that  it  is  so. 
He  that  runs  may  read.  No  man  needs 
to  carry  with  him,  in  regard  to  most  of 
the  transactions  of  business,  a  disturbed 
or  a  doubtful  conscience. 

But  still  cases  will  arise  from  a  nicer 
casuistry.  The  market  price  is  indeed 
the  rule ;  but  there  is  monopoly  that 
makes  a  market  price,  and  there  is  su- 
perior information  that  takes  undue  ad- 
vantage of  it.  These  are  the  cases  that 
remain  to  be  e.xamined. 

II.  The  next  case,  then,  to  be  con- 
sidered in  the  morals  of  business,  is 
monopoly.  This  may  arise  in  two  ways  : 
intentionally,  from  combination  on  the 
part  of  several  traders,  or  a  plan  on  the 
part  of  one  ;  and  unintentionally,  where 
it  falls  out  in  the  natural  and  unforced 
course  of  trade.  It  is  from  confound- 
ing these  two  cases  together,  perhaps, 
that  a  peculiar  prejudice  is  felt  in  the 
community  against  monopoly.  That  a 
man  should  set  himself  by  dexterous 
management  to  get  into  his  possession 
all  the  corn  in  market,  in  order  to  ex- 
tort an  enormous  price  for  it,  is  felt  to 
be  oppressive  and  wrong.  But  there  is 
often  a  monopoly,  to  a  greater  or  less 
degree,  resulting  from  simple  scarcity  ; 
and  in  this  case,  that  enhancement  of 
price  which  is  so  odious  is  perfectly 
inevitable.  Nay,  it  may  be  even  bene- 
ficial. For  high  prices  lessen  consump- 
tion, and  may  prevent  famine.  But  at 
any  rate,  high  prices  in  a  time  of  scar- 
city are  inevitable.  Even  if  all  the  corn 
or  all  the  coal  were  in  the  hands  of  one 
man  ;  and  he  should  sell  the  half  of  his 
stock  to  the  wholesale  dealers  at  a  mod- 
erate rate,  and  hold  the  remainder  at 
the  same  rate  to  keep  the  price  down, 
still,  I  say,  the  moment  the  article  left 
his   hands,  the   law  of    scarcity  would 


prevail,  and  raise  the  price.  Monopoly, 
therefore,  compels,  and  of  course  justi- 
fies, an  enhanced  price.  The  same  prin- 
ciple which  applies  to  every  other  com- 
modity applies  to  that  commodity  called 
money.  And  it  is  only  from  the  habit 
of  considering  money  not  as  a  com- 
modity, but  as  a  possession  of  some 
peculiar  and  magical  value,  that  any 
Ijrejudice  can  exist  against  what  is 
called  usurious  interest ;  saving  and  ex- 
cepting when  that  interest  goes  beyond 
all  bounds  of  reason  and  humanity.  The 
practice  of  usury  has  acquired  a  bad 
name  from  former  and  still  occasional 
abuses  of  it.  But  the  principle  must 
still  be  a  just  one,  that  money,  in  com- 
mon with  everything  else,  is  worth  what 
it  will  fetch. 

This,  I  know,  is  denied.  It  is  denied, 
especially,  that  money  is,  or  is  to  be  re- 
garded, like  other  commodities  in  trade. 
It  is  said  that  money  is  the  creature  of 
government  ;  that  the  mint,  when  stamp- 
ing it  with  the  government  impress, 
stamps  it  with  a  peculiar  character,  and 
separates  it  entirely  from  the  general 
condition  of  a  commodity.  It  is  said, 
too,  that  Ihe  common  representative  of 
money,  that  the  bank-note,  that  credit,  in 
other  words,  is  exposed  to  such  expan- 
sion and  contraction,  and  management 
and  conspiracy,  that  it  is  peculiarly  lia- 
ble to  be  used  to  the  injury  of  the  neces- 
sitous and  unwary. 

Let  us  separate  this  consideration  of 
credit  from  our  discussion  for  a  moment, 
and  consider  the  question  alone  as  it 
affects  the  use  of  money  in  the  form  of 
bullion.  And  I  know  of  no  better  way 
of  considering  questions  of  this  sort, 
than  to  resolve  them  into  their  simple 
forms,  by  going  back  to  the  origin  of 
society,  or  by  takinsr,  for  example,  a 
small  and  isolated  community.  At  least. 
we  come  to  the  theory  of  the  questions 
by  this  means,  and  can  then  consider 
what  modifications  are  required  by  more 
artificial  and  complicated  interests. 

Suppose,  then,  a  community  of  a  hun- 
dred families,  cut  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  engaged  in  the  various  call- 


-44 


ON   COMMERCE   AND    BUSINESS. 


ings  of  life,  accustomed  to  barter,  but 
not  accustomed  to  the  use  of  money. 
Suppose,  now,  that  a  gold-mine  were 
discovered.  The  metal  is  found  to  be 
very  valuable  for  various  purposes  ;  and, 
like  everything  else,  it  takes  its  value 
in  the  market ;  an  ounce  of  it  is  ex- 
changed for  so  many  bushels  of  corn  or 
yards  of  cloth.  But  the  permanent  and 
universal  value  of  this  metal,  and  its  be- 
ing so  portable  and  indestructible,  would, 
erelong,  very  naturally  bring  it  into 
use  as  a  circulating  medium  ;  the  farmer 
would  know  that  if  he  sold  corn  for  it, 
he  could  buy  cloth  with  it  in  another 
part  of  the  district,  and  would  be  glad 
thus  to  be  saved  the  trouble  and  expense 
of  transporting  the  produce  of  his  farm 
to  the  distant  manufactory.  In  this  ex- 
change, the  lumps  of  gold  of  course  would 
be  weighed,  and  it  would  be  natural  to 
stamp  the  weight  upon  each  lump.  But 
another  step  would  follow  from  all  this. 
As  there  would  be  the  trouble  of  con- 
stantly weighing  this  circulating  medium, 
and  the  danger  of  mistake  and  decep- 
tion, the  community  would  appoint  a 
committee,  or  depute  its  government,  if 
it  had  one,  to  do  this  very  thing  ;  and 
the  metal  would  be  cast  into  various 
quantities,  bearing  distinct  denomina- 
tions, to  answer  more  fully  the  purposes 
of  a  convenient  circulating  medium. 
Here,  then,  we  have  a  mint,  and  here 
we  have  money.  Nobody  will  deny  that 
it  was  a  commodity  when  each  man  dug 
it  from  the  earth,  and  exchanged  it  At 
liis  pleasure.  But  the  action  of  the  gov- 
ernment confers  no  peculiar  character 
on  it.  The  government  simply  weighs 
the  metal,  and  affixes,  as  it  were,  a  label 
to  it,  i.  e.  stamps  it  as  coin,  to  tell  what 
it  is  worth.  It  does  not  create  this 
value,  but  simply  indicates  it. 

I  am  sensible  that  many  questions 
may  still  be  asked,  but  I  have  not  space 
here,  if  I  had  ability,  to  enter  into  them  ; 
and  besides,  if  this  is  a  just  theory  of 
the  value  of  the  specie  currency,  it  may 
itself  suggest  the  necessary  answers. 
But  the  great  practical  difficulties  arise 
from  the  use  of  a  paper  currency.     If 


the  paper  were  strictly  the  representative 
of  gold  and  silver ;  if  the  issue  of  bank- 
notes did  not  exceed  the  specie  actu- 
ally in  vault,  and  thus  were  used  only 
for  convenience,  the  same  principles 
would  apply  as  before.  All  other  paper 
does  not  represent  money,  but  credit; 
i.  e.,  it  represents  the  presumed  ability 
of  a  man  to  pay  what  he  promises, 
not  his  known  and  ascertained  property. 
And  the  question  is,  may  credit  be 
bought  and  sold  in  the  market  like  any 
commodity  .'' 

Let  us  again  attempt  to  simplify  the 
question.  You  want  money,  let  us  sup- 
pose, and  you  go  to  a  money-lender 
and  ask  for  it.  He  says,  "  I  have  not 
the  money,  but  I  shall  have  it  a  month 
hence,  and  I  will  give  my  note  payable 
at  that  time."  This  may  answer  the 
purpose  with  your  creditor,  and  the 
question  now  is,  what  interest  shall  you 
pay?  Shall  credit  take  its  place  in  the 
market  like  money,  or  like  a  commodity? 
Shall  we  say  that  the  government  has  no 
business  to  interfere  in  this  matter,  with 
its  usury  laws,  obliging  a  man  to  sell 
his  paper  for  seven  per  cent  ?  Shall  we 
say  that  all  this  ought  to  be  left  to 
regulate  itself,  and  that  every  man  shall 
be  left  free  to  act  according  to  his 
pleasure  ? 

I  certainly  feel  some  hesitation,  from 
deference  for  the  opinions  of  some  able 
men  who  are  more  studious  in  these 
matters  than  I  am,  about  answering  this 
question  in  the  affirmative.  There  are 
relations  and  bearings  of  that  immense 
and  complicated  subject,  the  monetary 
system,  which  I  may  not  understand; 
and  usury,  perhaps,  is  connected  with 
that  system  in  ways  that  are  beyond 
my  comprehension.  But  looking  at  the 
question  now,  in  the  light  of  simple 
justice,  separating  all  unlawful  combina- 
tion and  conspiracy  from  the  case,  and 
all  deception  and  dishonesty,  I  cannot 
see  why  a  man  has  not  a  right  to  sell 
his  credit  for  what  another  is  willing  to 
give  for  it.  If  a  lawyer  has  so  elevated 
himself  above  his  brethren  that  his  opin- 
ion is  worth  not  twenty,  but  five  hundred, 


THE   MORAL   LAW   OF   CONTRACTS. 


245 


per  cent  more  than  theirs,  he  takes  that 
advance  for  his  counsel.  Why,  then, 
shall  not  a  merchant,  who  by  the  same 
laborious  means  has  acquired  a  fortune 
and  a  high  commercial  reputation,  be 
allowed  a  similar  advantage  ? 

We  say,  why  should  he  not  dispose  of 
his  credit,  or,  in  other  words,  pledge  his 
propel  ty,  at  such  prices  as  it  will  natu- 
rally bear  ?  But  the  truth  is,  that  he  can- 
not prevent  this  result,  let  him  do  what  he 
will.  He  may  sell  his  paper  at  one  half 
per  cent  a  month,  but  the  moment  it  is 
out  of  his  hands,  it  will  rise  to  two  or 
three  per  cent,  if  that  be  its  real  value. 
I  say  nothing  now  about  obedience  to 
the  usury  laws  ;  I  do  not  touch  the 
point  of  conscience  in  that  respect;  but 
I  believe  that  the  laws  themselves  are 
both  impolitic  and  unjust ;  unjust,  be- 
cause they  conflict  with  the  real  value 
of  things  ;  and  impolitic,  because  they 
never  were,  and  never  can  be,  executed, 
and,  in  fact,  because  they  only  increase 
the  rates  of  interest  by  increasing  the 
risk. 

But  is  there,  then,  no  limit,  it  may  be 
said,  to  the  advantage  which  one  man 
may  take  of  the  necessities  of  another? 
To  ask  this  question  in  regard  to  the 
lender  of  money,  is  but  the  same  thing 
as  to  ask  it  in  regard  to  the  man  in 
every  other  relationship  of  life.  The 
duties  of  humanity,  of  philanthropy,  of 
natural  affection,  can  never  be  abrogated 
by  any  circumstances,  and  the  only 
question  is,  what  line  of  conduct  in  the 
case  before  us  is  conformable  to  those 
duties.  That  question  cannot,  I  think, 
be  brought  within  the  compass  of  any 
assignable  rules  ;  and  must  be  left  for 
every  man  seriously  to  consider  for 
himself.  He  is  put  upon  his  conscience 
in  this  respect,  as  he  is  in  every  other 
case  in  life. 

III.  But  the  hardest  case  to  deter- 
mine, is  that  on  which  the  question  is 
raised  about  the  use  of  superior  infor- 
mation. And  perhaps  this  question  can- 
not be  better  stated  than  in  the  celebrated 
case  put  by  Cicero.*     A  corn  merchant 

♦  De  Officiis,  Lib.  3,  Sec.  12  17. 


of  Alexandria,  he  says,  arrived  at  Rhodes 
in  a  time  of  great  scarcity,  with  a  cargo 
of  grain,  and  with  knowledge  that  a 
number  of  other  vessels  laden  with  corn 
had  already  sailed  from  Alexandria  for 
Rhodes,  and  which  he  had  passed  on 
tlie  passage ;  was  he  bound  in  con- 
science to  inform  the  buyers  of  that  fact  ? 
Cicero  decides  that  he  was.  Several 
modern  writers  on  law  dissent  from  his 
opinion  ;  as  Grotius,  Puftendorf,  and 
I'othier  himself,  though  with  very  care- 
ful qualifications.* 

It  appears  to  me  that  the  answer  to 
Cicero's  question  must  depend  on  the 
views  which  are  taken  of  a  contract.  If 
a  contract  is  a  mere  arbitrary  conven- 
tion, if  business  is  a  game,  a  mere  con- 
test of  men's  wits,  if  every  man  has  a 
right  to  make  the  best  bargain  he  can,  if 
society  really  ha?  power  to  ordain  that 
such  shall  be  the  laws  of  trade,  then  the 
decision  will  be  one  way.  But  if  a  con- 
tract implies  in  its  very  nature  the  obli- 
gation of  fair-dealing  and  truth-telling, 
then  the  decision  will  be  the  other  way. 
The  supposition  is,  that  the  Alexandrine 
trader  concealed  a  certain  fact,  for  the 
sake  of  asking  a  price  which  he  knew 
would  not  have  been  given,  had  that  fact 
been  public.  Now  what  is  implied  in 
asking  a  price  .''  What  does  a  man  say, 
when  he  sets  a  certain  price  on  his  mer- 
chandise ?  Does  he,  or  does  he  not,  say 
that  the  price  he  asks  is,  in  his  opinion, 
the  fair  value  of  the  article  ?  I  think  he 
does.  If  you  did  not  so  understand  him, 
you  would  not  trade  with  iiim.  If  you 
observed  a  lurking  sneer  on  his  lip,  such 
as  there  must  be  in  his  heart,  when  he 
knows  that  he  is  taking  you  in,  you 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
The  very  transaction,  c?illed  a  contract, 
imphes  that  degree  of  good  faith.  If 
this  be  true,  if  it  is  universally  under- 
stood that  he  who  asks  a  price  professes 
in  that  very  act  to  ask  a  just  and  fair 
price,  and  if,  moreover,  he  has  a  letter 
in  his  pocket  assuring  and  satisfying 
him  that  it  is  not  the  just  price,  then 
he  is  guilty  of  falsehood.     If  the  Alexan- 

*  Traite  du  Contrat  de  veiile,  Part.  II.  cli.  2.  Art.  3. 


246 


O-N   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


drine  trader  had  asked  a  price  graduated 
exactly  by  his  opinion  of  the  probability 
that  other  vessels  would  soon  arrive,  and 
of  the  amount  of  the  supply  they  would 
bring,  his  conduct  would  have  been  fair 
and  honest.  But  if  he  had  concealed 
facts  within  his  knowledge,  for  the  sake 
of  asking  an  enormous  price,  or  any 
price  beyond  what  he  knew  to  be  the  fair 
value,  he  would  be  guilty  of  falsehood  and 
dishonesty.  And  the  reason  is,  I  repeat, 
that  the  very  basis  of  a  contract  is  mu- 
tual advantage  ;  that  its  very  essence 
lies  in  a  supposed  equivalency  ;  that  he 
who  sets  a  price  is  understood  to  say  as 
much  as  this,  "  I  think  the  article  is  worth 
it."  And  if  you  allow  a  man  to  swerve 
from  this  truth  and  good  faith  at  all, 
where  will  you  stop  ?  Suppose  that  the 
people  of  Rhodes  had  been  suffering  the 
horrors  of  famine,  and  the  Alexandrine 
merchant  had  taken  advantage  of  their 
situation  to  exact  from  them  all  their 
disposable  property  as  the  price  of  life, 
and  had  borne  off  that  mass  of  treasure, 
all  the  while  knowing  that  bountiful  sup- 
plies were  at  hand  ;  what  should  we  have 
said  ?  We  should  have  said  that  his  per- 
fidy was  equal  to  his  cruelty  ;  that  he 
was  both  a  pirate  and  a  villain.  But  if 
a  man  may  be  guilty  of  falsehood  in  one 
degree,  what  principle  is  to  prevent  his 
being  guilty  of  it  in  another  ?  I  know 
what  may  be  said  on  the  other  hand. 
The  master  of  the  Alexandrine  ship,  it 
may  be  said,  had  outstripped  the  others 
by  superior  sailing  ;  and  this  superiority 
in  the  management  of  his  ship  may  have 
been  the  fruit  of  a  whole  life  of  industry 
and  ingenuity.  He  had  also  been  on  the 
alert,  it  may  be  supposed  ;  had  watched 
the  course  of  the  markets  while  others 
slept,  and  had  been  ready  with  his  supply 
to  meet  the  exigency  which  all  others, 
even  the  Rhodians  themselves,  had  been 
too  dull  to  foresee.  Is  he  not  entitled 
to  some  premium  for  all  this  ?  Nay,  but 
for  the  prospect  held  out  of  such  a  re- 
ward, the  Rhodians  might  have  starved. 
And  yet  if  he  gives  the  information  in 
question,  he  loses  the  premium.  No, 
the  merchants  of  Rhodes  say,  "  We  will 


wait  till  to-morrow."  But  again ;  to- 
morrow comes  ;  the  vessels  arrive  ;  the 
market  is  glutted ;  and  the  Alexandrine 
trader  loses  money  on  his  voyage.  Will 
the  merchants  of  Rhodes  make  it  up  to 
him,  on  account  of  his  generosity  in  giv- 
ing them  the  information  ?  Not  at  all. 
"  We  buy  at  the  market  price,"  they  say ; 
"  we  cannot  afford  any  more  ;  if  we  give 
more,  we  are  losers  ;"  and  thus  tlie  Alex- 
andrine, by  neglecting  his  own  interests, 
and  taking  care  of  other  people,  loses 
not  only  his  voyage,  but  his  whole  for- 
tune perhaps,  and  becomes  a  bankrupt ; 
and  by  becoming  a  bankrupt,  he  injures 
those  he  is  most  bound  to  serve,  his  con- 
fiding fri&nds  and  beggared  family.  All 
this  is  a  very  good  reason,  to  be  sure, 
why  the  Alexandrine  trader  should  be 
rewarded  for  his  exertions  ;  but  it  is  not 
any  good  reason,  nor  ca>i  there  ever  be 
any  good  reason,  why  a  man  should  tell 
a  falsehood  ;  why  he  should  make  a  false 
impression;  why  he  should  deceive  his 
neighbor. 

On  the  whole,  there  are  two  impor- 
tant distinctions  to  be  made,  which  will 
carry  us,  I  think,  as  far  as  anything 
can  carry  us,  through  the  intricacies 
and  difficulties  of  this  whole  subject. 
The  one  is,  the  difference  between  posi- 
tive knowledge  and  mere  opinion.  The 
other  is,  between  the  rights  of  parties 
and  the  general  moral  policy  of  trade. 

To  take  up  the  latter  in  the  first  place  : 
It  is  said,  that  if  merchants  or  brokers 
mutually  agree  to  the  utmost  severity  of 
competition,  if  the  iDiderstandiiig  be- 
tween tliem  is  tiiat  they  may  take  every 
possible  advantage  of  one  another  ;  then, 
as  between  i/ieniselves,  there  is  nothing 
unjust,  nothing  dishonest,  in  their  act- 
ing according  to  the  compact.  At  the 
broker's  board,  as  at  the  gamester's 
board,  they  may  push  this  principle  to 
the  ruin  of  one  another,  and  nobody 
has  any  right  to  complain.  Not  only 
may  they  fully  avail  themselves  of  su- 
perior power  or  knowledge  in  the  ordi- 
nary transaction  of  business,  but  they 
may  conspire  together  to  contract  with 
their  neighbor  to  deliver  to  them  a  cer- 


THE   MORAL  LAW   OF   CONTRACTS. 


247 


tain  amount  of  a  certain  kind  of  stock 
a  month  Iience,  and  in  the  mean  time 
they  may  buy  up  all  that  stock,  and 
then,  having  the  power  in  their  hands, 
they  may  use  it  to  ruin  him;  and  yet, 
as  between  themselves,  it  is  a  fair  busi- 
ness transaction.  They  agreed  to  enter 
into  this  kind  of  contest  with  one  an- 
other, and  they  have  acted  according  to 
their  agreement. 

All  this  is  true  ;  and  yet  I  maintain 
that  there  is  a  general  moral  policy  of 
trade,  so  to  speak,  which  should  forbid 
such  proceedings.  I  maintain  that  they 
have  no  moral  right  to  make  such  a  com- 
pact. It  is  a  compact  to  defraud.  All 
moral  expediency  is  against  it ;  as  much 
against  it  as  it  is  against  gambling  in 
any  form.  It  is  gambling,  and  nothing 
else.  It  must  be  injurious,  if  not  fatal, 
to  all  benevolence, —  to  all  the  purity 
and  generosity  of  the  character.  The 
question  really  is,  whether  .the  board  of 
trade  should  be  brought  down  to  the 
level  of  the  gaming-table. 

But  tills  moral  policy  of  trade,  in 
other  words,  this  highest  well-being  of 
society,  in  its  business,  does  not  forbid 
the  fair  use  and  advantage  of  superior 
sagacity,  knowledge,  attention,  alertness 
in  business.  The  difficult  question  is, 
what  is  that  fair  use  ?  and  with  refer- 
ence to  this  I  propose  the  other  distinc- 
tion ;  the  distinction,  that  is  to  say, 
between  knowledge  and  opinion.  To 
illustrate  what  I  mean  by  an  instance  : 
a  man  holds  in  his  hand  a  lump  of  gold 
which  he  has  taken  from  his  mine  ;  he, 
however,  sripposes  it  to  be  copper,  Ijut 
you  know  it  to  be  gold  ;  if  you  buy  it  of 
him  as  copper  you  are  a  swindler.  But 
now  suppose  the  quality  of  the  lump  to  be 
doubtful  — that  the  question  about  it  is 
an  open  question  between  you  ;  and  sup- 
pose that  you  have  better  grounds  for 
your  opinion  than  he  for  his  ;  in  this 
case,  I  say,  you  may  honestly  buy  of 
him  at  his  valuation. 

This  is  the  difference  between  knowl- 
edge and  opinion  ;  and  although  it  is 
not  easy  to  draw  the  exact  line  between 
them,  yet  I  say  that  the  leaning  to  the 


exercise  of  opinion  is  the  safe  and  right 
tendency  ;  and  that  the  leaning  to  the 
use  of  absolute  knowledge  is  unsafe, 
and  may  go  to  the  length  of  utter  and 
heinous  wrong.  Let  us  now  say  some- 
thing, in  fine,  in  defence  of  the  one, 
and  in  admonition  with  regard  to  the 
other. 

Do  we  tlien  propose  to  reduce  the 
wise  and  the  ignorant,  the  sagacious  and 
the  stupid,  the  attentive  and  the  negli- 
gent, the  acti\-e  and  the  indolent,  to  the 
same  level  .''  Must  the  intelligent  and 
the  enterprising  merchant  raise  up  his 
dull  and  careless  neighbor  to  his  own 
point  of  view  before  we  may  deal  with 
him  ?  Certainly  not.  Let  a  wide  field 
be  opened,  only  provided  that  the  boun- 
daries be  truth  and  honesty.  Let  the 
widest  field  for  activity  and  freedom  of 
act'on  be  spread,  which  these  boundaries 
can  enclose. 

Indeed,  a  man  must  act  in  trade  upon 
some  opinion.  That  opinion  must  be 
founded  on  some  knowledge.  And  that 
knowledge  he  may  properly  seek.  Nay, 
and  he  may  use  it,  to  any  extent,  not 
implying  deception  or  dishonestv.  Nor 
are  the  cases  frequent  in  which  com- 
mercial operations  possess  any  such 
definite  or  extraordinary  character  as 
admits  of  deception.  It  does  not  often 
happen  that  any  great  advantage  is, 
or  can  be,  taken  of  complete  and  un- 
suspecting ignorance.  Men  are  wary. 
They  will  not  make  questionable  sales, 
when  a  packet-ship  from  abroad  is  in 
the  offing.  They  are  set  to  guard  their 
own  interests,  and  they  do  guard  them. 
They  must  assume  some  responsibili- 
ties in  this  way  ;  they  must  take  some 
risks.  They  are  liable  to  err  in  opinion, 
and  they  must  take  such  chance  as 
human  imperfection  ordains  for  them. 
Business,  like  every  other  scene  of  hu- 
man life,  is  a  theatre  for  imperfection, 
for  error,  for  effort,  for  opinion,  and  for 
their  results.  I  do  not  see  how  it  can 
possibly  be  otherwise,  and  therefore  I 
consider  it  as  appointed  to  be  so.  Un- 
due advantage  may  be  taken  of  this  state 
of  things  by  the  selfish,  grasping,  and 


248 


ON  COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


unconscientious ;  right  principles  may 
be  wrested  to  the  accomphshment  of 
wrong  ends  ;  a  system  of  commercial 
morality  may  be  good  for  the  com- 
munity, and  yet  may  be  abused  by  in- 
dividuals :  all  this  is  true  ;  and  yet  the 
doctrine  which  applies  everywhere  else 
must  apply  here,  that  abuse  fairly  ar- 
gues nothing  against  use. 

Let  us  see  how  the  case  would  stand 
n  it  were  otherwise  ;  let  us  see  what 
the  assumption  on  the  part  of  the  trad- 
ing community,  that  no  man  should  ever 
act  in  any  way  on  superior  information, 
would  amount  to.  *'  VVe  may  sleep," 
they  would  say  ;  "  we  need  not  take  any 
pains  to  inform  ourselves  of  t!ie  state  of 
the  markets;  we  need  not  take  a  step 
from  our  own  door.  If  our  neighbor 
come  to  trade  with  us,  he  must  first  in- 
form us  of  everything  affecting  the  price 
of  our  goods.  He  makes  himself  very 
busy;  and  he  shall  have  his  labor  for 
his  pains  ;  for  the  rule  now  is,  that  indo- 
lence is  to  fare  as  well  as  activity,  and 
vigilance  is  to  have  no  advantage  over 
supineness  and  sloth."  Suppose,  then, 
that  the  vigilant  and  active  man  is  up 
betimes,  and  goes  clown  upon  the  wharf 
or  to  the  news-room,  and  becomes 
apprised  of  facts  that  affect  the  price  of 
his  goods  ;  he  must  not  go  about  sell- 
ing, till  he  has  stepped  into  the  shop 
of  his  indolent  neighbor,  and  perhaps 
of  half  a  dozen  such,  to  inform  i/zem 
of  the  state  of  things  ;  for,  although  he 
does  not  directly  trade  with  them,  yet, 
by  underselling  or  selling  for  more,  in 
consequence  of  superior  information,  he 
injures  them  just  as  much  as  if  he  did  : 
i.  e.,  he  takes  profits  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  slothful,  by  acting  on  his  superior 
knowledge.  But  now  enlarge  the  sphere 
of  the  comparison.  There  is  no  real 
difference  in  the  principle  between  a 
man's  going  down  to  the  wharf,  and  his 
going  to  Europe,  for  information.  And 
if,  by  superior  activity,  by  building  better 
ships  and  better  manning  them,  he  is 
accustomed  to  get  earlier  advices  of  the 
state  of  foreign  markets,  I  see  not,  but 
as  a  general  principle,  a  principle  advan- 


tageous to  commerce,  and  encouragin<>- 
to  human  industry  and  ingenuity,  he 
must  be  allowed  to  avail  himself  of  those 
advices.  The  law  of  general  expediency 
must  be  a  law  for  the  conscience.  It  is 
expedient  that  industry  and  attention 
should  be  rewarded,  and  that  negligence 
and  sloth  should  suffer  loss.  1 1  is  expedi- 
ent that  there  should  be  commerce  or  bar- 
ter ;  nay,  it  is  inevitable.  It  is  expedient, 
therefore,  that  all  that  sagacity,  power, 
and  information,  which  are  the  result  of 
superior  talent,  energy,  and  ingenuity, 
should  yield  certain  advantages  to  their 
possessor.  These  advantages  he  may 
push  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason  and 
justice  ;  but  we  must  not,  on  that  ac- 
count, be  deterred  from  maintaining  a 
principle  which  is  right ;  a  principle 
which  is  expedient  and  necessary  for 
the  whole  community. 

And  is  not  the  same  principle,  in  fact, 
adopted  in  every  department  of  human 
pursuit  ?  Two  men  engage  in  a  certain 
branch  of  manufactures.  The  one,  by 
his  attention  and  ingenuity,  makes  dis- 
coveries in  his  art,  and  thus  gains  advan- 
tages over  his  indolent  or  dull  neighbor. 
Is  he  obliged  to  impart  to  him  his  supe- 
rior information  .''  Two  young  men  in 
the  profession  of  the  law  are  distin- 
guished, the  one  for  hard  study,  the  other 
for  idleness.  They  are  engaged  in  the 
same  cause  ;  and  the  one  believes  that 
the  other  is  making  a  false  point  in  the 
case.  Is  he  obliged  to  go  over  to  his 
brother's  ofifice,  and  explain  to  him  his 
error  ;  or  is  it  not  proper,  rather,  that 
both  himself  and  his  client  should  suffer 
for  that  error,  when  the  cause  comes  to 
be  argued  in  open  court  ? 

Tiius  much  witli  regard  to  the  exercise 
of  opinion;  but  absolute  certainty  is  a 
different  thing.  And  in  regard  to  abso- 
lute certainty,  how,  I  would  ask,  are  we 
to  distinguish  between  knowledge  in  re- 
gard to  the  real  value  of  an  article,  from 
knowledge  in  regard  to  the  real  quality 
of  an  article  ?  If  I  sell  merchandise  in 
which  there  is  some  secret  defect,  and 
do  not  expose  that  defect,  I  am  held  to 
be  a  dishonest  man.     But  what  matters 


THE   MORAL   LAW   OF   CONTRACTS. 


249 


It  to  my  conscience,  whether  the  secret 
defect  Hes  in  the  article  or  in  the  price  ? 
It  comes  to  the  same  thing  with  my  fel- 
low-dealer. If  I  were  to  sell  moth-eateii 
cloths  at  four  dollars  per  yard  more 
than  they  were  worth  ^  the  defect  being 
known  to  me  and  not  to  my  neighbor  — 
all  the  world  would  pronounce  me  a 
knave.  But  there  is  another  sort  of 
moth,  a  secret  in  my  own  keeping,  which 
may  have  as  effectually  eaten  out  four 
dollars  from  every  yard  of  that  cloth,  as 
if  it  had  literally  cut  the  thread  of  the 
fabric.  What  difference  now  can  it  make 
to  my  neighbor,  whether  advantage  is 
taken  of  his  ignorance  in  one  way  or 
another  ;  in  regard  to  the  quality,  or  the 
price .''  The  only  material  point  is  the 
value,  and  that  is  equally  affected  in 
either  case.  This  is  the  only  conclusion 
to  which  I  find  myself  able,  on  much  re- 
flection, to  arrive.  Knowledge  of  prices 
is  as  material  to  the  value  of  merchan- 
dise as  knowledge  of  its  qualities.  This 
knowledge,  therefore,  as  it  appears  to 
me,  should  be  common  to  all  contracting 
parties.  I  cannot  think  that  a  trader  is 
to  be  like  a  fisher,  disguising  his  hook 
with  bait;  or  like  a  sleight-of-hand  man, 
cheating  men  out  of  their  senses  and 
money  with  a  face  of  gravity  ;  or  like 
an  Indian,  shooting  from  behind  a  bush, 
himself  in  no  danger.  Trade,  traffic, 
contracts,  bargains,  —  all  these  words 
imply  parity,  equivalency,  common  risk, 
mutual  advantage.  And  he  who  can  ar- 
range a  commercial  operation  by  which 
he  is  certain  to  realize  great  profits  and 
to  inflict  great  losses,  is  a  taker  of  mer- 
chandise, but  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  a 
trader  in  it. 

I  am  sensible  that  this  is  the  nice  and 
difficult  point  in  the  whole  discussion. 
But  I  put  it  to  the  calm  reflection  and  to 
the  consciences  of  my  hearers,  whether 
they  would  not  feel  easier  in  their  busi- 
ness, if  ail  use  of  superior  and  certain 
knowledge  were  entirely  excluded  from 
it.  Long  as  this  use  has  obtained,  and 
warmly  as  it  is  sometimes  defended,  yet 
I  ask,  if  the  moral  sentiments  of  the 
trading  community  itself  would  not  be 


relieved  by  giving  it  up.''  This,  if  it  be 
true,  is  certainly  a  weighty  consideration. 
I  admit,  indeed,  as  I  have  before  done, 
that  no  vague  sentiment  is  to  settle  the 
question.  But  when  I  find  that  there 
is  even  in  vague  sentiment  something 
like  a  hook  that  holds  the  mind  in  sus- 
pense, or  will  not  let  the  mind  be  satis- 
fied with  departure  from  it,  that  circum- 
stance deserves,  I  think,  to  arrest  atten- 
tion. I  will  frankly  confess  that  my  own 
mind  has  been  in  this  very  situation.  I 
did  not  see,  at  one  time,  how  the  case  of 
general  information  and  opinion  whicli 
it  is  lawful  to  use,  could  be  separated 
from  the  case  of  particular  knowledge. 
But  I  now  entertain  a  different  and  a 
more  decided  opinion.  And  the  con- 
sideration, with  me,  which  has  changed 
uneasiness  into  doubt,  and  doubt  into  a 
new,  and  as  I  think  correct,  judgment, 
is  that  which  I  have  last  stated;  it  is 
the  consideration,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
very  nature  of  a  contract.  A  contract 
does  not  imply  equal  powers,  equal  gen- 
eral information,  equal  shrewdness  in 
the  contracting  parties  ;  but  it  does  im- 
ply, as  it  appears  to  me,  equal  actual 
knowledge ;  an  equal  participation,  that 
is  to  say,  in  whatever  can  claim  the 
character  of  certainty  in  the  case.  My 
neighbor  may  think  himself  superior  to 
me  in  all  other  respects,  and  he  may 
tell  me  so,  and  yet  I  will  trade  with  him ; 
we  still  stand  upon  ground  that  I  am 
willing  to  consider  equal.  But  let  him 
tell  me  that  he  knows  something  touch- 
ing the  manufacture,  quality,  condition, 
or  relations  of  the  article,  to  be  sold, 
which  I  do  not  know,  and  which  affects 
the  value  of  the  article,  and  I  stop  upon 
the  threshold  ;  we  cannot  trafiic  ;  tliere 
may  be  a  game  of  hazard  which  he  and  I 
consent  to  play  ;  but  there  is  an  end  of 
all  trading.  If  this  be  true,  then  the 
condition  of  a  regular  and  lawful  contract 
is,  that  there  be  no  secrets  in  it;  no  se- 
crets either  in  the  kind  or  quality  of  the 
merchandise,  or  in  the  breast,  or  in  the 
pocket  of  the  dealer.  Let  them  all  be 
swept  away  ;  let  them  be  swept  out,  all 
secrets  from  all  hiding-places,  from  all 


2^0 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


coverts  of  subterfuge  and  chicanery ; 
and  this,  at  least,  I  am  certain  of,  that 
business  would  occasion  fewer  wounds 
of  conscience  to  all  honorable  and  vir- 
tuous communities. 


APPENDIX   TO   THE   FOREGOING   DIS- 
COURSE. 

Some  remarks  upon  the  foregoing  discourse, 
which  had  reached  the  author's  ear  during  the 
weekly  interval,  before  the  delivery  of  the  next  dis- 
course, led  him,  in  entering  upon  it,  to  offer  the 
following  observations. 

It  may  be  thought,  that  in  my  discourse  of  the 
last  Sunday  evening  I  have  leaned  to  a  view  of 
the  principles  of  trade  which  is  too  indulgent  to 
its  questionable  practices.  I  am  most  anxious  to 
guard  against  such  an  inference  ;  and  yet  I  must 
hesitate  to  yield  exactly  to  the  tone  of  objection 
which  may  possibly  be  adopted  by  some  of  my 
hearers.  The  pulpit  is  not  to  speak  any  peculiar 
language  on  this  subject  because  it  is  the  pulpit. 
The  language  of  truth  is  what  we  seek  ;  the  lan- 
guage which  would  be  true  anywhere.  Neither  is 
the  pulpit  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  post  of  duty 
which  is  to  serve  only  the  purpose  of  assault, 
whose  business  it  is  to  assail  any  particular  class 
of  persons,  merchants  or  others  ;  nor  is  the  church 
a  proper  place  for  men  to  come  to  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  gratification  of  seeing  other  men  attacked. 
Nor  is  it  the  only  business  of  the  moral  teacher 
to  denounce  the  sins  of  a  violated  conscience  ; 
it  is  sometimes  quite  as  important  to  defend  weak 
consciences.  Nothing  can  be  worse  for  a  man 
than  to  act  upon  a  principle  of  which  he  doubts 
the  correctness.  He  is  then  doing  wrong,  even 
when  the  thing  he  does  may  be  right.  His  con- 
science becomes  weakened  by  wounds  without 
cause  ;  it  is  floating  on  a  sea  of  doubt,  and  may 
be  borne  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  rectitude.  It 
is  thus  that  there  arises  in  a  community  a  gen- 
eral and  pernicious  habit  of  paltering  with  con- 
science, of  talking  about  certain  principles  as  very 
good  in  theory  but  as  impracticable  in  fact,  of 
slurring  over  the  Christian  rule  with  innuendoes, 
of  commending  it,  indeed  and  in  a  sort  ;  but 
how  ?  Why,  of  treacherously  commending  it, 
with  those  ironical  praises  and  ambiguous  hints 
and  knowing  glances  of  eye,  which  more  effectually 
than  anything  else,  break  down  all  principle. 

On  the  contrary,  let  us  come  out  fairly  and  es- 
tablish the  true  doctrine,  on  independent  ground, 
with  fair  reasoning,  without  any  bias  against  men 
of  business  or  for  them,  and  then  shall  we  stand 
upon  the  stable  basis  of  conscience  and  princi- 
ple, and  be  able  to  define  its  boundaries.  If  it 
be  expedient  and  inevitable  that  men  should, 
in  business  as  in  everything  else,  act  to  a  certain 
extent  upon  their  own   superior  sagacity,  power, 


and  information,  let  us  plainly  say  so  ;  and  then 
let  us  faithfully  warn  them  against  going  too 
far.  Now,  nobody  doubts,  I  presume,  that  they 
may  go  too  far  ;  that  the  man  of  sagacity  may 
overreach  an  idiot ;  that  the  monopolist  and  the 
usurer  may  abuse  his  power  ;  and  that  he  who 
possesses  superior  information  may  dishonestly 
and  cruelly  use  it.  And  therefore  it  was  less 
necessary  to  insist  upon  these  points  than  it  was 
to  discuss  the  great  question,  and  the  only  ques- 
tion, viz.,  whether  these  advantages  may  be  used 
at  all.  If  they  may  not  be  used  at  all,  then  all 
commerce,  in  its  actual  and  I  think  inevitable 
procedures,  is  a  system  of  knavery.  If  it  is  not  a 
system  of  knavery,  then  it  is  important  to  defend 
it  from  that  chai  ge.  And  it  is  the  more  important, 
because  against  merchants,  from  their  acquiring 
greater  wealth  probably,  there  are  peculiar  preju- 
dices in  the  community.  The  manufacturer  may 
use  his  superior  information,  —  his  particular  in- 
vention ;  that  is,  he  may  get  a  patent  for  it,  i.  e.,  a 
monopoly,  and  every  other  profession  may  do  sub- 
stantially the  same  thing,  and  not  a  word  is  said 
against  it.  But  if  the  merchant  docs  this,  he  is 
called  into  serious  question.  And,  influenced  by 
this  general  distrust,  he  calls  himself  in  question 
too.  But  unfortunately  for  him,  instead  of  think- 
ing deeply  upon  the  matter,  and  settling  himself 
upon  some  foundation  of  general  principle,  he  is 
liable  to  give  himself  up  to  the  suggestions  of 
temporary  expediency.  He  is  not  quite  satisfied, 
perhaps,  with  what  he  is  doing,  and  yet  he  says 
that  he  must  do  it,  or  he  cannot  get  along  ;  a  way 
of  reasoning  that  I  hold  to  be  most  injurious  to 
his  character.  Let  him  then,  I  say,  settle  some 
just  principle,  and  conscientiously  act  upon  it. 

They  are  general  principles,  I  must  desire  you 
to  observe,  which  I  have  attempted  to  establish. 
The  questions  that  arise  upon  the  application  of 
these  principles  are,  of  course,  numerous  and  com- 
plicated. I  could  not  enter  into  all  of  them.  My 
inexperience  disqualified  me.  And  besides,  it  was 
impossible  to  meet  the  questions  of  every  man's 
mind. 

I  must  add,  in  fine,  that  in  defending  the  right 
in  trade,  the  impression  upon  the  popular  ear  may 
naturally  enough  have  \>tzn  that  I  have  not  suffi- 
ciently considered  the  wrong.  The  wrong,  let  me 
observe  here,  will  properly  come  under  our  con- 
sideration in  another  place.  What  I  say  now  is, 
that  if  the  principles  vvliich  I  have  laid  down  have 
seemed  to  any  one  to  verge  towards  an  undue 
license,  I  must  most  earnestly  protest  against 
this  inference.  That  very  license,  I  say,  is  the 
point  to  which  the  principle  shall  not  go.  And 
I  say,  more  explicitly,  that,  although  the  vender 
of  any  goods  is  not  bound  to  assist  the  buyer 
with  his  judgment,  yet  that  he  is  bound  to  point 
out  any  latent  defect,  and  he  is  bound,  by  the 
general  trust  reposed  in  him  on  that  point,  to 
sell  at  the  market  price  ;  and  again,  that  monop- 
oly,  whether  of   money  or    other   commodities, 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


251 


although  it  must  inevitably  raise  the  prices, 
althou;;h  it  must  be  governed  in  all  ordinary 
cases  by  the  market  value,  yet,  when  it  can  control 
the  market  price,  is  bound  to  use  its  power  with 
moderation  ;  and  finally,  that  he  who  acts  upon 
superior  information,  though  he  may  lawfully  do 
>o,  shall  not  press  his  advantage  to  the  extent  of 
any  fraudulent  use,  or  to  the  infliction  of  any 
-ross  and  undeserved  injury  ;  that  he  shall  not 
press  it  further  than  is  necessary  reasonably  to 
reward  vigilance  and  admonisli  indolence  ;  that 
he  shall  not  press  it  further  than  the  wholesome 
action  of  trade,  and  the  true  welfare  of  the  whole 
community,  requires. 


XL 

ON    THE    MOR.\L   END   OF    BUSINESS. 

Proverbs  xx.  15  :  "  There  is  gold  and  a  multitude 
of  rubies,  but  the  lips  of  knowledge  (:'.  e.  0/ rectitude) 
are  a  precious  jewel." 

My  subject  this  evening  is  the  moral 
end  of  business.  Let  me  first  attempt 
to  define  my  meaning  in  the  use  of  this 
phrase  :  the  moral  end  of  business. 

It  is  not  the  end  for  which  property 
should  be  sought.  It  is  not  the  moral 
purpose  to  be  answered  by  the  acqui- 
sition, but  by  the  process  of  acquisition. 
And  again,  it  is  not  the  end  of  industry  in 
general,  —  that  is  a  more  comprehensive 
subject, — but  it  is  the  end  of  business 
in  particular,  of  barter,  of  commerce. 
'•  The  end  of  business  ?  "  some  one  may 
say  ;  "  why,  the  end  of  business  is  to 
obtain  property;  the  end  of  the  process 
of  acquisition  is  acquisition."  If  I  ad- 
dressed any  person  whose  mind  had  not 
gone  behind  that  ready  and  obvious  an- 
swer to  ultimate  and  deeper  reasons,  I 
should  venture  to  say  that  a  revelation  is 
to  be  made  to  him,  of  a  more  e.xalted  aim 
in  business,  of  a  higher,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  perilous,  scene  of  action  in 
its  pursuits,  than  he  has  yet  imagined. 
In  other  words,  I  hold  that  the  ultimate 
end  of  all  business  is  a  moral  end.  I 
believe  that  business  —  I  mean  not 
labor  but  barter,  traffic  —  would  never 
have  existed,  if  there  had  been  no  end 
but   sustenance.     The  animal  races  ob- 


tain subsistence  upon  an  easier  and 
simpler  plan  ;  but  for  man  there  is  a 
higher  end,  and  that  is  moral. 

The  broad  grounds  of  this  position  I 
find  in  the  obvious  designs  of  Providence, 
and  in  the  evident  adaptation  to  this 
moral  end,  of  business  itself. 

There  is,  then,  a  design  for  which  all 
things  were  made  and  ordained,  going 
beyond  the  things  tliemselves.  To  say 
that  things  were  made,  or  that  the  ar- 
rangements and  relations  of  things  were 
ordained,  for  their  own  sake,  is  a  propo- 
sition without  meaning.  The  world,  its 
structure,  productions,  laws,  and  events, 
have  no  good  nor  evil  in  them ;  none, 
but  as  they  produce  these  results  in 
the  experience  of  living  creatures.  The 
end,  then,  of  the  inanimate  creation  is 
the  welfare  of  the  living,  and  therefore, 
especially,  of  the  intelligent  creation. 
But  the  welfare  of  human  beings  Hes 
essentially  in  their  moral  culture.  All 
is  wrong  everywhere,  if  all  is  not  right 
there.  All  of  design  that  there  is  in 
this  lower  creation  presses  upon  that 
point.  The  universe  is  a  moral  chaos 
without  that  design,  and  it  is  a  moral 
desolation  to  every  mind  in  which  that 
design  is  not  accomplished.  Life,  then, 
has  an  ultimate  purpose.  We  are  not 
appointed  to  pass  through  this  life, 
barely  that  we  may  live.  We  are  not 
impelled,  both  by  disposition  and  ne- 
cessity, to  buy  and  sell,  barely  that  we 
may  do  it ;  nor  to  get  gain,  barely  that 
we  may  get  it.  There  is  an  end  in  busi- 
ness beyond  supply.  There  is  an  object 
in  the  acquisition  of  wealth  beyond  suc- 
cess. There  is  a  final  cause  of  human 
traffic:  and  that  is  virtue. 

With  this  view  of  the  moral  end  of 
business,  tails  in  the  constant  doctrine  of 
all  elevated  philosophy  and  true  religion. 
Life,  say  the  expounders  of  every  creed, 
is  a  probation.  The  circumstances  in 
which  we  are  placed  ;  the  events,  the 
scenes,  of  our  mortal  lot;  the  bright 
visions  that  cheer  us,  the  dark  clouds 
that  overshadow  us,  —  all  these  are 
not  an  idle  show,  nor  do  they  exist 
for  themselves  alone,  nor  because  they 


252 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


must  exist  by  the  fiat  of  some  blind 
chance  ;  but  they  have  a  purpose  ;  and 
that  purpose  is  expressed  in  the  word 
probation.  Now,  if  anything  deserves 
to  be  considered  as  a  part  of  that  proba- 
tion, it  is  business.  Life,  say  the  wise, 
is  a  school.  In  this  school  there  are  les- 
sons :  toil  is  a  lesson  ;  trial  is  a  lesson  ; 
and  business,  too,  is  a  lesson.  But  the 
end  of  a  lesson  is,  that  something  be 
learned.  And  the  end  of  business  is,  that 
truth,  rectitude,  virtue,  be  learned.  This 
is  the  ultimate  design  proposed  by  Heav- 
en ;  and  it  is  a  design  which  every  wise 
man  engaged  in  that  calHng  will  propose 
to  himself.  It  is  no  extravagance,  there- 
fore, but  the  simple  assertion  of  a  truth, 
to  say  to  a  man  so  engaged,  and  to  say 
emphatically,  "  You  have  an  end  to  gain 
beyond  success ;  and  that  is  the  moral 
rectitude  of  your  own  mind." 

That  business  is  so  exquisitely 
adapted  to  accomplish  that  purpose,  is 
another  argument  with  me  to  prove 
that  such,  in  the  intention  of  its  Ordainer, 
was  its  design.  I  can  conceive  that 
things  might  have  been  ordered  other- 
wise ;  that  human  beings  might  have 
been  formed  for  industry,  and  not  for 
traffic.  I  can  conceive  man  and  nature 
to  have  been  so  constituted  that  each 
individual  should,  by  solitary  labor,  have 
drawn  from  the  earth  his  sustenance  ; 
and  that  a  vesture  softer,  richer,  and 
more  graceful  than  is  ever  wrought  in 
the  looms  of  our  manufactories  might 
have  been  woven  upon  his  body  by  the 
same  invisible  hands  that  have  thus 
clothed  the  beasts  of  the  desert  and  the 
birds  of  the  air  and  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
so  that  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not 
arrayed  like  one  of  them.  Then  might 
mah  have  held  only  the  sweet  counsel 
of  society  with  his  fellow,  and  never  been 
called  to  engage  with  him  in  the  strife 
of  business.  Then,  too,  would  he  have 
been  saved  from  all  the  dangers  and 
vices  of  human  traffic.  But  then,  too, 
would  the  lofty  virtues  cultivated  in  this 
sphere  of  life  never  have  had  an  exist- 
ence. For  business,  I  repeat,  is  admi- 
rably adapted  to  form  such  virtues.     It 


is  apt,    I    know    it   is  said,  to   corrupt 
men;  but  the  truth  is,  it  corrupts  only 
those  who  are  willing  to  be  corrujjted. 
An  honest  man,   a  man   who   sincerely 
desires  to  attain  to  a  lofty  and  unbend- 
ing uprightness,  could  scarcely  seek  a 
discipline   more  perfectly  fitted  to  that 
end  than  the  discipline  of  trade.     For 
what  is  trade  ?     It  is  the  constant  adjust- 
ment  of  the  claims  of  different  parties, 
a  man's   self  being  one   of  the  parties. 
This  competition  of  rights  and  interests 
might  not  invade  the  solitary  study,  or 
the  separate  tasks  of  the  workshop,  or 
the  labors   of  the  silent  field,   once   a 
day;  but  it  presses  upon  the  merchant 
and   trader    continually.     Do    you    say 
that  it  presses  too  hard  ?     Then.  I  reply, 
must  the  sense  of  rectitude  be  made  the 
stronger  to  meet  the  trial.     Every  plea 
of  this  nature  is  an  argument  for  stren- 
uous moral  effort.     Shall  I  be  told  that 
the    questions    which    often    arise    are 
very   perplexing  ;  that    the  case  to   be 
decided  comes,  oftentimes,  not  under  a 
definite  rule  but  under  a  general  princi- 
ple,   whose  very   generality   is  perilous 
to  the  conscience  ?     It  is  indeed.     Here, 
perhaps,  lies  the  great  peril  of  business; 
in  the  generality  of  the  rule.     For  con- 
science does'not  in  most  cases  definitely 
say,  "  Thou  shalt  do  this  thing,  and  thou 
shalt  do  that."     It  says  always,  "Thou 
shalt  do  right,"  but  what  that  is,  is  not 
always  clear.     And  hence  it  is,  that  a 
man  may  take  care  to  offend  against  no 
definite  remonstrance  of  conscience,  and 
that  he  may  be,  in  the  common  accepta- 
tion, an    honest  man,  and  yet   that  he 
may  be  a  selfish,  exacting,  and  oppres- 
sive man  :  a  man  who  can  never  recog- 
nize the  rights  and  interests  of  others  ; 
who  can  never  see  anything  but  on  the 
side  that   is  favorable  to  himself;  who 
drowns  the  voice  of  his  modest  neigh- 
bor   with    always    and    loudly    saying, 
"Oh  !  this  is  right,  and  that  can't  be;" 
a  man,  in  fine,  who,  although  he  seldom, 
perhaps  never,  offends  against  any  as- 
signable   or    definite    precept    of   con- 
science, has  swerved  altogether  from  all 
uprightness  and  generosity.    What,  then, 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


253 


is  to  be  done  ?  A  work,  I  answer,  of 
the  most  ennobling  character.  A  man 
must  do  more  than  to  attain  to  punctil- 
ious honesty  in  his  actions ;  he  must 
train  his  whole  soul,  his  judgment,  his 
sentiments,  his  affections,  to  uprightness, 
candor,  and  good  will. 

In  fine,  I  look  upon  business  as  one 
vast  scene  of  moral  action.  "The  thou- 
smd  wheels  of  commerce,"  with  all  their 
swift  and  complicated  revolutions,  I  re- 
gird  as  an  immense  moral  machinery. 
Meanness  and  cunning  may  lurk  amidst 
it,  but  it  was  not  designed  for  that  deg- 
radation. That  must  be  a  noble  scene 
of  action  where  conscience  is  felt  to  be 
a  law.  And  it  is  felt  to  be  the  law  of 
business ;  its  very  violations  prove  it 
such.  It  is  the  enthroned  sovereign  of 
the  plan;  disobedience,  disloyalty,  give 
attestation  to  it.  Nothing  is  too  holy 
to  connect  with  it.  There  is  a  temple 
in  one  of  the  cities  of  Europe,  through 
which  is  the  very  passage  to  the  mar- 
ket-place ;  and  those  who  pass  there, 
often  rest  their  burdens,  to  turn  aside 
and  kneel  at  the  altar  of  prayer.  So 
were  it  meet  that  all  men  should  enter 
upon  their  daily  business.  The  temple 
of  mammon  should  be  the  temple  of 
God.  The  gates  of  trade  should  be  as 
the  entrance  to  the  sanctuary  of  con- 
science. There  is  an  eye  of  witnessing 
and  searching  scrutiny  fixed  upon  every 
one  of  its  doings.  The  presence  of 
that  all-seeing  One,  not  confined,  as 
some  imagine,  to  the  silent  church  or  the 
solitary  grove,  —  the  presence  of  God, 
I  think  it  not  too  solemn  to  say,  is  in 
every  counting-room  and  warehouse  of 
yonder  mart,  and  ought  to  make  it  holy 
ground. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  show  that 
business  has  an  ultimate  moral  end ; 
one  going  beyond  the  accumulation  of 
property. 

This  may  also  be  shown  to  be  true, 
not  only  on  the  scale  of  our  private 
affairs,  but  on  the  great  theatre  of 
history.  Commerce  has  always  been  an 
instrument,  in  the  hands  of  Providence, 
for  accomplishing  nobler  ends  than  pro- 


moting the  wealth  of  nations.  It  has 
been  the  grand  civilizer  of  nations.  It 
has  been  the  active  principle  in  all 
civilization.  Or,  to  speak  more  accu- 
rately, it  has  presented  that  condition 
of  things  in  which  civilization  has  al- 
ways rapidly  advanced,  and  without 
which  it  never  has.  The  principles  of 
civilization,  properly  speaking,  are  the 
principles  of  humanity  ;  the  natural  de- 
sire of  knowledge,  liberty,  and  refine- 
ment. But  commerce  seems  to  have 
been  the  germ,  the  original  spring,  that 
has  put  all  other  springs  in  action. 
Liberty  has  always  followed  its  steps  ; 
and  with  liberty,  science  and  religion 
have  gradually  advanced  and  improved, 
and  never  without  it.  All  those  king- 
doms of  Central  Asia,  and  of  Europe 
too,  which  commerce  has  never  pene- 
trated, have  been  and  are,  despotisms. 
With  its  earliest  birth  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean shore,  freedom  was  born.  Phoe- 
nicia, the  merchants  of  whose  cities, 
Tyre  and  Sidon,  were  accounted  prin- 
ces ;  the  Hebrew  commonwealth,  which 
carried  on  a  trade  through  those  ports  ; 
the  Grecian,  Carthaginian,  and  Roman 
States  were  not  only  the  freest,  but 
they  were  the  only  free,  states  of  antiq- 
uity. In  the  Middle  Ages,  commerce 
broke  down  in  Europe  the  feudal  sys- 
tem, raising  up,  in  the  Hanse  towns 
throughout  Germany,  Sweden,  and  Nor- 
way, a  body  of  men  who  were  able  to 
cope  with  barons  and  kings,  and  to 
wrest  from  them  their  free  charters  and 
rightful  privileges.  In  England,  its  in- 
fluence is  proverbial  ;  the  sheet-anchor, 
it  has  long  been  considered,  of  her 
unequalled  prosperity  and  intelligence. 
On  our  own  happy  shores  it  has  a 
still  more  unobstructed  field,  and  is 
destined,  I  trust,  to  spread  over  the 
whole  breadth  of  our  interior  domain, 
wealth,  cultivation,  and  refinement. 

Its  influences  upon  individual  char- 
acter are  the  only  ones  of  which  we 
stand  in  any  doubt,  and  these,  it  need 
not  be  said,  are  of  unequalled  impor- 
tance. The  philanthropist,  the  Chris- 
tian,   the    Christian    preacher,    are   all 


254 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


bound  to  watch  these  influences  with 
the  closest  attention,  and  to  do  all  in 
their  power  to  guard  and  elevate  them. 
To  this  work  I  am  attempting  to  con- 
tribute my  humble  part ;  and  I  conceive 
that  I  have  now  come  to  the  grand 
principle  of  safety  and  improvement, 
viz.,  that  trade  is  essentially  a  tnoral 
business  J  that  it  has  a  moral  end  more 
important  than  success  ;  that  the  attain- 
ment of  this  end  is  better  than  the 
acquisition  of  wealth,  and  that  the  fail- 
ure of  it  is  worse  than  any  commercial 
failure  ;  worse  than  bankruptcy,  pov- 
erty, ruin. 

It  is  upon  this  point  that  I  wish 
especially  to  insist :  but  there  are  one 
or  two  topics  that  may  previously  claim 
some  attention. 

If,  then,  business  is  a  moral  dispen- 
sation, and  its  highest  end  is  moral,  I 
shall  venture  to  call  in  question  the 
commonly  supposed  desirableness  of  es- 
caping from  it ;  the  idea  which  prevails 
with  so  many  of  making  a  fortune  in  a 
few  years,  and  afterwards  of  retiring  to 
a  state  of  leisure.  If  business  really 
is  a  scene  of  worthy  employment  and  of 
high  moral  action,  I  do  not  see  why  the 
moderate  pursuit  of  it  should  not  be 
laid  down  in  the  plan  of  entire  active 
life  ;  and  why,  upon  this  plan,  a  man 
should  not  determine  to  give  only  so 
much  time  each  day  to  his  avocations 
as  would  be  compatible  with  such  a 
plan ;  only  so  much  time,  in  other  words, 
as  will  be  compatible  with  the  daily 
enjoyment  of  life,  with  reading,  society, 
domestic  intercourse,  and  all  the  duties 
of  philanthropy  and  devotion.  If  the 
merchant  does  not  dislike  or  despise 
his  employment,  —  and  it  is  when  he 
makes  himself  the  mere  slave  of  busi- 
ness that  he  creates  the  greatest  real 
objections  to  it,  —  if,  I  say,  he  looks 
upon  his  employment  as  lawful  and 
laudable,  an  appointment  of  God  to  ac- 
complish good  purposes  in  this  world 
and  better  for  the  next,  why  should  he 
not,  like  the  physician,  the  lawyer,  and 
clergyman,  like  the  husbandman  and 
artisan,  continue  in  it  through  the  pe- 


riod of  active  life,  and  adjust  his  views, 
expectations,  and  engagements  to  that 
reasonable  plan  ?  But  now,  instead  of 
this,  what  do  we  see  around  us  ?  Why, 
men  are  engaging  in  business  —  here, 
at  home,  in  their  own  country,  in  the 
bosom  of  their  families  and  amidst  their 
friends  —  as  if  they  were  in  a  foreign 
and  infectious  clime,  and  must  be  in 
haste  to  make  their  fortunes,  that  they 
may  escape  with  their  lives  to  some 
place  of  safety,  ease,  and  enjoyment  ! 

And  now,  what  sort  of  preparation 
for  retirement  is  this  life,  absorbed  in 
business  .''  It  is  precisely  that  sort  of 
preparation  that  unfits  a  man  for  retire- 
ment. Nothing  will  work  well  or  agree- 
ably in  experience,  which  has  not  some 
foundation  in  previous  habits  and  prac- 
tice. But  for  all  those  things  which  are 
to  be  a  man's  resources  in  retirement, 
his  previous  life,  perhaps,  has  given  him 
not  a  moment  of  time.  He  has  really 
no  rural  tastes  ;  for  he  has  scarcely 
seen  the  country  for  years,  except  on 
hurried  journeys  of  business  ;  the  busy 
wheels  of  commerce  now,  alas  !  roll 
through  the  year,  and  he  is  chained 
to  them  every  month.  He  has  made 
no  acquaintance  with  the  fine  arts.  He 
has  cultivated  no  habits  of  reading ; 
and  —  what  I  hold  to  be  just  as  fatal  to 
the  happiness  of  any  hfe,  retired  or  ac- 
tive —  he  has  cultivated  no  habits  of 
devotion.  Add  to  all  this,  that  he  is 
thrown  upon  the  dangerous  state  of 
luxurious  leisure  —  that  prepared,  en- 
riched, productive  hot-bed  of  prurient 
imaginations  and  teeming  passions  — 
without  any  guards  against  its  moral 
perils.  And  what  is  likely  to  be  the 
consequence  ?  He  will  become,  perhaps, 
an  indolent  and  bloated  sensualist,  cum- 
bering the  beautiful  grounds  on  which 
he  vegetates  rather  than  lives  ;  or,  from 
the  violent  change  of  his  habits,  you 
will  soon  hear,  perhaps,  that  he  is  dead  ; 
or  he  may  live  on  in  weariness  and 
ennui,  wishing  in  his  heart  that  he 
were  back  again,  though  it  were  to  take 
his  place  behind  the  counter  of  the 
liumblest  shop. 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


255 


I  do  not  pretend,  of  course,  that  I 
am  portraying  the  case  of  every  man 
who  is  proposing  to  retire  from  busi- 
ness. There  are  those,  doubtless,  whose 
views  of  retiring  are  reasonable  and 
praiseworthy  ;  wiio  do  not  propose  to 
escape  from  all  employment ;  who  are 
living  religiously  and  virtuously  in  the 
midst  of  their  business,  and  not  un- 
wisely intending  to  make  up  for  the 
deficiency  of  those  qualities  in  retire- 
ment; who  wish  to  improve  and  beau- 
tify some  pleasant  rural  abode,  and 
thus,  and  in  many  other  ways,  to  be 
useful  to  the  country  around  them.  To 
such  a  retirement  I  have  nothing  to  ob- 
ject :  and  I  only  venture  to  suggest,  as 
an  obvious  dictate  of  good  sense,  that 
he  who'  proposes,  some  day,  to  retire 
from  business,  should  in  the  mean  time 
cultivate  those  qualities  and  habits 
which  will  make  him  happy  in  retire- 
ment. But  this  I  also  say,  that  I  do 
more  than  doubt  whether  any  man  who  is 
completely  engrossed  in  business,  from 
morning  till  night,  for  twenty  or  thirty 
years,  can  be  prepared  to  enjoy  or  im- 
prove a  life  of  leisure. 

Another  topic,  of  which  I  wish  to 
speak,  is  the  rage  for  speculation.  I 
wish  to  speak  of  it  now  in  a  particular 
view  ;  as  interfering,  that  is  to  say,  with 
the  moral  end  of  business.  And  here, 
again,  let  me  observe,  that  I  can  have 
nothing  to  do  with  instances,  with  ex- 
ceptions. I  can  only  speak  of  the  gen- 
eral tendency  of  things.  And  it  is  not 
against  speculation  simply,  that  I  have 
anything  to  allege.  All  business  pos- 
sesses more  or  less  of  this  character. 
Everything  is  bought  on  the  expecta- 
tion of  selling  it  for  more.  But  this 
rage  for  speculation,  this  eagerness  of 
many  for  sudden  and  stupendous  ac- 
cumulation, this  spirit  of  gambling  in 
trade,  is  a  difTerent  thing.  It  proceeds 
on  principles  entirely  different  from  the 
maxims  of  a  regular  and  pains-taking 
business.  It  is  not  looking  to  diligence 
and  fidelity  for  a  fair  reward,  but  to 
change  and  chance  for  a  fortunate  turn. 
It  is  drawing  away  men's  minds  from 


the  healthful  processes  of  sober  indus- 
try and  attention  to  business,  and  lead- 
ing them  to  wait  in  feverish  excitement, 
as  at  the  wheel  of  a  lottery.  The  proper 
basis  of  success,  vigilant  care  and  labor, 
is  forsaken  for  a  system  of  baseless 
credit.  Upon  this  system  men  proceed, 
straining  their  means  and  stretching 
their  responsibilities,  till  in  calm  times 
they  can  scarcely  hold  on  upon  their 
position  ;  and  when  a  sudden  jar  shakes 
the  commercial  world,  or  a  sudden  blast 
sweeps  over  it,  many  fall  like  untimely 
fruit,  from  the  towering  tree  of  fancied 
prosperity.  Upon  this  system,  many 
imagine  that  they  are  doing  well,  when 
they  are  not  doing  well.  They  rush  into 
expenses  which  they  cannot  afford, 
upon  the  strength,  not  of  their  actual, 
but  of  their  imaginary  or  expected 
means.  Young  men,  who  in  former 
days  would  have  been  advised  to 
walk  awhile  longer,  and  patiently  to 
tread  the  upward  path,  must  buy  horses 
and  vehicles  for  their  accommodation  ; 
and,  mounted  upon  the  car  of  fancied 
independence,  they  are  hurried  only  to 
swifter  destruction. 

This  system  of  rash  and  adventurous 
speculation  overlooks  all  the  moral  uses 
and  ends  of  business.  To  do  business 
and  get  gain,  honestly  and  conscien- 
tiously, is  a  good  thing.  It  is  a  useful 
discipline  of  the  character.  I  look  upon 
a  man  who  has  acquired  wealth  in  a 
laudable,  conscientious,  and  generous 
pursuit  of  business,  not  only  with  a 
respect  far  beyond  what  I  can  feel  for 
his  wealth,  —  for  which,  indeed,  ab- 
stractly, I  can  feel  none  at  all,  —  but 
with  the  distinct  feeling  that  he  has  ac- 
quired something  far  more  valuable  than 
opulence.  But  for  this  discipline  of  the 
character,  for  the  reasonableness  and 
rectitude  of  mind  which  a  regular  busi- 
ness intercourse  may  form,  speculation 
furnishes  but  a  narrow  field,  if  any  at 
all  ;  such  speculation,  I  mean,  as  has 
lately  created  a  popular  frenzy  in  this 
country  about  the  sudden  acquisition  of 
property.  The  game  which  men  were 
playing  was  too  rapid,  and  the  stake  too 


'56 


ON  COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


large,  to  admit  of  the  calm  discrimina- 
tions of  conscience  and  the  reasonable 
contemplation  of  moral  ends.  Wealth 
came  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  only 
end.  And  immediate  wealth  was  the 
agitating  prize.  Men  could  not  wait 
for  the  slow  and  disciplinary  methods 
by  which  Providence  designed  that  they 
should  acquire  it ;  but  they  felt  as  if  it 
were  the  order  of  Providence  that  for- 
tunes should  fall  direct  from  heaven 
into  their  open  hands.  Rather  should 
we  not  say  that  multitudes  did  not  look 
to  heaven  at  all,  but  to  speculation  itself, 
instead,  as  if  it  were  a  god,  or  some 
wonder-working  magician  at  least,  that 
was  suddenly  to  endow  them  with  opu- 
lence. Acquisition  became  the  story 
of  an  Arabian  tale  ;  and  men's  minds 
were  filled  with  romantic  schemes,  and 
visionary  hopes,  and  vain  longings, 
rather  than  with  sobriety,  and  candor, 
and  moderation,  and  gratitude,  and  trust 
in   Heaven. 

This  insane  and  insatiable  passion 
for  accumulation,  ever  ready  v^^hen  cir- 
cumstances favor  to  seize  upon  the 
public  mind,  is  that  "  love  of  money 
which  is  the  root  of  all  evil,  "  that  "  cov- 
etousness  which  is  idolatry."  It  springs 
from  an  undue  and  idolatrous  estimate 
of  the  value  of  property.  Many  are 
feeling  that  nothing,  —  nothing  will  do 
for  them  or  for  their  children,  but 
wealth  ;  not  a  good  character,  not  well- 
trained  and  well-exerted  faculties,  not 
virtue,  not  the  hope  of  heaven  ;  nothing 
but  wealth.  It  is  their  god,  and  the 
god  of  their  families.  Their  sons  are 
growing  up  to  the  same  worship  of  it, 
and  to  an  equally  baneful  reliance  upon 
it  for  the  future  ;  they  are  rushing  into 
expenses  which  the  divided  property  of 
their  father's  house  will  not  enable  them 
to  sustain  ;  and  they  are  preparing  to  be 
in  turn,  and  from  necessity,  slaves  to  the 
same  idol.  How  truly  is  it  written,  that 
"  they  that  wz'/I  be  rich,  fall  into  tempta- 
tion, and  a  snare,  and  into  many  foolish 
and  hurtful  lusts,  which  drown  men  in 
destruction  and  perdition "  !  There  is 
no  need  that  they  should  be  rich  ;  but 


they  wz7/  be  rich.  All  the  noblest  func- 
tions of  life  may  be  discharged  without 
wealth,  all  its  highest  honors  obtained, 
all  its  purest  pleasures  enjoyed  ;  yet,  I 
repeat  it,  nothing,  —  nothing  will  do  but 
wealth.  Disappoint  a  man  of  this,  and 
he  mourns  as  if  the  highest  end  of  life 
were  defeated.  Strip  him  of  this,  and 
this  gone,  all  is  gone.  Strip  him  of  this, 
and  I  shall  point  to  no  unheard-of  ex- 
perience, when  I  say,  he  had  rather  die 
than  live  ! 

The  grievous  mistake,  the  mournful 
evil,  implied  in  this  oversight  of  the 
great  spiritual  end,  which  should  be 
sought  in  all  earthly  pursuits,  is  the  sub- 
ject to  which  I  wished  to  draw  your 
attention  in  the  last  place.  It  is  not 
merely  in  the  haste  to  be  rich,  accom- 
panied with  the  intention  to  retire  from 
business  to  a  state  of  luxurious  and  self- 
indulgent  leisure ;  it  is  not  merely  in 
the  rage  for  speculation,  that  the  evils  of 
overlooking  the  moral  aim  of  business 
are  seen  ;  but  they  sink  deep  into  the 
heart,  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  regular 
and  daily  occupation ;  dethroning  the 
spiritual  nature  from  its  proper  place, 
vitiating  the  affections,  and  losing  some 
of  the  noblest  opportunities  for  virtue, 
that  can  be  lost  on  earth. 

The  spiritual  nature,  I  say,  is  de- 
throned from  its  proper  place  by  this 
substitution  of  the  immediate  end,  wealth, 
for  the  ultimate  end,  virtue.  Who  is 
this  being,  that  labors  for  nothing  but 
property;  with  no  thought  beyond  it; 
with  the  feeling  that  nothing  will  do 
without  it ;  with  'the  feeling  that  there 
are  no  ends  in  life  that  can  satisfy  him, 
if  that  end  is  not  gained  .''  You  will  not 
tell  me  that  it  is  a  being  of  my  own 
fancy.  You  have  probably  known  such  ; 
perhaps  some  of  you  are  such.  I  have 
known  men  of  this  way  of  thinking  ; 
and  men,  too,  of  sense  and  of  amiable 
temper.  Who,  then,  I  ask  again,  is  this 
being  ?  He  is  an  immortal  being;  and 
his  views  ought  to  stretch  themselves  to 
eternity, —  ought  to  seek  an  ever-expand- 
ing good.  And  this  being,  so  immortal 
in  his  nature,  so  infinite  in  faculties;  to 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


^57 


what  is  he  looking?  To  the  sublime 
mountain  range,  that  spreads  along  the 
horizon  of  this  world  ?  To  the  glorious 
host  of  glittering  stars,  the  majestic  train 
of  night,  the  infinite  regions  of  heaven  ? 
Xo  ;  his  is  no  upward  gaze,  no  wide 
\  ision  of  the  world  ;  to  a  speck  of 
earthly  dust  he  is  looking.  He  might 
lift  his  eye,  a  philosophic  eye,  to  the 
magnifience  of  the  universe,  for  an 
object ;  and  upon  what  is  it  fixed .'' 
I'pon  the  mole-hill  beneath  his  feet ! 
That  is  his  end.  Everything  is  naught, 
if  that  is  gone.  He  is  an  immortal  being, 
I  repeat ;  he  may  be  enrobed  in  that 
vesture  of  light,  of  virtue,  which  never 
shall  decay  ;  and  he  is  to  live  through 
such  ages,  that  the  time  shall  come  when 
to  his  eye  all  the  splendors  of  fortune, 
of  gilded  palace  and  gorgeous  equipage, 
shall  be  no  more  than  the  spangle  that 
falls  from  a  roj'al  robe  ;  and  yet,  in  that 
glittering  particle  of  earthly  dust  is  his 
soul  absorbed  and  bound  up.  I  am  not 
saying,  now^  that  he  is  willing  to  lose 
his  soul  for  that.  This  he  may  do. 
But  I  only  say  now,  that  he  sets  his  soul 
upon  that,  and  ("eels  it  to  be  an  end  so 
dear,  that  the  irretrievable  loss  of  it,  the 
doom  of  poverty,  is  death  to  him ;  nay, 
to  his  sober  and  deliberate  judgment 
—  for  I  have  known  such  instances  —  is 
worse  than  death  itself !  And  yet  he 
is  an  immortal  being,  I  repeat :  and  he 
is  sent  into  this  world  on  an  errand. 
What  errand  ?  What  is  the  great  mis- 
sion on  which  the  Master  of  life  hath 
sent  him  here  ?  To  get  riches  ?  To 
amass  gold  coins  and  bank-notes  ?  To 
scrape  together  a  little  of  the  dust  of 
this  earth,  and  then  to  lie  down  upon 
it  and  embrace  it,  in  the  indolence  of 
enjoyment,  or  in  the  rapture  of  posses- 
sion ?  Is  such  worldliness  possible  ? 
Worldliness  !  Why,  it  is  not  worldli- 
ness. That  should  be  the  quality  of 
being  attached  to  a  world  ;  to  all  that  it 
can  give,  and  not  to  one  thing  only  that 
it  can  give  ;  to  fame,  to  power,  to  moral 
power,  to  influence,  to  the  admiration 
of  the  world.  Worldliness,  methinks, 
should  be  something  greater  than  men 


make  it,  should  stretch  itself  out  to  the 
breadth  of  the  great  globe,  and  not 
wind  itself  up  like  a  worm  in  the  web 
of  selfish  possession.  If  I  must  be 
worldly,  let  me  have  the  worldliness  of 
Alexander,  and  not  of  Croesus.  And 
wealth,  too;  I  had  thought  it  was  a 
means,  and  not  an  end  ;  an  instrument 
which  a  noble  human  being  handles, 
and  not  a  heap  of  shining  dust  in  which 
he  buries  himself;  something  that  a 
man  could  drop  from  his  hand,  and  still 
be  a  man,  be  all  that  he  ever  was,  and 
compass  all  the  noble  ends  that  pertain 
to  a  human  being.  What  if  you  be 
poor?  Are  you  not  still  a  man  —Oh, 
heaven  !  and  mayest  be  a  spirit,  and 
have  a  universe  of  spiritual  possessions 
for  your  treasure.  What  if  you  be  poor  ? 
You  may  still  walk  through  the  world  in 
freedom  and  in  joy.  You  may  still  tread 
the  glorious  path  of  virtue.  You  may 
still  win  the  bright  prize  of  immortality. 
You  may  still  achieve  purposes  on 
earth  that  constitute  all  the  glory  of 
earth  ;  and  ends  in  heaven  that  consti- 
tute all  the  glory  of  heaven!  Nay,  if 
such  must  be  the  efiect  of  wealth,  I 
would  say,  let  me  be  poor.  I  would 
pray  God  that  I  might  be  poor  !  Rather, 
and  more  wisely,  ought  I,  j^erhaps,  to 
say  with  Agur,  "  Give  me  neither  poverty 
nor  riches  ;  lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee, 
and  say.  Who  is  the  Lord  ?  or  lest  I  be 
poor,  and  steal,  and  take  the  name  of 
my  God  in  vain." 

The  many  corrupting  and  soul-destroy- 
ing vices  engendered  in  the  mind  by  this 
lamentable  oversight  of  the  spiritual  aim 
in  business,  deserves  a  separate  and  sol- 
emn consideration. 

I  believe  that  you  will  not  accuse  me 
of  any  disposition  to  press  unreasonable 
charges  against  men  of  business.  I  can- 
not possibly  let  the  pulpit  throw  burdens 
of  responsibility,  or  warnings  of  danger, 
on  this  sphere  of  life,  as  if  others  were 
not  in  their  measure  open  to  similar  ad- 
monitions. I  come  not  here  to  make 
war  upon  any  particular  class.  I  pray 
you  not  to  regard  this  pulpit  as  holding 
any  relation  to  you  but  that  of  a  faithful 


17 


258 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


and  Christian  friend,  or  as  having  any 
interest  in  the  world  connected  with 
business  but  your  own  true  interest. 
Above  all  things  do  I  deprecate  that 
worldly  and  most  pernicious  haljit  of 
hearing  and  approving  very  good  things 
in  the  pulpit,  and  going  away  and  calmly 
doing  very  bad  things  in  the  world,  as 
if  the  two  had  no  real  connection,  — 
that  habit  of  listening  to  the  admonitions 
and  rebukes  of  the  pulpit  with  a  sort 
of  demure  respect,  or  with  significant 
glances  at  your  neighbors,  and  then  of 
going  away,  commending  the  doctrine 
with  your  lips,  to  violate  it  in  your  lives  ; 
as  if  you  said,  "  Well,  the  pulpit  has  act- 
ed its  part,  and  now  we  will  go  and  act 
ours."  I  act  no  part  here.  God  forbid ! 
I  endeavor  to  be  reasonable  and  just 
in  what  I  say  here.  I  take  no  liberty  to 
be  extravagant  in  this  place  because  I 
cannot  be  answered.  I  hold  myself  sol- 
emnly bound  to  say  nothing  recklessly 
and  for  effect.  I  occupy  here  no  isolated 
position.  I  am  continually  thinking 
what  my  hearers  will  fairly  have  to  say 
on  their  part,  and  striving  fairly  to  meet 
it.  I  speak  to  you  simply  as  one  man 
may  speak  to  another,  as  soul  may  speak 
to  its  brother  soul  ;  and  I  solemnly  and 
affectionately  say.  what  I  would  have  you 
say  to  me  in  a  change  of  place,  —  I  say 
that  the  pursuits  of  business  are  perilous 
to  your  virtue. 

On  this  subject  I  cannot,  indeed, 
speak  with  the  language  of  experience. 
But  I  cannot  forget  that  the  voice  of  all 
moral  instruction,  in  all  ages  and  in  all 
countries,  is  a  voice  of  warning.  I  can- 
not forget  that  the  voice  of  Holy  Scrip- 
ture falls  in  solemn  accents  upon  the 
perils  attending  the  pursuit  of  wealth. 
How  solemn,  how  strong,  how  pertinent, 
those  accents  are,  I  may  not  know ;  but 
I  must  not,  for  that  reason,  withhold 
them.  "  Woe  unto  you  who  are  rich  !  " 
said  the  holy  word,  "for  ye  have  re- 
ceived your  consolation.  Woe  unto  you 
that  are  full !  for  ye  shall  hunger."  Hun- 
ger ?  What  hath  wealth  to  do  with  hun- 
ger? And  yet  there  is  a  hunger.  What 
is  it  ?     What  can  it  be  but  the  hunger- 


ing of  the  soul ;  and  that  is  the  point 
which,  in  this  discourse,  I  press  upon 
your  attention.  And  again  it  says,  "  Your 
riches  are  corrupted  ;  your  gold  and  sil- 
ver is  cankered  :  "  and  is  it  not  cankered 
in  the  very  hearts  of  those  whom  wealth 
has  made  proud,  vain,  anxious,  and  jeal- 
ous, or  self-indulgent,  sensual,  diseased, 
and  miserable  ?  "And  the  rust  of  them," 
so  proceeds  the  holy  text,  "shall  be  a 
witness  against  you,  and  shall  eat  your 
flesh  as  it  were  fire."  Ah  !  the  rust  of 
riches  ! — not  that  portion  of  them  which 
is  kept  bright  in  good  and  holy  uses  — • 
"  and  the  consuming  fire  "  of  the  passions 
which  wealth  engenders!  No  rich  man, 
—  I  lay  it  down  as  an  axiom  of  all  expe- 
rience, —  no  rich  man  is  safe,  who  is  not 
a  benevolent  man.  No  rich  man  is  safe, 
but  in  the  imitation  of  that  benevolent 
God,  who  is  the  possessor  and  dispenser 
of  all  the  riches  of  the  universe.  What 
else  mean  the  miseries  of  a  selfishly 
luxurious  and  fashionable  life  every- 
where ?  What  mean  the  sighs  that  come 
up  from  the  purlieus,  and  couches,  and 
most  secret  haunts  of  all  splendid  and 
self-indulgent  opulence  ?  Do  not  tell 
me  that  other  men  are  sufferers  too. 
Say  not  that  the  poor,  and  destitute,  and 
forlorn  are  miserable  also.  Ah  !  just 
Heaven  !  thou  hast,  in  thy  mysterious  wis- 
dom, appointed  to  them  a  lot  hard,  full 
hard  to  bear.  Poor  houseless  wretches  ! 
who  "  eat  the  bitter  bread  of  penury,  and 
drink  the  baleful  cup  of  misery;"  the 
winter's  wind  blows  keenly  through  your 
"looped  and  windowed  raggedness  ;  " 
your  children  wander  about  unshod,  un- 
clothed, and  untended ;  I  wonder  not 
that  ye  sigh.  But  why  should  those 
who  are  surrounded  with  everything 
that  heart  can  wish  or  imagination  con- 
ceive, the  very  crumbs  that  fall  from 
whose  table  of  prosperity  might  feed  hun- 
dreds, —  why  should  they  sigh  amidst 
their  profusion  and  splendor  ?  They 
have  broken  the  bond  that  should  connect 
power  with  usefulness,  and  opulence 
with  mercy.  That  is  the  reason.  They 
have  taken  up  their  treasures,  and  wan- 
dered  away  into  a  forbidden  world  of 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


259 


their  own,  far  from  the  sympathies  of 
sutTering  luimanity  ;  and  the  heavy  night- 
dews  are  descending  upon  their  splendid 
revels  ;  and  the  all-gladdening  light  of 
heavenly  beneficence  is  exchanged  for 
the  sicklyglare  of  selfish  enjoyment;  and 
happiness,  the  blessed  angel  that  hovers 
over  generous  deeds  and  heroic  virtues, 
has  fled  away  from  that  world  of  false 
gayety  and  fashionable  exclusion. 

I  have,  perhaps,  wandered  a  moment 
from  the  point  before  me,  — «the  peril  of 
business  ;  though  as  business  is  usually 
aiming  at  wealth,  I  may  be  considered 
rather  as  having  only  pressed  that  point 
to  some  of  its  ultimate  liearings. 

But  the  peril  of  business  specifically 
considered  ;  and  I  ask  if  there  is  not 
good  ground  for  the  admonitions,  on  this 
point,  of  every  moral  and  holy  teacher  of 
every  age  ?  What  means,  if  there  is  not, 
that  eternal  disingenuity  of  trade,  that 
is  ever  putting  on  fair  appearances  and 
false  pretences ;  of  "  the  buyer  that  says. 
It  is  naught,  it  is  naught,  but  when  he 
is  gone  his  way,  then  boasteth  ;  "  of  the 
seller,  who  is  always  exhibiting  the  best 
samples,  not  fair  but  false  samples,  of 
what  he  has  to  sell  ;  of  the  seller,  I  say, 
who,  to  use  the  language  of  another,  "if 
he  is  tying  up  a  bundle  of  quills,  will 
place  several  in  the  centre,  of  not  half 
the  value  of  the  rest,  and  thus  sends 
forth  a  hundred  liars,  with  a  fair  outside, 
to  proclaim  as  many  falsehoods  to  the 
world  ?  "  These  practices,  alas  !  have 
fallen  into  the  regular  course  of  the  busi- 
ness of  many.  All  men  expect  them  ;  and 
therefore  you  may  say  that  nobody  is 
deceived.  But  deception  is  intended  : 
else  why  are  these  things  done  ?  What 
if  nobody  is  deceived  1  The  seller  him- 
self is  corrupted.  He  may  stand  acquit- 
ted of  dishonesty  in  the  moral  code  of 
worldly  traffic  ;  no  man  may  charge  him 
with  dishonesty  ;  and  yet  to  himself  he 
is  a  dishonest  man.  Did  I  say  that  no- 
body is  deceived  ?  Nay,  but  somebody 
is  deceived.  This  man,  the  seller,  is 
grossly,  wofully,  deceived.  He  thinks  to 
make  a  little  profit  by  his  contrivances  ; 
and  he  is  selling,  by  pennyworths,  the 


very  integrity  of  his  soul.  Yes,  the  pet- 
tiest shop  where  these  things  are  done, 
may  lie  to  the  spiritual  vision  a  place  of 
more  than  tragic  interest.  It  is  the  stage 
on  which  the  great  action  of  life  is  per- 
formed. There  stands  a  man,  who  in  the 
sharp  collisions  of  daily  traffic  might 
have  polished  his  mind  to  the  bright  and 
beautiful  image  of  truth,  who  might  have 
put  on  the  noble  brow  of  candor  and 
cherished  the  very  soul  of  uprightness. 
I  have  known  such  a  man.  I  have  looked 
into  his  humble  shop.  I  have  seen  the 
mean  and  soiled  articles  with  which  he  is 
dealing.  And  yet  the  process  of  things 
going  on  there  was  as  beautiful  as  if  it 
had  been  done  in  heaven  !  But  now, 
what  is  this  man,  the  man  who  always 
turns  up  to  you  the  better  side  of  every- 
thing he  sells,  the  man  of  unceasing  con- 
trivances and  expedients,  his  life  long,  to 
make  things  appear  better  than  they  are  } 
Be  he  the  greatest  merchant  or  the  poor- 
est huckster,  he  is  a  mean,  a  knavish, — 
and,  were  I  not  awed  by  the  thoughts 
of  his  great  and  solemn  nature,  I  should 
say,  —  a  contemptible  creature ;  whom 
nobody  that  knows  him  can  love,  whom 
nobody  can  trust,  whom  nobody  can  rev- 
erence. Not  one  thing  in  the  dusty  re- 
pository of  things,  great  or  small,  which 
he  deals  with,  is  so  vile  as  he.  What  is 
this  things  then,  which  is  done,  or  may  be 
done,  rn  the  house  of  traffic  1  I  tell  you, 
though  you  may  have  thought  not  so  of 
it,  —  I  tell  you  that  there,  even  there,  a 
soul  may  be  lost ;  that  that  very  structure, 
built  for  the  gain  of  earth,  may  be  the 
gate  of  hell  !  Say  not  that  this  fearful 
appellation  should  be  applied  to  worse 
places  than  that.  A  man  may  as  cer- 
tainly corrupt  all  the  integrity  and  virtue 
of  his  soul  in  a  warehouse  or  a  shop,  as 
in  a  gambling-house  or  house  of  darker 
infamy. 

False  to  himself,  then,  may  a  man  be- 
come, while  he  is  walking  through  the 
perilous  courses  of  traffic  ;  false  also 
to  his  neighbor.  I  cannot  dwell  much 
upon  this  topic ;  but  I  will  put  one 
question  ;  not  for  reproach,  but  for  your 
sober  consideration.     Must  it  not  ren- 


26o 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


der  a  man  extremely  liable  to  be  selfish, 
that  he  is  engaged  in  pursuits  whose 
immediate  and  palpable  end  is  his  own 
interest  ?  I  wish  to  draw  your  attention 
to  this  peculiarity  of  trade.  I  do  not 
say  that  the  motives  which  originally 
induce  a  man  to  enter  into  the  sphere  of 
life  may  not  be  as  benevolent  as  those 
of  any  other  man  ;  but  this  is  the  point 
which  I  wish  to  have  considered  ;  that 
while  the  learned  professions  have 
knowledge  for  their  immediate  object, 
and  the  artist  and  the  artisan  have  the 
perfection  of  their  work  as  the  thing 
that  directly  engages  their  attention,  the 
merchant  and  trader  have  for  their  im- 
mediate object,  profit.  Does  not  this 
circumstance  greatly  expose  a  man  to 
be  selfish  ?  Full  well  I  know  that  many 
are  not  so  ;  that  many  resist  and  over- 
come this  influence;  but  I  think  that  it 
is  to  be  resisted.  And  a  wise  man, 
who  more  deeply  dreads  the  taint  of 
inward  selfishness  than  of  outward  dis- 
honor, will  take  care  to  set  up  counter 
influences.  And  to  this  end  he  should 
beware  how  he  clenches  his  hand  and 
closes  his  heart  against  the  calls  of  suf- 
fering, the  dictates  of  public  spirit,  and 
the  claims  of  beneficence.  To  listen  to 
them  is.  perhaps,  his  very  salvation  ! 

But  the  vitiating  process  of  business 
may  not  stop  with  selfishness  ;  it  is  to 
be  contemplated  in  still  another  and 
higher  light.  For  how  possible  is  it, 
that  a  man  while  engaged  in  exchanging 
and  diffusing  the  bounties  of  heaven, 
while  all  countries  and  climes  are  pour- 
I'ng  their  blessings  at  his  feet,  while  he 
lawfully  deals  with  not  one  instrument, 
in  mind  or  matter,  but  it  was  formed 
and  fitted  to  his  use  by  a  beneficent 
hand, — how  possible  is  it  that  he  may 
forget  and  forsake  the  Being  who  has 
given  him  all  things  !  How  possible  is 
it,  that  under  the  very  accumulation  of 
his  l:)lessings  may  be  buried  all  his  grati- 
tude and  piety  ;  that  he  may  be  too  busy 
to  pray,  too  full  to  be  thankful,  too  much 
engrossed  with  the  gifts  to  think  of  the 
Giver  !  The  humblest  giver  expects 
some  thanks  ;  he  would  think  it  a  lack 


of  ordinary  human  feeling  in  any  one, 
to  snatch  at  his  bounties,  without  cast- 
ing a  look  on  the  bestower;  he  would 
gaze  in  astonishment  at  such  heedless 
ingratitude  and  rapacity,  and  almost 
doubt  whether  the  creatures  he  helped 
could  'be  human.  Are  they  any  more 
human,  do  they  any  more  deserve  the 
name  of  men,  when  the  object  of  such 
perverse  and  senseless  ingratitude  is 
the  Infinite  Benefactor .''  Would  we 
know  what  aspect  it  bears  before  his 
eye  ?  Once,  and  more  than  once,  hath 
that  Infinite  Benefactor  spoken.  I  lis- 
ten, and  tremble  as  I  listen,  to  that 
lofty  adjuration  with  which  the  sub- 
lime prophet  hath  set  forth  His  contem- 
plation of  the  ingratitude  of  his  crea- 
tures :  "  Hear,  O  heavens,  and  give  ear, 
O  earth  !  for  the  Lord  hath  spoken  ;  I 
have  nourished  and  brought  up  children, 
and  they  have  rebelled  against  me.  The 
ox  knoweth  his  owner,  and  the  ass  his 
master's  crib  ;  but  Israel  doth  not  know  ; 
my  people  do  not  consider."  Sad  and 
grievous  error,  even  in  the  eye  of  rea- 
son !  Great  default  even  to  nature's 
religion  !  But  if  thou  art  a  Christian 
man,  what  law  shall  acquit  thee,  if  that 
heavy  charge  lies  at  thy  door ;  at  the 
door  of  thy  warehouse  ;  at  tlie  door  of 
thy  dwelling  ?  Beware,  lest  thou  for- 
get God  in  his  mercies  !  the  Giver  in 
his  gifts  !  lest  the  light  be  gone  from 
thy  prosperity,  and  prayer  from  thy 
heart,  and  the  love  of  thy  neighbor 
from  the  labors  of  thy  calling,  and  the 
hope  of  heaven  from  the  abundance  of 
thine  earthly  estate  ! 

But  not  with  words  of  warning,  ever 
painful  to  use,  and  not  always  profitable, 
would  I  now  dismiss  you  from  the  house 
of  God.  I  would  not  close  this  discourse, 
in  which  I  may  seem  to  have  pressed 
heavily  on  the  evils  to  which  business 
exposes  those  who  are  engaged  in  it, 
without  holding  up  distinctly  to  view  the 
great  moral  aim  on  which  it  is  my  main 
purpose  to  insist,  and  attempting  to 
show  its  excellence. 

There  is  such  a  nobleness  of  charac- 
ter in  the  right  course,  that  it  is  to  that 


THE   MORAL   END   OF   BUSINESS. 


261 


point  I  would  last  direct  your  attention. 
The  aspirings  of  youtli,  the  ambition  of 
manhood,  could  receive  no  loftier  moral 
direction  than  may  be  found  in  the 
sphere  of  business.  The  school  of 
trade,  with  all  its  dangers,  may  be  made 
one  of  the  noblest  schools  of  virtue  in 
the  world  :  and  it  is  of  some  importance 
to  say  it :  because  those  who  regard  it 
as  a  sphere  only  of  selfish  interests  and 
sordid  calculations  are  certain  to  win 
no  lofty  moral  prizes  in  that  school. 
There  can  be  nothing  more  fatal  to 
elevation  of  character  in  any  sphere, 
whether  it  be  of  business  or  society,  than 
to  speak  habitually  of  that  sphere  as 
given  over  to  low  aims  and  pursuits. 
If  business  is  constantly  spoken  of  as 
contracting  the  mind  and  corrupting  the 
heart ;  if  the  pursuit  of  property  is  uni- 
versally satirized  as  selfish  and  grasping; 
too  many  who  engage  in  it  will  think  of 
nothing  but  of  adopting  the  character 
and  the  course  so  pointed  out.  Many 
causes  have  contributed,  without  doubt, 
to  establish  that  disparaging  estimate  of 
business ;  the  spirit  of  feudal  aristocra- 
cies, the  pride  of  learning,  the  tone  of  lit- 
erature, and  the  faults  of  business  itself. 
I  say,  therefore,  that  there  is  no  being 
in  the  world  for  whom  I  feel  a  higher 
moral  respect  and  admiration  than  for 
the  upright  man  of  business  ;  no,  not 
for  the  philanthropist,  the  missionary, 
or  the  martyr.  I  feel  that  I  could  more 
easily  be  a  martyr  than  a  man  of  that 
lofty  moral  uprightness.  And  let  me 
say  yet  more  distinctly,  that  it  is  not  for 
the  generous  man  that  I  feel  this  kind 
of  respect :  that  seems  to  me  a  lower 
quality,  a  mere  impulse,  compared  with 
the  lofty  virtue  I  speak  of.  It  is  not 
for  the  man  who  distributes  extensive 
charities,  who  bestows  magnificent  do- 
nations. That  may  be  all  very  well ;  I 
speak  not  to  disparage  it  ;  I  wish  there 
were  more  of  it ;  and  yet  it  may  all  con- 
sist with  a  want  of  the  true,  lofty,  un- 
bending uprightness.  That  is  not  the 
man,  then,  of  whom   I  speak  ;  but  it  is 


he  who  stands,  amidst  all  the  swaying 
interests  and  perilous  exigencies  of 
trade,  firm,  calm,  disinterested,  and  up- 
right. It  is  the  man  who  can  see  an- 
other man's  interests  just  as  clearly  as 
his  own.  It  is  the  man  whose  mind,  his 
own  advantage  does  not  blind  nor  cloud 
for  an  instant ;  who  could  sit  a  judge, 
upon  a  question  between  himself  and 
his  neighbor,  just  as  safely  as  the  pur- 
est magistrate  upon  the  bench  of  justice. 
Ah  !  how  much  richer  than  ermine,  how 
far  nobler  than  the  train  of  magiste- 
rial authorit)-,  how  more  awful  than  the 
guarded  bench  of  majesty,  is  that  simple, 
magnanimous,  and  majestic  truth  !  Yes, 
it  is  the  man  who  is  true  ;  true  to  him- 
self, to  his  neighbor,  and  to  his  God; 
true  to  the  right,  —  true  to  his  con- 
science ;  and  who  feels  that  the  slight- 
est suggestion  of  that  conscience  is  more 
to  him  than  the  chance  of  acquiring  a 
hundred  estates. 

Do  I  not  speak  to  some  such  one  now  1 
Stands  there  not  here  some  man  of  such 
glorious  virtue,  of  such  fidelity  to  truth 
and  to  God.''  Good  friend  !  I  call  upon 
you  to  hold  fast  to  that  integrity,  as  the 
dearest  treasure  of  existence.  Though 
storms  of  commercial  distress  sweep  over 
you,  and  the  wreck  of  all  worldly  hopes 
threaten  you,  hold  on  to  that  as  the  plank 
that  shall  bear  your  soul  unhurt  to  its  ha- 
ven. Remember  that  which  thy  Savioui 
hath  spoken:  "What  shall  it  profit  a 
man,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose 
his  own  soul?"  Remember  that  there 
is  a  worse  bankruptcy  than  that  which  is 
recorded  in  an  earthly  court ;  the  bank- 
ruptcy that  is  recorded  in  heaven  ;  bank- 
ruptcy in  thy  soul ;  all  poor,  and  broken 
down,  and  desolate  there:  all  shame  and 
sorrow  and  mourning,  instead  of  that 
glorious  integrity,  which  should  have 
shone  like  an  angel's  presence  in  the 
darkest  prison  that  ever  spread  its 
shadow  over  human  calamity.  Heaven 
and  earth  may  pass  away,  but  the  word 
of  Clirist,  the  word  of  thy  truth,  let  it 
pass  from  thee  never  ! 


262 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


XII. 

ON  THE  USES  OF  LABOR,  AND  THE 
PASSION  FOR  A  FORTUNE. 

2  Thessalonians  iii.  lo:  "  For  even  when  we  were 
with  you,  this  we  commanded  you,  that  if  any  man 
would  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat." 

I  WISH  to  invite  your  attention  this 
evening  to  tlie  uses  of  labor,  and  tlie 
passion  for  a  fortune.  The  topics,  it  is 
obvious,  are  closely  connected.  The 
latter,  indeed,  is  my  main  subject  ;  but 
as  preliminary  to  it,  I  wish  to  set  forth, 
as  I  regard  it,  the  great  law  of  human 
industry.  It  is  worthy,  I  think,  of  being 
considered,  and  religiously  considered, 
as  the  chief  law  of  all  human  improve- 
ment and  happiness.  And  if  there  be  any 
attempt  to  escape  from  this  law,  or  if  there 
be  any  tendency  of  the  public  mind,  at 
any  time,  to  tlie  same  point,  the  eye  of 
the  moral  observer  should  be  instantly 
drawn  to  that  point  as  one  most  vital  to 
the  public  welfare.  That  there  has  been 
such  a  tendency  of  the  public  mind  in  this 
country  ;  that  it  has  been  most  signally 
manifest  within  a  few  years  past,  and  that 
although  it  has  found  in  cities  the  princi- 
pa!  field  of  its  manifestation,  it  has  spread 
itself  over  the  country  too  ;  that  multi- 
tudes have  become  suddenly  possessed 
with  a  new  idea,  the  idea  of  making  a 
fortune  in  a  brief  time,  and  then  of  retir- 
ing to  a  state  of  ease  and  independence 
—  this  is  the  main  fact  on  which  I  shall 
insist,  and  of  which  I  shall  endeavor  to 
point  out  the  dangerous  consequences. 

But  let  me  first  call  your  attention  to 
the  law  which  has  thus,  as  I  contend, 
in  spirit  at  least,  been  broken.  What, 
then,  is  the  law  .-'  It  is  that  industry,  — 
working  either  with  the  hand  or  with 
the  mind,  —  the  application  of  the  pow- 
ers to  some  task,  to  the  achievement  of 
some  result,  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all 
human  improvement. 

Every  step  of  our  progress  from  in- 
fancy to  manhood  is  proof  of  this.  The 
process  of  education,  rightly  considered, 
is  nothing  else  but  wakening  the  powers 
to   activity.     It   is    through   their   own 


activity  alone  that  they  are  cultivated. 
It  is  not  by  the  mere  imposition  of 
tasks  or  requisition  of  lessons.  The 
very  purpose  of  the  tasks  and  lessons 
is  to  awaken  and  direct  that  activity. 
Knowledge  itself  cannot  be  gained,  but 
upon  this  condition,  and,  if  it  could  be 
gained,  would  be  useless  without  it. 

The  state  into  which  the  human  be- 
ing is  introduced,  is,  from  the  first  step 
of  it  to  the  last,  designed  to  answer  the 
purpose  of  such  an  education.  Nature's 
education,  in  other  words,  answers  in 
this  respect  to  the  just  idea  of  man's. 
Each  sense,  in  succession,  is  elicited 
by  surrounding  objects  and  it  is  only 
by  repeated  trials  and  efforts  that  it  is 
brought  to  perfection.  In  like  manner 
does  the  scene  of  life  appeal  to  every 
intellectual  and  every  moral  power. 
Life  is  a  severe  discipline,  and  demands 
every  energy  of  human  nature  to  meet 
it.  Nature  is  a  rigorous  taskmaster  ; 
and  its  language  to  the  human  race  is, 
"  If  a  man  will  hot  work,  neither  shall 
he  eat."  We  are  not  sent  into  the  world 
like  animals,  to  crop  the  spontaneous 
herbage  of  the  field,  and  then  to  lie 
down  in  indolent  repose  :  but  we  are 
sent  to  dig  the  soil  and  plough  the  sea  ; 
to  do  the  business  of  cities  and  the  work 
of  manufactories.  The  raw  material  only 
is  given  us  ;  and  by  the  processes  of 
cookery,  and  the  fabrications  of  art,  it 
is  to  be  wrought  to  our  purpose.  The 
human  frame  itself  is  a  most  exquisite 
piece  of  mechanism,  and  it  is  designed 
in  every  part  for  work.  The  strength 
of  the  arm,  the  dexterity  of  the  hand, 
and  the  delicacy  of  the  finger,  are  all 
fitted  for  the  accomplishment  of  this 
purpose. 

All  this  is,  evidently,  not  a  matter  of 
chance,  but  the  result  of  design.  The 
world  is  the  great  and  appointed  school 
of  industry.  In  an  artificial  state  of 
society,  I  know,  mankind  are  divided 
into  the  idle  and  laboring  classes  ;  but 
such,  I  maintain,  was  not  the  design  of 
Providence.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
meant  that  all  men,  in  one  way  or 
another,   should   work.      If  any  human 


THE   PASSION    FOR   A   FORTUNE. 


263 


being  could  be  completely  released  from 
this  law  of  Providence,  if  he  should 
never  be  obliged  so  much  as  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  for  anything,  if  everything 
came  to  him  at  a  bare  wish,  if  there 
were  a  slave  appointed  to  minister  to 
every  sense,  and  the  powers  of  nature 
were  made,  in  like  manner,  to  obey  every 
thought,  he  would  be  a  mere  mass  of 
inertness,  uselessness,  and  misery. 

Yes,  such  is  man's  task,  and  such  is 
the  world- he  is  placed  in.  The  world 
of  matter  is  shapeless  and  void  to  all 
man's  purposes,  till  he  lays  upon  it  the 
creative  hand  of  labor.  And  so  also 
is  the  world  of  mind.  It  is  as  true  in 
mind  as  it  is  in  matter,  that  the  materials 
only  are  given  us.  Absolute  truth  ready 
made,  no  more  presents  itself  to  us  in 
one  department,  than  finished  models 
of  mechanism  ready  made,  do  in  the 
other.  Original  principles  there  doubt- 
less are  in  both  ;  but  the  result  —  phi- 
losophy, that  is  to  say,  in  the  one  case 
is  as  far  to  seek  as  art  and  mechanism 
are  in  the  other. 

Such,  I  repeat,  is  the  world,  and  such 
is  man.  The  earth  he  stands  upon 
and  the  air  he  breathes  are,  so  far  as 
his  improvement  is  concerned,  but  ele- 
ments to  be  wrought  by  him  to  certain 
purposes.  If  he  stood  on  earth  pas- 
sively and  unconscious,  imbibing  the 
dew  and  sap,  and  spreading  his  arms 
to  the  light  and  air,  he  would  be  but  a 
tree.  If  he  grew  up  capable  neither  of 
purpose  nor  of  improvement,  with  no 
guidance  but  instinct,  and  no  powers 
but  those  of  digestion  and  locomotion, 
he  would  be  but  an  animal.  Kut  he  is 
more  than  this  ;  he  is  a  man  ;  he  is 
made  to  improve  :  he  is  made,  therefore, 
to  think,  to  act,  to  work.  Labor  is  his 
great  function,  his  peculiar  distinction, 
his  privilege.  Can  he  not  think  so? 
Can  he  not  see,  that  from  being  an 
animal  to  eat  and  drink  and  sleep, 
to  become  a  worker  ;  to  put  forth  the 
hand  of  ingenuity,  and  to  pour  his  own 
thought  into  the  moulds  of  nature,  fash- 
ioning them  into  forms  of  grace  and 
fabrics  of  convenience,  and  converting 


them  to  purposes  of  improvement  and 
happiness, —can  he  not  see,  I  repeat, 
that  this  is  the  greatest  possible  step  in 
privilege  ?  Labor,  I  say,  is  man's  great 
function.  Tlie  earth  and  the  atmos- 
phere are  his  laboratory.  With  spade 
and  plough,  with  mining-shafts  and 
furnaces  and  forges,  with  fire  and  steam  ; 
amidst  the  noise  and  whirl  of  swift  and 
bright  machinery,  and  abroad  in  the 
silent  fields,  beneath  the  roofing  sky, 
man  was  made  to  be  ever  working, 
ever  experimenting.  And  while  he,  and 
all  his  dwellings  of  care  and  toil,  are 
borne  onward  with  the  circling  skies, 
and  the  shows  of  heaven  are  around 
him,  and  their  infinite  depths  image 
and  invite  his  thought,  still  in  all  the 
worlds  of  philosophy,  in  the  universe  of 
intellect,  man  must  be  a  worker.  He 
is  nothing,  he  can  be  nothing,  he  can 
achieve  nothing,  fulfil  nothing,  without 
working.  Not  only  can  he  gain  no  lofty 
improvement  without  this  ;  but  without 
it  he  can  gain  no  tolerable  happiness. 
So  that  he  who  gives  himself  up  to 
utter  indolence,  finds  it  too  hard  for 
him  ;  and  is  obliged  in  self-defence, 
unless  he  be  an  idiot,  to  do  something. 
The  miserable  victims  of  idleness  and 
ennui,  driven  at  last  from  their  chosen 
resort,  are  compelled  to  work,  to  do 
something  ;  yes,  to  employ  their  wretch- 
ed and  worthless  lives  in — '■^killing 
ii7;!e."  They  must  hunt  down  the  hours 
as  their  prey.  Yes,  time,  that  mere 
abstraction,  that  sinks  light  as  the  air 
upon  the  eyelids  of  the  busy  and  the 
weary,  to  the  idle  is  an  enemy,  clothed 
with  gigantic  armor  ;  and  they  must 
kill  it  or  themselves  die.  They  cannot 
Ih'e  in  mere  idleness  ;  and  all  the  dif- 
ference between  them  and  others  is, 
that  they  employ  their  activity  to  no 
useful  end.  They  find,  indeed,  that  the 
hardest  work  in  the  world  is  to  do 
nothing  ! 

This  reference  to  the  class  of  mere 
idlers,  as  it  is  called,  leads  me  to  offer 
one  specification  in  laying  down  this  law 
concerning  industry.  Suppose  a  man, 
then,  to  possess  an  immense,  a  bound- 


264 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


less  fortune,  and  that  he  holds  himself 
discharged,  in  consequence,  from  all 
the  ordinary  cares  and  labors  of  life. 
Now,  I  maintain  that  in  order  to  be 
either  an  improving,  worthy,  or  happy 
man,  he  must  do  one  of  two  things.  He 
must  either  devote  himself  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  some  public  objects,  or  he 
must  devote  some  hours  of  every  day 
to  his  own  intellectual  cultivation.  In 
any  case,  he  must  be,  to  a  certain  extent, 
a  laborious  man.  The  thought  of  his 
heart  may  be  far  different  from  this. 
He  may  think  it  his  special  privilege,  as 
a  man  of  fortune,  to  be  exempt  from  all 
care  and  effort.  To  lounge  on  soft 
couches,  to  walk  in  pleasant  gardens,  to 
ride  out  for  exercise,  and  to  come  home 
for  feasting  ;  this  may  be  his  plan.  But 
it  will  never  do.  It  never  did  yet  answer 
for  any  human  being,  and  it  never  will. 
God  has  made  a  law  against  it,  which  no 
human  power  ever  could  annul,  nor  hu- 
man ingenuity  evade.  That  law  is,  that 
upon  labor,  either  of  the  body  or  of  the 
mind,  all  essential  well-being  shall  de- 
pend. And  if  this  law  be  not  complied 
with,  I  verily  believe  that  wealth  is  only 
a  curse,  and  luxury  only  a  more  slippery 
road  to  destruction.  The  poor  idler,  I 
verily  believe,  is  safer  than  the  rich  idler : 
and  I  doubt  whether  he  is  not  hap- 
pier. I  doubt  whether  the  most  mis- 
erable vagrancy,  that  sleeps  in  barns  and 
sheds,  and  feeds  upon  the  fragments  of 
other  men's  tables,  and  leaves  its  tat- 
tered garments  upon  every  hedge,  is  so 
miserable  as  surfeited  opulence,  sighing 
■  in  palaces,  sunk  in  the  lethargy  of  indo- 
lence, loaded  with  plethory,  groaning 
with  weariness  which  no  wholesome  fa- 
tigue ever  comes  to  relieve.  The  vagrant 
is  at  least  obliged  to  walk  from  place 
to  place,  and  thus  far  has  the  advantage 
over  his  fellow-idler  who  can  ride.  Yes, 
he  walks  abroad  in  the  fair  morning ; 
no  soft  couch  detains  him  :  he  walks 
abroad  among  the  fresh  fields,  by  the 
sunny  hedges,  and  along  the  silent  lanes, 
singing  his  idle  song  as  he  goes  ;  a  crea- 
ture poor  and  wretched  enough,  no 
doubt ;  but  1  am  tempted  to  say,  if  I  must 


be  idle,  give  me  that  lot,  rather  than  to  sit 
in  the  cheerless  shadow  of  palace  roofs, 
or  to  toss  on  downy  beds  of  sluggish 
stupor  or  racking  pain. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  state  one 
of  the  cardinal  and  inflexible  laws  of  all 
human  improvement  and  happiness.  I 
have  already  premised  that  my  purpose 
in  doing  so  was  to  speak  of  the  spirit 
of  gain,  of  the  eagerness  for  fortune,  as 
characteristics  of  modern  business  which 
tend  to  the  dishonor  and  violation  of  the 
law  of  labor. 

In  proceeding  to  do  this,  let  me  more 
generally  observe,  in  the  first  place,  that 
there  has  always  been  a  public  opinion 
in  the  world  derogatory  to  labor.  The 
necessity  of  exertion,  though  it  is  the 
very  law  under  which  God  has  placed 
mankind  for  their  improvement  and  vir- 
tue, has  always  been  regarded  as  a  kind 
of  degradation,  has  always  been  felt  as  a 
kind  of  reproach.  With  the  exception  of 
a  few  great  geniuses,  none  so  great  as 
those  who  do  nothing.  Freedom  from 
the  necessity  of  exertion  is  looked  upon 
as  a  privileged  condition  ;  it  is  encircled 
with  admiring  eyes  ;  it  absolutely  gath- 
ers dignity  and  honor  about  it.  One 
might  think  that  a  man  would  make 
some  apologies  for  it  to  the  toiUng  world. 
Not  at  all  ;  he  is  proud  of  it.  It  is  for  the 
busy  man  to  make  apologies.  "  He  hopes 
you  will  excuse  him;  he  musi  v/ork,  or 
he  mtesf  attend  to  his  business."  You 
would  think  he  was  about  to  do  some 
mean  action.  You  would  think  he  was 
about  to  do  something  of  which  he  is 
ashamed.     And  he  ts  ashamed  of  it. 

The  time  has  hardly  gone  by,  when 
even  literary  labor,  labor  of  the  mind, 
the  noblest  of  all  labor,  has  suffered  un- 
der this  disparaging  estimate.  Author- 
ship has  always  been  held  to  be  the 
proper  subject  for  the  patronage  of  wealth 
and  rank.  Some  of  the  most  distin- 
guished authors  have  lived  in  obscurity, 
compared  with  the  rich  and  fasliionable 
around  them,  and  have  only  forced  their 
way  into  posthumous  celebrity.  The  re- 
wards of  intellectual  toil  have  usually 
been  stinted  to  the  provision  of  a  bare, 


THE    PASSION    FOR   A   FORTUNE. 


265 


humble  subsistence.  Not  seldom  has 
the  reward  been  scarcely  a  remove  from 
starvation.  But  when  we  descend  to 
manual  labor,  the  comparison  is  still 
more  striking.  The  laboring  classes, 
operatives,  as  they  are  significantly  called 
in  these  days,  are  generally  regarded  but 
as  a  useful  machinery  to  produce  and 
manufacture  comforts  and  luxuries  for 
those  that  can  buy  them.  And  the  labor- 
ing classes  are  so  regarded,  mainly,  not 
because  they  are  less  informed  and  cul- 
tivated, though  that  may  be  true,  but  be- 
cause they  are  the  laboring  classes.  Let 
any  one  of  them  be  suddenly  endowed 
with  a  fortune,  let  him  be  made  indepen- 
dent of  labor,  and  without  any  change  of 
character  he  immediately,  in  the  general 
estimation,  takes  his  place  among  what 
are  called  the  upper  classes.  In  those 
countries  where  the  favoritism  extended 
to  the  aristocracy  has  made  many  of  its 
members  the  vainest,  most  frivolous  and 
useless  of  beings,  it  must  be  apparent 
that  many  persons  among  the  business 
classes  are  altogether  their  superiors  in 
mind,  in  refinement,  in  all  the  noblest 
qualities  ;  and  yet  does  the  bare  circum- 
stance of  pecuniary  independence  carry 
it  over  everything.  They  walk  abroad 
in  lordly  pride,  and  the  children  of  toil 
on  every  side  do  homage  to  them.  Let 
such  an  one  enter  any  one  of  the  villages 
of  England  or  of  this  country  ;  let  him 
hve  there,  with  nothing  to  do  and  doing 
nothing,  the  year  round  ;  and  those  who 
labor  in  the  field  and  the  workshop  will 
look  upon  him,  in  bare  virtue  of  his  abil- 
ity to  be  idle,  as  altogether  their  superior. 
Yes,  those  who  have  wrought  well  in  the 
great  school  of  providence,  who  have 
toiled  faithfully  at  their  tasks  and  learned 
them,  will  pay  this  mental  deference  to 
the  truant,  to  the  idler,  to  him  who  learns 
nothing  and  does  nothing;  ay,  and  be- 
cause he  does  nothing.  Nay,  in  that 
holy  church,  whose  ministryis  the  strong- 
est bond  to  philanthropic  exertion,  the 
clergy,  the  very  ministry  of  him  who 
went  about  doinggood  and  had  not  where 
to  lay  his  head,  sinks,  in  the  estimation 
of  the  whole  world,  to  the  lowest  point  of 


depression,  the  moment  it  is  called  "a 
working  clergy."  That  very  epithet, 
working,  seems,  in  spite  of  every  coun- 
teracting consideration,  to  be  a  stigma 
upon  everything  to  which  it  can  be 
applied . 

But  besides  this  general  opinion,  there 
is  a  specific  opinion,  or  way  of  thinking, 
to  which  I  have  already  referred,  as  op- 
posed to  our  principle,  and  to  which  I 
wish  now  to  invite  your  more  particular 
attention.  This  opinion,  or  way  of  think- 
ing, I  must  endeavor  to  describe  with 
some  care,  as  it  constitutes  the  basis  of 
fact  from  which  the  moral  reflections 
of  the  remainder  of  this  discourse  will 
arise. 

It  will  be  admitted,  then,  in  general, 
I  think,  that  modern  business  —  mod- 
ern, I  mean,  as  compared  with  that 
of  a  hundred  or  even  fifty  years  ago  — 
has  assumed  a  new  character  ;  that  it 
has  departed  from  the  staidness,  reg- 
ularity, and  moderation  of  former  days. 
The  times  when  the  business  of  the 
father  descended  to  the  son,  and  was  ex- 
pected to  pass  down  as  an  heir-loom  in 
the  family  ;  when  the  risks  were  small 
and  the  gains  were  moderate,  or  if  ample, 
still  comparatively  sure,  seem  to  have 
given  way  to  the  intense  desire  and  the 
hazardous  pursuit,  of  immediate  and  im- 
mense accumulation.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  the  statement  I  am  making,  that 
I  should  enter  into  the  causes  of  this 
change.  They  are,  doubtless,  to  be 
found  in  the  unusual  opportunities  for 
gain,  in  the  extraordinary  extension  of 
credits,  and  I  think  also  in  the  rapid 
expansion  of  the  principle  of  liberty  ; 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  intellectual  activity, 
personal  ambition,  and  unfettered  enter- 
prise, which  that  principle  has  introduced 
into  society.  But  whatever  be  the  causes 
of  the  change,  it  will  not  be  denied,  I 
presume,  that  there  has  sprung  up  in 
connection  with  it  a  new  view  of  acqui- 
sition ;  or  rather,  to  state  more  exactly 
what  I  mean,  that  a  view  of  acquisition, 
which  in  former  times  was  confined  to 
a  few  minds,  has  now  taken  possession 
of  almost  the  entire  business  community, 


z66 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


and  constitutes,  therefore,  beyond  all 
former  example,  one  of  the  great  moral 
features  of  the  age.  I  cannot,  perhaps, 
briefly  describe  this  view  better  than  by 
denominating  it  a  passion  for  making  a 
foriune,  and  for  making  it  speedily.  I 
do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  say  that  this 
passion  has  not  existed  before.  The 
love  of  money  has  always  been  a  desire 
so  strong,  that  it  has  needed  for  its  re- 
straint all  the  checks  and  admonitions 
of  reason  and  rehgion.  There  have 
always  been  those  who  have  set  their 
affections  and  expectations  on  a  fortune 
as  something  indispensable  to  their  hap- 
piness. There  have  also  appeared,  from 
time  to  time,  seasons  of  rash  and  raging 
speculation,  as  in  the  case  of  the  South 
Sea  and  Mississippi  stocks  in  England 
and  France  ;  disturbing,  however,  but 
occasionally  the  regular  progress  of  busi- 
ness. But  the  case  with  us,  now,  is 
different.  We  have,  at  length,  become 
conversant  with  times  in  which  these 
seasons  of  excess  and  hazard  in  business 
are  succeeding  one  another  periodically, 
and  with  but  brief  intervals.  The  pur- 
suit of  property,  and  that  in  no  moderate 
amount,  has  acquired  at  once  an  unpre- 
cedented activity  and  universahty.  The 
views,  with  which  multitudes  now  are 
entering  into  business,  are  not  of  gain- 
ing a  subsistence  —  they  disdain  the 
thought ;  not  barely  of  pursuing  a  proper 
and  useful  calling  —  that  is  far  beneath 
their  ambition  ;  but  of  acquiring  a  for- 
tune, of  acquiring  ease  and  independence. 
In  accordance  with  this  view  is  the  com- 
mon notion  of  retiring  from  business. 
It  is  true  that  we  do  not  see  much  of 
this  retiring,  but  we  hear  much  about  it. 
The  passion  exists,  though  the  course 
of  business  is  so  rash  as  constantly  to 
disappoint,  or  so  eager  as  finally  to  over- 
come it. 

In  saying  that  a  great  change  is  pass- 
ing over  the  business  character  of  the 
world,  and  that  it  is  in  some  respects 
dangerous,  I  do  not  intend  to  say  that 
it  is  altogether  bad,  or  even  that  there 
is  necessarily  more  evil  than  good  in  it. 
I    hold   it   to   be   an  advantage  to  the 


world,  that  restrictions,  like  those  of 
the  guilds  of  Germany  and  the  borough 
laws  in  England,  are  thrown  off;  and  that 
a  greater  number  of  competitors  can 
enter  the  lists,  and  run  the  race  for  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  life.  The 
prizes,  too,  will  be  smaller  as  the  com- 
petitors are  more  numerous  ;  and  that, 
I  hold,  will  be  an  advantage.  I  believe, 
also,  that  the  system  of  doing  business 
on  credit,  in  a  young  and  enterprising 
countr}',  is,  within  proper  bounds,  use- 
ful ;  and  that  our  own  owes  a  part  of 
its  unexampled  growth  and  prosperity 
to  this  cause.  I  only  say,  what  I  think 
all  will  admit,  that  from  these  causes 
there  are  tendencies  in  the  business  of 
the  country  which  are  dangerous. 

But  to  return  to  my  statement ;  I 
undertake  to  say,  not  only,  in  general, 
that  there  are  wrong  practical  tenden- 
cies, but  that  there  is  a  way  of  thinking 
about  business  which  is  wrong.  Your 
practical  advisers  may  tell  you  that 
there  has  been  over-trading,  that  this 
is  the  great  evil,  and  that  it  must  be 
avoided  in  future.  I  do  not  say,  for  I 
do  not  know,  whether  this  has  been  the 
great  evil  or  not ;  but  this  I  say,  that  it 
probably  will  not  be  avoided  in  future, 
if  it  has  been  the  evil.  And  why  not  ? 
Because  there  is  an  evil  beneath  the 
evil  alleged,  and  that  is  an  excessive  de- 
sire for  property,  an  eagerness  for  for- 
tune. In  otlier  words,  there  is  a  wrong 
way  of  thinking,  which  lies  like  a  can- 
ker at  the  root  of  all  wholesome  moder- 
ation. The  very  idea  that  a  property  is 
to  be  acquired  in  the  course  of  ten  or 
twenty  years,  which  shall  suffice  for  the 
rest  of  life ;  that  by  some  prosperous 
traffic,  or  grand  speculation,  all  the  labor 
of  life  is  to  be  accomplished  in  a  brief 
portion  of  it  ;  that  by  dexterous  manage- 
ment a  large  part  of  the  term  of  liumari 
existence  is  to  be  exonerated  from  the 
laws  of  industry  and  self-denial,  —  all 
this  way  of  thinking,  I  contend,  is 
founded  in  a  mistake  of  the  true  nature 
and  design  of  business,  and  of  the  con- 
ditions of  human  well-being. 

I  do  not  say,  still  to  discriminate,  that 


THE   PASSION   FOR   A   FORTUNE. 


267 


it  is  wrong  to  desire  wealth,  and  even, 
with  a  favorable  and  safe  opportunity,  to 
seek  the  rapid  accumulation  of  it.  A 
man  may  have  noble  ends  to  accomplish 
by  such  accumulation.  He  may  design 
to  relieve  his  destitute  friends  or  kindred. 
He  may  desire  to  foster  good  institu- 
tions and  to  help  good  objects.  Or  he 
may  wish  to  retire  to  some  otiier  sphere 
of  usefulness  and  exertion,  which  shall 
be  more  congenial  to  his  taste  and  affec- 
tions. But  it  is  a  different  feeling,  it  is 
the  desire  of  accumulation  for  the  sake 
of  securing  a  life  of  ease  and  gratifi- 
cation, for  the  sake  of  escaping  from 
exertion  and  self-denial  ;  this  is  the 
wrong  way  of  thinking  which  I  would 
point  out,  and  which  I  maintain  to  be 
common.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  uni- 
versal among  the  seekers  of  wealth.  I 
do  not  say  that  all  who  propose  to  re- 
tire from  business,  propose  to  retire  to 
a  life  of  complete  indolence  or  indul- 
gence ;  but  I  say  that  many  do  ;  and  I 
am  inclined  to  say  that  all  propose  to 
themselves  an  independence,  and  an 
exemption  from  the  necessity  of  exer- 
tion, which  are  not  likely  to  be  good  for 
them  ;  and,  moreover,  that  they  wed 
themselves  to  these  ideas  of  indepen- 
dence and  exemption  to  a  degree  that  is 
altogether  irrational,  unchristian,  and  in- 
consistent with  the  highest  and  noblest 
views  of  life.  That  a  man  should  de- 
sire so  to  provide  for  himself  as  in  case 
of  sickness  or  disability  not  to  be  a 
burden  upon  his  friends  or  the  public, 
or,  in  case  of  his  death,  that  his  family 
should  not  be  thus  dependent,  is  most 
reasonable,  proper,  and  wise.  But  that 
a  man  sliould  wear  out  half  of  his  life 
in  an  almost  slavish  devotion  to  busi- 
ness ;  that  he  should  neglect  his  health, 
comfort,  and  mind,  and  waste  his  very 
heart,  with  anxiety,  and  all  to  build  a 
castle  of  indolence  in  some  fairy-land, 
—  this,  I  hold  to  be  unwise  and  wrong. 
I  am  saying  nothing  now  of  particular 
emergencies  into  which  a  man  may 
rightly  or  wrongly  have  brought  himself; 
I  speak  only  of  the  general  principle. 
And  the  principle,  I  say,  in  the  first 


place,  is  unwise,  wrong,  injurious,  and 
dangerous,  with  reference  to  business 
itself.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  differ- 
ent views  of  business,  implied  in  the 
foregoing  remarks,  will  impart  to  the 
whole  process  a  different  character.  If 
a  man  enters  upon  it  as  the  occupation 
of  his  life ;  if  he  looks  upon  it  as  a  use- 
ful and  honorable  course  ;  if  he  is  inter- 
ested in  its  moral  uses,  and,  what  we 
demand  of  every  high-minded  profes- 
sion, if  he  thinks  more  of  its  uses  than 
of  its  fruits,  more  of  a  high  and  honor- 
able character  than  of  any  amount  of 
gains  ;  and  if,  in  fine,  he  is  willing  to 
conform  to  that  ordinance  of  Heaven 
which  has  appointed  industry,  action, 
effort,  to  be  the  spring  of  improvement, 
then,  of  course,  he  will  calmly  and  pa- 
tiently address  himself  to  his  task,  and 
fulfil  it  with  wisdom  and  moderation. 
But  if  business  is  a  mere  expedient  to 
gain  a  fortune,  a  race  run  for  a  prize,  a 
game  played  for  a  great  stake  ;  then  it 
as  naturally  follows  that  there  will  be 
eagerness  and  absorption,  hurry  and 
anxiety  ;  it  will  be  a  race  for  the  swift, 
and  a  game  for  the  dexterous,  and  a 
battle  for  the  strong  ;  life  will  be  turned 
into  a  scene  of  hazard  and  strife,  and 
its  fortunes  will  often  hang  upon  the 
cast  of  a  die. 

I  must  add  that  the  danger  of  all  this 
is  greatly  increased  by  a  circumstance 
already  alluded  to;  I  mean  the  rapid 
expansion  of  the  principle  of  political 
freedom.  Perhaps  the  first  natural  de- 
velopment of  that  principle  was  to  be 
looked  for  in  the  pursuit  of  property. 
Property  is  the  most  obvious  form  of  in- 
dividual power,  the  most  immediate  and 
palpable  ministration  to  human  ambi- 
tion. It  was  natural,  when  the  weights 
and  burdens  of  old  restrictions  were 
taken  off,  that  men  should  first  rush  into 
the  career  of  accumulation.  I  say  restric- 
tions ;  but  there  have  been  restraints 
upon  the  inind.  which  are,  perhaps,  yet 
more  worthy  of  notice.  The  mass  of 
mankind  in  former  ages,  have  ever  felt 
that  the  high  and  splendid  prizes  of  life 
were  not  for  them.  They  have  consented 


268 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


to  poverty,  or  to  mediocrity  at  the  ut- 
most, as  their  inevitable  lot.  But  a  new 
arena  is  now  spread  for  them,  and  they 
are  looking  to  the  high  places  of  society 
as  within  their  reach.  The  impulse  im- 
parted to  private  ambition  by  this  pos- 
sibility has  not,  I  think,  been  fully  con- 
sidered, and  it  cannot,  perhaps,  be  fully 
calculated.  And  it  should  also  be 
brought  into  the  account  that  our  im- 
perfect civilization  has  not  yet  gone  be- 
yond the  point  of  awarding  a  leading, 
and  perhaps  paramount,  consideration 
in  society  to  mere  wealth.  Conceive, 
then,  what  must  be  the  effect,  upon  a 
man  in  humble  and  straitened  circum- 
stances, of  the  idea  that  it  is  possible 
for  him  to  rise  to  this  distinction.  The 
thoughts  of  his  youth,  perhaps,  have 
been  lowly  and  unaspiring;  they  have 
belonged  to  that  place  which  has  been 
assigned  him  in  the  old  regi7ne  of  society. 
But  in  the  rapid  progress  of  that  equal- 
izing system  which  is  spreading  itself 
over  the  world,  and  amidst  the  unprece- 
dented facilities  of  modern  business,  a 
new  idea  is  suddenly  presented  to  him. 
As  he  travels  along  the  dusty  road  of 
toil,  visions  of  a  palace — of  splendor, 
and  equipage,  and  state,  rise  before  him  ; 
his  may  be  the  most  enviable  and  dis- 
tinguished lot  in  the  country  ;  he  who 
is  now  a  slave  of  the  counting-room  or 
counter,  of  the  work-bench  or  the  cart- 
man's  stand,  may  yet  be  one  to  whom 
the  highest  in  the  land  shall  bow  in 
homage.  Conceive,  I  say,  the  effect  of 
this  new  idea  upon  an  individual  and 
upon  a  community.  It  must  give  an 
unprecedented  and  dangerous  impulse 
to  society.  It  must  lead  to  extraordi- 
nary efforts  and  measures  for  acquisi- 
tion. It  will  have  the  most  natural 
effect  upon  the  extension  of  traffic  and 
the  employment  of  credit.  It  may  be 
expected  that  in  such  circumstances 
men  will  borrow  and  bargain  as  they 
have  never  done  before ;  that  the  lessons 
of  the  old  prudence  will  be  laid  aside  ; 
that  the  old  plodding  and  pains-taking 
course  will  not  do  for  the  excited  and 
stimulated  spirit  of  such  an  age. 


This  eagerness  for  acquiring  fortunes, 
tends  equally  to  defeat  the  ultimate,  the 
providential  design  of  business.  That 
design,  I  have  said,  is  to  train  men  by 
action,  by  labor  and  care,  by  the  due 
exertion  of  their  faculties,  to  mental  and 
moral  accomplishment.  It  is  necessary 
to  this  end,  that  business  should  be 
conducted  with  regularity,  patience,  and 
calmness  ;  that  the  mind  should  not  be 
diverted  from  a  fair  application  of  its 
powers,  by  any  exaggerated  or  fanciful  es- 
timate of  the  results.  Especially  if  that 
contemplation  of  results  involves  the  idea 
of  escaping  from  all  care  and  occupation, 
must  it  constantly  hinder  the  fulfilment 
of  the  providential  design.  The  very 
spirit  of  business  then^  is  the  spirit  of 
resistance  to  that  design.  But  even  if  it 
were  not,  yet  it  is  evident  that  neither  the 
mental  nor  moral  faculties  of  a  human 
being  have  any  fair  chance  amidst  agi- 
tations and  anxieties,  amidst  dazzling 
hopes  and  disheartening  fears.  Cer- 
tainly, it  must  be  admitted  that  a  time 
of  excessive  absorption  in  business  is 
anything  but  a  period  of  improvement. 
How  many  in  such  seasons  have  sunk 
in  character  and  in  all  the  aims  of  life, 
have  lost  their  habits  of  reading  and 
reflection,  their  habits  of  meditation 
and  prayer! 

Business,  in  its  ultimate,  its  provi- 
dential design,  is  a  school.  Neglected, 
forgotten,  perhaps  ridiculed,  as  this  con- 
sideration may  be,  it  is  the  great  and 
solemn  truth.  Man  is  placed  in  this 
school  as  a  learner  of  lessons  for  eter- 
nity. What  he  shall  learn,  not  what  he 
shall  get,  is  of  chief,  of  eternal,  import  to 
him.  As  to  property,  it  is  certain,  to  use 
the  language  of  an  apostle,  "  that  as  we 
brought  nothing  into  this  world,  we  can 
carry  nothing  out  of  it."  But  there  is 
one  thing  which  we  shall  carry  out  of  it, 
and  that  is,  the  character  ^\i\c\\  we  have 
formed  in  the  very  pursuits  by  which 
property  has  been  acquired. 

In  the  next  place,  this  passion  for 
rapid  accumulation,  thus  pusiied  to  ea- 
gerness and  vehemence,  and  liable  to  be 
urged  to  rashness  and  recklessness,  leads 


THE   PASSION    FOR   A   FORTUNE. 


269 


to  another  evil,  which  to  any  rational 
apprehension  of  things  cannot  be  ac- 
counted small ;  and  that  is  the  evil  of 
sacrificing,  in  business,  the  end  to  the 
means. 

"  Live  while  you  live,"  is  a  maxim 
which  has  a  good  sense  as  well  as  a 
bad  one.  But  the  man  who  is  sacrifi- 
cing all  the  proper  ends  of  life  for  some- 
thing to  be  enjoyed  twenty  years  hence, 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  live  while  he 
lives.  'He  is  not  living  tiow  in  any 
satisfactory  way,  he  confesses ;  he  is 
going  to  live  by  and  by  ;  that  is,  when 
and  where  he  does  not  live,  and  never 
may  live  ;  nay,  where,  it  is  probable, 
he  never  will  live.  For  not  one  man  in 
thirty,  of  those  who  intend  to  retire  from 
business,  ever  does  retire.  And  yet, 
how  many  suffer  this  dream  about  retir- 
ing to  cheat  them  out  of  the  substantial 
ends  of  acquisition  —  comfort,  improve- 
ment, happiness — as  they  go  on. 

How,  then,  stands  the  account?  In 
seeking  property,  a  man  has  certain  ends 
in  view.  Does  he  gain  them  ?  The 
lowest  of  them,  comfort  ;  does  he  gain 
•that  ?  No,  he  will  tell  you,  he  has  little 
enough  of  comfort.  That  is  to  come. 
Having  forsaken  the  path  of  regular 
and  moderate  and  sure  acquisition  in 
which  his  fathers  walked,  he  has  plunged 
into  an  ocean  of  credit,  spread  the  sails 
of  adventurous  speculation,  is  tossed 
upon  the  giddy  and  uncertain  waves  of 
a  fluctuating  currency,  and  liable,  any 
day,  to  be  wrecked  by  the  storms  that 
are  sweeping  over  the  world  of  business. 
The  means,  the  tneans,  of  ease,  of 
comfort,  of  luxury,  he  must  have  ;  and 
yet  the  things  themselves,  ease,  comfort, 
and  the  true  enjoyment  of  luxury,  are 
the  very  things  which  he  constantly  fails 
to  reach.  He  is  ever  saying  that  he 
m\x%\.  get  out  of  this  turmoil  of  business, 
and  yet  he  never  does  get  out  of  it. 
The  very  eagerness  of  the  pursuit  not 
only  deprives  him  of  all  ease  and  com- 
fort as  he  goes  on,  but  it  tends  constant- 
ly to  push  the  whole  system  of  business 
to  that  excess  which  brings  about 
certain    reaction    and    disappointment. 


Were  it  not  better  for  him  to  live  while 
he  lives,  to  enjoy  live  as  it  passes? 
Were  it  not  better  for  him  to  live  richer 
and  die  poorer  ?  Were  it  not  best  of 
all  for  him  to  banish  from  his  mind 
that  erring  dream  of  future  indolence 
and  indulgence  ;  and  to  address  him- 
self to  the  business  of  life,  as  the  school 
of  his  earthly  education ;  to  settle  it 
with  himself  now,  that  independence,  if 
he  gains  it,  is  ndt  to  give  him  exemption 
from  employment ;  that  in  order  to  be  a 
happy  man,  he  must  always,  with  the 
mind  or  with  the  body,  or  with  both, 
be  a  laborer  ;  and,  in  fine,  that  the  rea- 
sonable exertion  of  his  powers,  bodily 
and  mental,  is  not  to  be  regarded  as 
mere  drudgery,  but  as  a  good  discipline, 
a  wise  ordination,  a  training  in  this 
primary  school  of  our  being  for  nobler 
endeavors,  and  spheres  of  higher  activity 
hereafter?  For  never,  surely,  is  activity 
to  cease  ;  and  he  who  proposes  to  re- 
sign half  his  life  to  indolent  enjoyment, 
can  scarcely  be  preparing  for  the  bound- 
less range  and  the  intenser  life  that  is 
to  come. 

But  there  are  higher  ends  of  acquisi- 
tion than  mere  comfort.  For  I  suppose 
that  few  seekers  of  wealth  can  be  found, 
who  do  not  propose  mental  culture,  and 
a  beneficent  use  of  property,  as  among 
their  objects.  And  with  a  fulfilment  of 
these  purposes  a  moderate  pursuit  is 
perfect  compatible.  But  how  is  it  when 
that  pursuit  becomes  an  eager  and  ab- 
sorbing strife  for  fortune  ?  What  is  the 
language  of  fact  and  experience  ?  Amidst 
such  engrossing  pursuits,  is  there  any 
time  for  reading  ?  Are  any  literary  hab- 
its, or  any  habits  of  mental  culture, 
formed  ?  I  suppose  these  questions 
carry  with  them  their  own  answer.  But 
the  over-busy  man,  though  he  is  neglect- 
ing his  mind  now.  means  to  repair  that 
error  by  and  by.  Tliat  is  the  greatest 
mistake  of  all !  He  will  not  find  the  hab- 
its he  wants,  all  prepared  and  ready  for 
him,  like  that  pleasant  mansion  of  repose 
to  which  he  is  looking.  He  will  find 
habits  there,  indeed  ;  but  they  will  be  the 
habits  he  has  been  cultivating  for  twenty 


2/0 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


years,  not  those  he  has  been  neglecting. 
The  truth  he  will  then  find  to  be,  that  he 
does  not  love  to  read  or  study,  that  he 
never  did  love  it,  and  that  he  probably 
never  will  love  it. 

I  do  not  say  that  reading  is  the  only 
means  of  mental  cultivation.  Business 
itself  »M_y  invigorate,  enlarge,  and  elevate 
the  mind.  But  then  it  must  be  because 
large  views  are  taken  of  it ;  because  the 
mind  travels  beyond  the  counter  and  the 
desk,  and  studies  the  geography,  politics, 
and  social  tendencies  of  the  world  ;  in- 
vestigates the  laws  of  trade,  and  the 
philosophy  of  mechanism,  and  specu- 
lates upon  the  morals  and  ends  of  all 
business.  Nay,  and  the  trader  and  the 
craftsman,  if  he  would  duly  cultivate  his 
mind,  must,  like  the  lawyer,  physician, 
and  clergyman,  travel  beyond  the  prov- 
ince of  his  own  profession,  and  bring  the 
contributions  of  every  region  of  thought 
to  build  himself  up  in  the  strength  and 
manhood  of  his  intellectual  nature. 

And  therefore,  I  say,  with  double  force 
of  asseveration,  that  he  who  has  pursued 
business  in  such  a  way  as  to  have  neglect- 
ed all  just  mental  culture  has  sacrificed 
the  end  to  the  means.  He  has  gained 
money,  and  lost  knowledge  ;  he  has 
gained  splendor,  and  lost  accomplish- 
ment ;  gained  tinsel,  and  lost  gold  ; 
gained  an  estate,  and  lost  an  empire  ; 
gained  the  world,  and  lost  his  soul ! 

And  thus  it  is  with  all  the  ends  of 
accumulation.  The  beneficent  use,  the 
moral  elevation,  which  every  high- 
minded  man  will  propose  to  himself,  are 
sacrificed  in  the  eagerness  of  the  pur- 
suit. A  man  may  give,  and  give  liber- 
ally ;  but  this  may  be  a  very  different 
thing  from  using  property  beneficently 
and  wisely.  I  confess,  that  on  this  ac- 
count I  look  with  exceeding  distrust 
upon  all  our  city  charities  ;  because  men 
have  no  time  to  look  into  the  cases  and 
questions  that  are  presented  to  them  ; 
because  they  give  recklessly,  without 
system  or  concert.  I  believe  that  im- 
mense streams  of  charity  are  annually 
flowing  around  us  which  tend  only  to 
deepen  the  channels  of  poverty  and  mis- 


ery. He  who  gives  money  to  save  time, 
cannot  be  acting  wisely  for  others  ;  and 
he  who  does  good  only  by  agents  and> 
almoners,  cannot  be  acting  wisely  for 
himself.  And  yet,  this  is  the  course  to 
which  excessive  devotion  to  gain  must 
lead.  The  man  has  no  time  to  think  for 
himself  ;  and  therefore  custom  must  be 
his  law,  or  his  clergyman,  perhaps,  is  his 
conscience.  He  is  an  excellent  disciple 
in  the  school  of  implicit  submission.  He 
attends  a  sound  divine  ;  he  gives  boun- 
tifully to  the  missions  or  to  the  alms- 
house ;  he  suffers  himself  to  be  assessed, 
perhajDS,  in  the  one-tenth  of  his  income  : 
and  there  end,  with  him,  all  the  use  and 
responsibilities  of  wealth.  His  mind  is 
engrossed  with  acquisition  to  that  extent, 
that  he  has  no  proper  regard  to  the  ends. 
of  acquisition.  Nay  more,  he  comes, 
perhaps,  to  that  pass  in  fatuity,  that  he 
substitutes  altogether  the  means  for  the 
end,  and  embraces  his  possessions  with 
the  insane  grasp  of  the  miser. 

On  the  whole,  and  in  fine,  this  pas- 
sion for  a  fortune  diverts  man  from  his 
true  dignity,  his  true  function  ;  which 
lies  in  exertion,  in  labor. 

I  can  conceive  of  reasons  why  I 
might  lawfully,  and  even  earnestly,  de- 
sire a  fortune.  If  I  could  fill  some  fair 
palace,  itself  a  work  of  art,  with  the  pro- 
ductions of  lofty  genius;  if  I  could  be 
the  friend  and  helper  of  humble  worth  ; 
if  I  could  mark  it  out,  where  failing 
health  or  adverse  fortune  pressed  it 
hard,  and  soften  or  stay  the  bitter  hours 
that  are  hastening  it  to  madness  or  to 
the  grave ;  if  I  could  stand  between 
the  oppressor  and  his  prey,  and  bid  the 
fetter  and  the  dungeon  give  up  its 
victim  ;  if  I  could  build  up  great  insti- 
tutions of  learning  and  academies  of 
art ;  if  I  could  open  fountains  of  knowl- 
edge for  the  people,  and  conduct  its 
streams  in  the  right  channels  ;  if  1 
could  do  better  for  the  poor  than  to  be- 
stow alms  upon  them  —  even  to  think 
of  them,  and  devise  plans  for  their  ele- 
vation in  knowledge  and  virtue,  instead 
of  forever  opening  the  old  reservoirs 
and    resources  for  their  improvidence  ; 


Tin:    PASSION    FOR   A    FORTUNE. 


271 


if,  in  fine,  wealth  could  be  to  me  the 
handmaid  of  exertion,  facilitating  effort 
and  giving  success  to  endeavor,  then 
mii^ht  I  lawfully,  and  yet  warily  and 
modestly,  desire  it.  But  if  wealth  is  to 
do  nothing  for  me  but  to  minister  ease 
and  indulgence,  and  to  place  my  chil- 
dren in  the  same  bad  school,  I  fear- 
lessly say,  though  it  be  in  face  of  the 
world's  dread  laugli,  that  I  do  not  see 
why  I  should  desire  it,  and  that  I  do 
not  desire  it ! 

Are  my  reasons  asked  for  this  strange 
decision  ?  Another,  in  part,  shall  give 
them  for  me.  "  Two  men,"  says  a 
quaint  writer,  "two  men  I  honor,  and 
no  third.  First,  the  toil-worn  craftsman, 
that  with  earth-made  implement  labo- 
riously conquers  the  earth,  and  makes 
her  mans.  Venerable  to  me  is  the 
hard  hand  ;  crooked,  coarse ;  wherein, 
notwithstanding,  lies  a  cunning  virtue, 
indefeasibly  royal,  as  of  the  sceptre  of 
this  planet.  Venerable,  too,  is  the  rug- 
ged face,  all  weather-tanned,  besoiled, 
with  its  rude  intelligence  ;  for  it  is  the 
face  of  a  man,  living  man-like.  Oh,  but 
the  more  venerable  for  thy  rudeness, 
and  even  because  I  must  pity  as  well  as 
love  thee  !  Hardly-entreated  brother  ! 
For  us  was  thy  back  so  bent,  for  us 
were  thy  straight  limbs  and  fingers  so 
deformed.  Thou  wert  our  conscript, 
on  whom  the  lot  fell,  and  fighting  our 
battles,  wert  so  marred.  For  in  thee, 
too,  lay  a  God-created  form,  but  it  was 
not  to  be  unfolded  ;  encrusted  must  it 
stand  with  the  thick  adhesions  and 
defacement  of  labor ;  and  thy  body, 
like  thy  soul,  was  not  to  know  freedom. 
Yet  toil  on,  toil  on ;  thou  art  in  thy  duty, 
be  out  of  it  who  may  ;  thou  toilest  for  the 
altogetlier  indispensable,  for  daily  bread. 
"  A  second  man  I  honor,  and  still 
more  highly  :  him  who  is  seen  toilino^ 
for  the  spiritually  indispensable  ;  not 
daily  bread,  but  the  bread  of  life.  Is 
not  he,  too,  in  his  duty  ;  endeavoring  to- 
wards inward  harmony  ;  revealing  this, 
by  act  or  by  word,  througli  all  his  out- 
ward endeavors,  be  they  high  or  low  .-' 
Highest  of  all.  when  his  outward  and  his 
inwar  1  endeavor  are  one  ;  when  we  can 


name  him  artist ;  not  earthly  craftsman 
only,  but  inspired  thinker,  that  with 
heaven-made  implement  conquers  heav- 
en for  us  !  If  the  poor  and  iiumble  toil 
that  we  have  food,  must  not  the  high 
and  glorious  toil  for  him,  in  return, 
that  he  have  light  and  guidance,  free- 
dom, immortality?  —  these  two,  in  all 
their  degrees,  I  honor;  all  else  is  chaff" 
and  dust,  which  let  the  wind  blow 
whither  it  listeth. 

"  Unspeakingly  touching  is  it,  how- 
ever, when  I  find  both  dignities  united  ; 
and  he,  that  must  toil  outwardly  for  the 
lowest  of  man's  wants,  is  also  toiling 
inwardly  for  the  highest.  Sublimer  in 
this  world  know  I  nothing,  than  a  peas- 
ant saint,  could  such  now,  anywhere  be 
met  with.  Such  a  one  will  take  thee 
back  to  Nazareth  itself;  thou  wilt  see 
the  splendor  of  heaven  spring  forth 
from  the  humblest  depths  of  earth,  like 
a  light  shining  in  great  darkness.'* 

And  who,  I  ask,  is  that  third  man, 
that  challenges  our  respect  ?  Say,  that 
the  world  were  made  to  be  the  couch  of 
his  repose,  and  the  heavens  to  curtain 
it.  Grant,  that  the  revolving  earth  were 
his  rolling  chariot,  and  all  earth's  mag- 
nificence were  the  drapery  that  hung 
around  his  gorgeous  rest  ;  yet  could 
not  that  august  voluptuary  —  let  alone 
the  puny  idler  of  our  city  streets  —  win 
from  a  wise  man  one  sentiment  of  re- 
spect. What  is  there  glorious  in  the 
world,  that  is  not  the  product  of  labor, 
either  of  the  body  or  of  the  mind? 
What  is  history,  but  its  record  ?  What 
are  the  treasures  of  genius  and  art,  but 
its  work  ?  What  are  cultivated  fields, 
but  its  toil  ?  The  busy  marts,  the  ris- 
ing cities,  the  enriched  empires  of  the 
world  ;  what  are  they  but  the  great  trea- 
sure-houses of  labor  ?  The  pyramids 
of  Egypt,  the  castles  and  towers  and 
temples  of  Europe,  the  buried  cities 
of  Mexico  ;  what  are  they  but  tracks, 
all  round  the  world,  of  the  mighty  foot- 
steps of  labor?  Antiquity  had  not 
been  without  it.  Without  it,  there  were 
no  memory  of  the  past ;  without  it,  there 
were  no  hope  for  the  future. 

*  Thomas  Carlyle. 


2/2 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


Let  then  labor,  the  world's  great  or- 
dinance, take  its  proper  place  in  the 
world.  Let  idleness,  too,  have  the  meed 
that  it  deserves.  Honor,  I  say,  be  paid 
wherever  it  is  due.  Honor,  if  you 
please,  to  unchallenged  indolence ;  for 
that  which  all  the  world  admires,  hath, 
no  doubt,  some  ground  for  it ;  honor, 
then,  to  undisturbed,  unchallenged  in- 
dolence ;  for  it  reposes  on  treasures  that 
labor  some  time  gained  and  gathered. 
It  is  the  efBgy  of  a  man,  upon  a  splen- 
did mausoleum  ;  somebody  built  that 
mausoleum  ;  somebody  put  that  dead 
image  there.  Honor  to  him  that  does 
nothing,  and  yet  does  not  starve  ;  he 
hath  his  significance  still  ;  he  is  a  stand- 
ing proof  that  somebody  has  worked. 

Nay,  rather  let  us  say,  honor  to  the 
worker  ;  to  the  toiler;  to  him  who  pro- 
duces, and  not  alone  consumes  ;  to  him 
who  puts  forth  his  hand  to  add  to  the 
treasure-heap  of  human  comforts,  and 
not  alone  to  take  away  !  Honor  to  him 
who  goes  forth  amidst  the  struggling 
elements  to  fight  his  battle,  and  shrinks 
not,  with  cowardly  effeminacy,  behind 
pillows  of  ease  !  Honor  to  the  strong 
muscle  and  the  manly  nerve,  and  the 
resolute  and  brave  heart !  Honor  to 
the  sweaty  brow  and  the  toiling  brain  ! 
Honor  to  the  great  and  beautiful  offices 
of  humanity :  to  manhood's  toil  and 
woman's  task  ;  to  parental  industry,  to 
maternal  watching  and  weariness ;  to 
teaching  wisdom  and  patient  learning  ; 
to  the  brow  of  care  that  presides  over 
the  state,  and  to  many-handed  labor 
that  toils  in  the  workshops  and  fields, 
beneath  its  sacred  and  guardian  sway  ! 


XIIL 


ON    THE   MORAL    LIMITS   OF   AC- 
CUMULATION. 

Proverbs  xxx.  8,9:"  Give  me  neither  poverty  nor 
riches;  lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee  and  say,  Who  is 
the  Lord?  or  lest  I  be  poor,  and  steal,  and  take  the 
name  of  my  God  in  vani." 

In  my  last  discourse,  I  considered 
some  of  the  evil  consequences  of  the 
passion  for  accumulation  ;  in  the  pres- 


ent, I  propose  to  point  out  some  of  the 
moral  limits  to  be  set  to  that  passion. 
In  other  words,  the  limits  to  accumu- 
lation, the  wholesome  restraints  upon 
the  passion  for  it,  which  are  prescribed 
by  feelings  of  general  philanthropy  and 
justice,  by  the  laws  of  morality,  and  by 
a  sober  consideration  of  the  natural 
effects  of  wealth  upon  ourselves,  our 
children,  and  the  world, —  these  are  the 
topics  of  our  present  meditation. 

I  cannot  help  feeling  here  the  diffi- 
culties under  which  the  pulpit  labors, 
in  the  discussion  of  the  points  now  be- 
fore us  Some,  indeed,  will  think  them 
unsuitable  to  the  pulpit,  as  not  being 
sufificiently  religious.  Others  seem  to 
be  disposed  to  limit  the  pulpit  to  the 
utterance  of  general  and  unquestionable 
truths.  To  these  views  I  cannot  assent. 
The  points  which  I  am  discussing  are, 
in  the  highest  degree,  moral  ;  they  are 
practically  religious ;  they  belong  to 
the  morality  and  religion  of  daily  life. 
And  then  again,  as  to  what  the  preacher 
shall  say,  I  do  not  think  that  he  is  to  be 
confined  to  truisms,  or  to  self-evident 
truths,  or  to  truths  in  which  all  shall 
agree.  We  come  here  to  deliberate  on 
great  questions  of  morality  and  duty  ; 
to  consider  what  is  true,  what  is  right. 
In  doing  this,  the  preacher  may  bring 
forward  views  in  which  some  of  his 
hearers  cannot  agree  with  him  ;  how, 
indeed,  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  But  he 
does  not  pretend  to  utter  infallible  sen- 
tences. He  may  be  wrong.  But  he  is 
none  the  less  bound  to  utter  what  he 
does  believe,  and  thinks  to  be  worthy  of 
attention.  This  office  I  attempt  to  dis- 
charge among  you.  And  I  ask  you  not 
to  take  ill,  at  my  hands,  that  which  you 
would  not  so  take  if  I  uttered  it  by 
your  firesides.  And  if  I  am  wrong  on 
some  such  occasion,  perhaps  you  will 
set  me  right. 

Let  me  proceed,  then,  frankly  to  lay 
before  you  some  reflections  that  have 
impressed  my  own  mind,  in  regard  to 
the  hmitations  which  good  feeling,  jus- 
tice, and  wisdom  ought,  perhaps,  to  set 
to  the  pursuit  of  wealth. 


THE   MORAL   LIMITS   OF   ACCUMULATION. 


273 


I.  In  tlie  first  place,  then,  I  doubt 
whether  tliis  immense  accumulation  in  a 
few  hands,  wliile  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  comparatively  poor,  does  not  imply  an 
unequal,  an  unfair,  distribution  of  the  re- 
wards of  industry.  I  may  be  wrong  on 
this  point,  and  if  I  were  considered  as 
speakins:  with  any  authority  from  the 
pulpit,  I  should  not  make  the  sugges- 
tion. Yet  speaking  as  I  do,  with  no  as- 
sumption, but  with  the  modesty  of  doubt, 
I  shall  venture  to  submit  this  point  to 
your  consideration. 

It  would  seem  to  be  an  evident  princi- 
ple of  humanity  and  justice,  that  property 
and  the  means  of  comfort  should  bear 
some  proportion  to  men's  industry.  Now 
we  know  that  they  do  not.  I  am  not  de- 
nying that,  in  general,  the  hard-working 
man  labors  less  with  the  mind  ;  and  that 
he  is  often  kept  poor,  either  by  improv- 
idence and  wastefulness,  or  because  he 
has  less  energy  and  sagacity  than  others 
bring  into  the  business  of  life.  I  do  not 
advocate  any  absurd  system  of  agrarian 
levelling.  I  believe  that  wealth  was  de- 
signed to  accumulate  in  certain  hands, 
to  a  certain  extent ;  because  I  perceive 
that  this  naturally  results  from  the  su- 
perior talents  and  efforts  of  certain  indi- 
viduals. But  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  disproportion  is  greater  than  it 
ought  to  be. 

In  order  to  bring  this  question  home 
to  your  apprehension,  let  me  ask  you  to 
suppose  that  some  years  ago  any  one  of 
you  had  come  to  this  city  with  a  beloved 
brother  to  prepare  for  a  life  of  business. 
Let  me  suppose  that  you  had  been  placed 
with  a  merchant,  and  he  with  a  cartman  ; 
lioth  lawful,  useful,  necessary  callings  in 
society  ;  somebody  must  discharge  each 
of  these  offices.  Now  you  know  that 
the  results  would  likely  enough  be,  that 
you  would  be  rich,  or  at  least  possessed 
of  an  easy  property,  and  that  he  would 
be  poor  ;  or  at  any  rate,  that  you  would 
have  a  fair  chance  of  acquiring  a  fortune 
from  your  industry,  and  that  he  would 
have  no  such  chance  from  his  industry. 
Now  let  me  further  suppose  that  you 
did  not  treat  him  as  some  men  treat  their 


poor  relations,  —  passing  them  by  and 
striving  to  forget  them,  almost  wishing 
they  did  not  exist  ;  but  that  you  contin- 
ued on  terms  of  kind  and  intimate  inter- 
course with  him  ;  that  you  constantly 
interchanged  visits  with  him,  and  could 
cc^mpare  the  splendor  of  your  dwelling 
with  the  poverty  of  his.  1  ask  you  if 
you  would  not  feel,  if  you  could  help  feel- 
ing, that  society  had  dealt  unjustly  with 
you  and  with  him  in  this  matter  ?  But  I 
say  that  everj'  man  is  your  brother  ;  and 
that  what  you  would  thus  feel  for  your 
brother,  you  are  bound  to  feel  for  every 
man  ! 

I  know  that  it  is  said,  in  regard  to  ac- 
cumulation in  general,  that  capital  has 
its  claims  ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  they  are  overrated,  in  comparison 
with  the  claims  of  human  nerves  and 
sinews.  Suppose  that  of  a  thousand  men 
engaged  in  a  great  manufacturing  estab- 
lishment, ten  possess  the  capi  tal  and  over- 
see the  establishment,  and  the  nine  hun- 
dred and  ninety  do  the  work.  Can  it  be 
right  that  the  ten  should  grow  to  im- 
mense wealth,  and  that  the  nine  hun- 
dred and  ninety  should  be  forever  poor? 
I  admit  that  something  is  to  be  allowed 
for  the  risk  taken  by  the  capitalist.  I 
have  heard  it  pleaded,  indeed,  that  he  is 
extremely  liable  to  fail,  and  often  does 
so ;  while  the  poor.  Heaven  help  them  ! 
never  fail.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
this  consideration  is  not  quite  fairly 
pleaded.  It  is  said  that  there  is  a  risk. 
But  does  not  the  capitahst,  to  a  certain 
extent,  make  the  risk  ?  Is  not  his  risk 
often  in  proportion  to  the  urgency  with 
which  he  pushes  the  business  of  accu- 
mulation, and  to  that  neglect  and  infidel- 
ity of  his  agents  and  workmen  which 
must  spring  from  their  having  so  slight 
a  common  interest  with  him  in  his  un- 
dertakings .''  The  risks  will  be  smaller 
when  the  pursuit  of  property  is  more  re- 
strained and  reasonable,  and  when  the 
rewards  of  industry  are  more  equal  and 
just.  But  I  hear  it  said  again,  that  "the 
poor  are  wasteful ;  and  that  to  increase 
their  wages  is  only  to  increase  their 
vices."     Let  me  tell  you  that  poverty  is 


18 


274 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


the  parent  of  improvidence  and  desper- 
ation. Those  who  have  been  brought 
up  in  that  school  may  very  probably,  for 
a  while,  abuse  their  increased  means. 
But  in  the  long  run  it  cannot  be  so. 
Nay,  by  the  very  terms  of  your  proposi- 
tion, the  abuse  will  cease  with  the  des- 
peration of  poverty.  Give  the  poor  some 
hope  ;  give  them  some  means  ;  give  them 
something  to  lean  upon ;  give  them  some 
interest  in  the  order  and  welfare  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  they  will  become  less  waste- 
ful, less  reckless  and  vicious. 

Indeed,  is  it  not  obvious,  can  any  one 
with  his  eyes  open  deny,  that  the  ex- 
tremes of  condition  in  the  world,  the 
extremes  of  wealth  and  poverty,  furnish 
us  with  the  extremes  of  vice  and  dissi- 
pation ?  And  does  not  this  fact  settle 
and  prove,  beyond  all  question,  that  it 
is  desirable  that  accumulation  should 
be  restrained  within  some  bounds,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  that  indi- 
gence should  be  lessened.?  What  is  the 
state  of  the  operatives  in  the  manufactur- 
ing districts  of  England?  Only  worse 
than  that  of  the  idlers  in  that  kingdom, 
who  are  living  and  rioting  upon  over- 
grown fortunes.  Let  the  conditions  of 
men  approach  the  same  inequality  in  this 
or  any  other  country,  and  we  shall  wit- 
ness the  same  results.  The  tendency  of 
things  among  us,  I  rejoice  to  believe,  is 
not  to  that  result ;  but  it  is,  no  doubt, 
the  constant  tendency  of  private  ambi- 
tion. 

I  am  sensible,  my  friends,  that  I  have 
made  a  large  demand  on  your  candor,  in 
laying  this  question  before  you.  It  is 
paying  the  highest  compliment  I  could 
pay  to  your  fairness  of  mind.  I  only 
ask  that  you  will  treat  my  argument  with 
equal  generosity. 

II.  But  I  proceed  to  another  point. 
In  order  to  the  rapid  accumulation  of 
property,  in  all  ordinary  cases,  a  great 
expansion  of  credit  is  necessary.  A 
man  cannot  grow  suddenly  rich  by  the 
labor  of  his  hands,  and  he  must  there- 
fore use  the  property  or  the  promises  of 
others,  in  order  to  compass  this  end. 
Now  there  is  a  question  which  I  have 


never  seen  stated  in  the  books  of  mora 
philosophy,  which  1  have  not  heard  dis- 
cussed m  the  pulpit,  and  yet  it  is  a  point 
which  deserves  a  place  in  the  code  of 
commercial  morality  ;  and  that  is,  how  far 
it  is  right  for  a  man  to  use  credit ;  that 
is,  to  extend  his  business  beyond  his 
actual  capital?  I  am  sensible  that  it  is 
extremely  difficult,  if  it  is  not  indeed  im- 
possible, to  lay  down  any  exact  rule  on 
this  subject ;  and  yet  it  seems  to  me 
none  the  less  worthy  of  consideration. 
Certainly,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
there  is  a  point  somewhere,  beyond 
which  it  is  not  prudent,  and,  therefore, 
not  right,  to  go.  Certainly,  it  cannot 
be  right,  as  it  appears  to  me,  for  a  man 
to  use  all  the  credit  he  can  get.  It 
could  not  be  right,  for  instance,  that 
upon  a  capital  of  ten  thousand  a  man 
should  do  a  business  of  ten  millions.  No 
man  ought  to  trust  his  powers  to  such 
an  indefinable  extent.  No  man's  cred- 
itors, were  he  to  fail,  could  be  satisfied 
with  his  having  accepted  trusts  from  oth- 
ers in  the  shape  of  credits,  which  com- 
mon prudence  shall  pronounce  to  be 
rash  and  hazardous.  There  is  a  common 
prudence,  if  there  is  no  exact  rule  about 
this  matter,  and  the  borrower  is  most 
especially  bound  to  observe  it ;  and  cer- 
tainly every  honest  man,  being  a  bor- 
rower, would  observe  it,  if  he  did  but 
sufficiently  think  of  it.  The  want  of 
this  thought  is  the  very  reason  why  I 
bring  forward  the  subject. 

With  regard  to  the  rule,  I  have  it  as 
the  deliberate  opinion  of  one  of  the 
greatest  bankers  in  Europe,  that  a  man 
should  not  extend  his  business  to  more 
than  three  times  his  capital,  and  if  it  be 
a  large  business,  to  not  more  than  twice 
his  capital.  I  do  not  say  that  this  is  the 
rule,  though  I  have  the  greatest  respect 
for  the  judgment  that  laid  it  down.  I  do 
not  say  that  it  is  the  rule,  because  I  am 
advised,  on  the  other  hand,  by  very  com- 
petent judges,  that  the  rule  must  vary 
exceedingly  with  the  different  kinds  of 
business  which  a  man  may  pursue. 

I  do  not  undertake,  then,  to  lay  down 
any  particular  rule,  but  I  urge  the  claims 


THE   MORAL   LIMITS    OF   ACCUMULATION. 


275 


of  general  prudence.     I   wish  to  call  at- 
tention to  this  point.   I  am  persuaded  that 
it  is  for  want  of  reflection,  and  not  from 
want  of  principle,  that  many  have  adven- 
tured out  upon  an  ocean  of  credit,  where 
they  have  not  only  suffered  shipwreck 
themselves,  but  carried   down  many   a 
goodly  vessel  with  them.    The  borrower, 
I  hold,  is  specially  and  solemnly  bound 
to  be  prudent.     He  is  bound  to  be  more 
prudent  in  the  use  of  other  men's  prop- 
erty than  of  his  own.     A  man  should  be 
more  cautious  in  taking  credit  than  in 
using  capital.      But  I   fear  that  the  very 
reverse  of  this  is  commonly  the  fact.     I 
fear  that  most  men  are  more  reckless 
when  they  use  the  means  which  credit 
gives  them,  than  they  would  be  in  using 
their  own  absolute  and  fixed  property. 
In  small  matters  we  know  that  immediate 
payment  is  a  check  to  expenditure.  Why 
is  it,  but  for  this,  that  every  petty  dealer 
is  anxious   to  open  a   credit  with   your 
family?     He  knows  that  your  expendi- 
tures will  be  freer,  your  purchases  larger, 
and    that  a    more   considerable  amount 
will  be  made  up  at  the  end  of  the  year^ 
because  you  buy  on  credit.     But  to  look 
at  the  subject  in  a  wider  view  ;   I  know 
that  some   men  do  plunge    more    reck- 
lessly into  the  great  game  of  business, 
because  the  game  is  played  with  credit  ; 
with   counters,  and  not  with  coins.     I 
have  heard  it  observed,  and   I  confess 
that  it  was  with  a  coolness  and  noncha- 
lance that  amazed  me,  that  a  man  ma}'  as 
well  take  a  good  strong  hold  of  business 
while  he  is  about  it,  since  he  has  nothing 
to  lose  by  it.     The  sentiment  is  mon- 
strous.    It  ought  to  shake  the  very  foun- 
dations of  every  warehouse  where  it  is 
uttered.      There  ought  to  be  a  sacred 
caution  in  the  use  of  credit.     And  al- 
though I  cannot  pretend  to   define  the 
precise  law  of  its  extension,  yet  this  I 
will  say,  that  never  till  I  see  a  man  ad- 
venturing his  own  property  more  freely 
than  he  adventures  that  which  he  bor- 
rows of  his  neighbor,  can  I  think  he  is 
right.     Let  this   great   and    undeniably 
just  moral  principle  be  established  ;  and 
I  am  persuaded  that  we  shall  at  once  see 


a  wholesome  restraint  laid  upon  the  use 
of  credit. 

There  is  one  further  point  to  which  I 
wish  to  invite  your  attention  ;  and  that 
is  the  practice,  in  cases  of  bankruptcy, 
of  giving  preference  to  certain  creditors, 
who  have  made  loans  on  that  condition. 
Now  I  maintain  that  no  man  ought  to 
offer  credit,  and  that  no  man  ought  to 
accept  it,  on  that  condition.  The  prac- 
tice is  abolished  in  England  ;  and  I 
know  that  there  it  is  regarded  as  bring- 
ing a  stain  upon  the  commercial  moral- 
ity of  this  country. 

I  do  not  mean  to  charge  with  per- 
sonal dereliction  any  person  who  has, 
in  time  past,  taken  advantage  of  this 
rule.  It  has  been  the  rule  of  the  coun- 
try, and  has  passed  unquestioned.  And 
so  long  as  it  has  been  the  rule,  and 
money  has  been  borrowed  and  lent  on 
that  principle,  and  it  was  considered 
right  so  to  do,  it  was  perhaps  right, 
as  between  man  and  man,  that  cases 
of  insolvency  should  be  settled  on  that 
principle.  But  as  a  theoretical  principle 
of  general  application,  I  hold  that  it  is 
utterly  wrong.  Our  laws  indeed  dis- 
allow it,  and  public  opinion  ought  not, 
for  another  hour,  to  sustain  it. 

The  principle  is  dishonest.  It  is 
treachery  to  the  body  of  a  man's  credit- 
ors. He  appeared  before  them  with 
a  certain  amount  of  means  ;  and  upon 
the  strength  of  those  means  they  were 
willing  to  give  him  credit.  Those  means 
were  the  implied  condition,  the  very 
basis,  of  the  loan  ;  without  them  they 
would  not  have  made  it.  They  saw  that 
he  had  a  large  stock  of  goods  ;  that  he 
was  doing  a  large  business  ;  and  they 
thought  there  was  no  danger.  They 
depended,  in  fact,  upon  that  visible 
property  in  case  of  difficulties.  But 
difificulty  arises,  failure  comes  ;  and 
then  they  find  that  much  or  all  of  that 
property  is  preoccupied,  and  wrested 
from  their  hands,  by  certain  confiden- 
dential  pledges.  If  they  had  known 
this,  they  would  have  stood  aloof;  and 
therefore  I  say  that  there  is  essential 
deception  in  the  case. 


2/6 


ON   COMMERCE   AND    BUSINESS. 


Again,  lending  on  such  a  principle 
loses  all  its  generosity,  and  borrowing 
is  liable  to  lose  all  the  prudence  and 
virtue  that  properly  belong  to  it.  If  a 
man  lends  to  his  young  friend  or  rela- 
tive, on  the  sole  strength  of  affection 
and  confidence  towards  him,  it  is  a 
transaction  which  bestows  a  grace  upon 
mercantile  life.  But  if  he  lends  as  a 
preference  creditor,  he  takes  no  risk, 
and  shows  no  confidence.  For  he 
knows  that  the  borrower,  upon  the 
strength  of  his  loan,  can  easily  get 
property  enough  into  his  hands  to 
make  hiut  perfectly  secure.  And  let 
it  be  observed,  that  in  proportion  as 
the  acquisition  of  confidence  is  less 
necessary  ;  in  proportion,  that  is  to 
say,  as  virtue  and  ability  are  less  neces- 
sary to  set  up  a  man  in  business,  are 
they  less  likely  to  be  cultivated  :  and  so 
far  as  this  principle  goes,  therefore,  it 
tends  to  sap  and  undermine  the  whole 
business  character  of  a  country.  Nay, 
it  is  easy  to  see,  that  under  the  cloak  of 
these  confidential  transactions,  the  en- 
tire business  between  the  borrower  and 
lender  may  be  the  grossest  and  most 
iniquitous  gambling.  I  do  not  say  that 
this  is  common.  But  I  say  that  the 
principle  ought  not  to  be  tolerated, 
which  is  capable  of  such  abuses. 

This  principle,  I  think,  moreover,  is 
the  very  keystone  of  the  arch  that  sup- 
ports many  an  overgrown  fabric  of 
credit.  And  this  observation  has  a  two- 
fold bearing.  Much  of  the  credit  that 
is  obtained,  could  not  exist  without  this 
principle.  That  is  one  thing  ;  but,  fur- 
thermore, I  hold  that  all  the  exertion 
of  credit  which  depends  on  this  prin- 
ciple oughi;  not  to  exist  at  all.  It  ought 
not,  because  the  principle  is  dishonest 
and  treacherous.  And  it  would  not,  be- 
cause the  first  credit  which  often  puts  a 
man  in  the  possession  of  visible  means 
is  not  given  on  the  strength  of  confi- 
dence in  him,  but  on  the  strength  of  the 
secret  pledge  ;  and  then  the  after  credits 
are  based  on  those  visible  means.  Let 
every  man  that  borrows  tell,  as  he  ought 
to  do,   the   amount   of   his  confidential 


obligations,  and  many  would  find  their 
credit  seriously  curtailed.  And  to  that 
extent,  most  assured)}',  it  ought  to  be 
curtailed. 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  spirit  of 
gain  as  liable  —  not  as  always  being, 
but  as  liable  — to  be  in  conflict  with  the 
great  principles  of  social  and  commer- 
cial justice.  I  might  add,  that  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  gains  of  business  are 
sometimes  clung  to,  amidst  the  wreck 
of  fortunes,  is  a  powerful  and  striking 
illustration  of  the  same  moral  danger. 
He  who  regards  no  limits  of  justice  in 
acquiring  property  will  break  all  bonds 
of  justice  to  keep  it. 

And  here  I  must  carefully  and  widely 
distinguish.  I  give  all  honor  to  the 
spirit  which  many  among  us  have  shown 
in  such  circumstances  ;  to  the  manl\' 
fortitude  and  disinterestedness  of  men, 
who  have  comparatively  cared  nothing 
for  themselves,  but  who  have  been  al- 
most crushed  to  the  earth  by  what  they 
have  suffered  for  their  friends  ;  to  the 
heroic  cheerfulness  and  soothing  ten- 
derness of  woman  in  such  an  hour, 
ready  to  part  with  every  luxury,  and 
holding  the  very  pearl  of  her  life  in 
the  unsullied  integrity  of  her  husband. 
I  know  full  well  that  that  lofty  integrity 
is  the  only  rule  ever  thought  of  by  many 
in  the  painful  adjustment  of  their  broken 
fortunes.  And  I  know,  and  the  public 
knows,  that  if  they  retain  a  portion  of 
their  splendor  for  a  season,  it  is  reluc- 
tantly, and  because  it  cannot,  in  the 
present  circumstances,  be  profitably  dis- 
posed of;  and  that  they  retain  it  in 
strict  trust  for  their  creditors.  But 
there  are  bankrupts  of  a  different  char- 
acter, as  you  well  know.  I  do  not 
know  that  any  such  are  in  this  pres- 
ence ;  but  if  there  were  a  congregation 
of  such  before  me,  I  should  speak  no 
otherwise  than  I  shall  now  speak,  I  say 
that  there  are  men  of  a  different  char- 
acter ;  men  who  intend  permanently  to 
keep  back  a  part  of  the  price  they  have 
sworn  to  pay  ;  and  I  tell  you,  that  God's 
altar,  at  which  I  minister,  shall  hear  no 
word  from  me,  concerning  them,  but  a 


THE   MORAL   LIMITS   OF  ACCUMULATION. 


277 


word  of  denunciation.  It  is  di.shonesty, 
and  it  ought  to  be  infamy.  It  is  rob- 
bery, though  it  Hve  in  splendor,  and  ride 
in  state,  —  robbery,  I  say,  as  truly  as 
if,  instead  of  inhabiting  a  palace,  it  were 
consigned  to  the  dungeons  of  Sing 
Sing.  And  take  care,  my  brethren,  as 
ye  shall  stand  at  the  judgment-bar  of 
conscience  and  of  God,  that  ye  fall  not 
at  all  beneath  this  temptation.  The 
times  are  times  of  sore  and  dreadful 
peril  to  the  virtue  of  the  country.  They 
are  times  in  which  it  is  necessary,  even 
for  honest  men.  to  gird  up  the  loins  of 
their  minds,  and  to  be  sober  and  watch- 
ful ;  ay,  watchful  over  themselves.  Re- 
member, all  such,  I  adjure  you,  that  the 
dearest  fortune  you  can  carry  into  the 
world  will  not  compensate  you  for 
the  least  iota  of  your  integrity  surren- 
dered and  given  up.  Oh!  sweeter  in 
the  lowliest  dwelling  to  which  you  may 
descend,  shall  be  the  thought  that  you 
have  kept  your  integrity  immaculate, 
than  all  the  concentrated  essence  of 
luxury  to  your  taste,  all  its  combined 
softness  to  your  couch,  all  its  gathered 
splendor  to  your  state.  Ay,  prouder 
shall  you  be  in  the  humblest  seat,  than 
if,  with  ill-kept  gains,  you  sat  upon  the 
throne  of  a  kingdom. 

III.  I  come  now  to  consider,  in  the 
last  place,  the  limitations  to  be  set  to 
the  desire  of  wealth,  by  a  sober  con- 
sideration of  its  too  probable  effects 
upon  ourselves,  upon  our  children,  and 
upon  the  world  at  large.  And  here  let 
me  ask  two  preliminary  questions. 

Can  that  be  so  necessary  to  human 
well-being,  as  many  consider  wealth  to 
be,  which  necessarily  falls  to  the  lot  but 
of"  a  few  }  Can  that  be  the  very  feast 
and  wine  of  life,  when  but  a  few  thou- 
sands of  the  human  race  are  allowed 
to  partake  of  it  ?  If  it  were  so,  surely 
God's  providence  were  less  kind  and 
liberal  than  we  are  bound  to  think  it. 
God  has  not  made  a  world  of  rich  men, 
but  rather  a  world  of  poor  men  ;  or  of 
men,  at  least,  who  must  toil  for  a  sub- 
sistence. That,  then,  must  be  the  good 
condition  for  man  ;  nay,  the  best  condi- 


tion ;  and  we  see,  indeed,  that  it  is  the 
grand  sphere  of  human  improvement. 

In  the  next  place,  can  that  be  so  im- 
portant to  human  welfare,  which,  if  it 
were  possessed  by  all,  would  i;e  the 
most  fatal  injury  possible.''  And  here 
I  must  desire  that  every  person,  whose 
pursuit  of  property  this  question  may 
affect,  will  extend  his  thoughts  beyond 
himself.  He  may  say  that  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  \i  he  could  acquire  wealth  ; 
and  perhaps  it  would.  He  may  say  that 
he  does  not  see  that  riches  would  do 
hi/n  any  harm  ;  and  perhaps  tliey  would 
not.  He  may  have  views  that  ennoble 
the  pursuit  of  fortune.  But  the  cjues- 
tion  is,  would  it  be  well  and  safe  for 
four  fifths  of  the  business  community 
around  him  to  become  opulent  1:  He 
must  remember  that  liis  neighbors  have 
sought  as  well  as  he,  and  in  a  propor- 
tion, too,  not  far  distant  from  what  I 
have  stated.  They  have  sought,  and 
had  as  good  a  right  to  succeed,  as  he 
had.  Would  it  be  well  that  so  general 
an  expectation  of  fortune  should  be 
gratified  ?  Would  it  be  well  for  society, 
well  for  the  world  ?  Only  carry  tlie  sup- 
position a  little  further  ;  only  suppose 
fhe  whole  world  to  acquire  wealth  ; 
only  suppose  it  were  possible  that  the 
present  generation  could  lay  up  a  com- 
plete provision  for  the  next,  as  some 
men  desire  to  do  for  their  children  ;  and 
you  destroy  the  world  at  a  single  blow. 
All  industry  would  cease  with  the  neces- 
sity for  It;  all  improvement  would  stop 
with  the  demand  for  exertion  ;  the  dissi- 
pation of  fortunes,  whose  mischiefs  are 
now  countervailed  by  the  healthful  tone 
of  society,  would  then  breed  universal 
disease,  and  break  out  into  universal 
license  ;  and  the  world  would  sink  into 
the  grave  of  its  own  loathsome  vices. 

But  let  us  look  more  closely,  for  a 
moment,  at  the  general  effect  of  wealth 
upon  individuals  and  upon  nations. 

I  am  obliged,  then,  to  regard  with 
considerable  distrust  the  influence  of 
wealth  upon  individuals.  I  know  that 
it  is  a  mere  instrument,  which  may  be 
converted  io  good  or  to  bad  ends.     I 


2/8 


ON   COMMERCE   AND   BUSINESS. 


know  that  it  is  often  used  for  good 
ends.  But  I  more  than  doubt  whether 
the  chances  lean  that  way.  Indepen- 
dence and  luxury  are  not  likely  to  be 
good  for  any  man.  Leisure  and  luxury 
are  almost  always  bad  for  every  man. 
I  know  that  there  are  noble  exceptions. 
But  I  have  seett  so  much  of  the  evil 
effect  of  wealth  upon  the  mind,  —  mak- 
ing it  proud,  haughty,  and  impatient, 
robbing  it  of  its  simplicity,  modesty, 
and  humility,  bereaving  it  of  its  large 
and  gentle  and  considerate  humanity  ; 
and  I  have  hea?d  such  testimonies,  such 
astonishing  testimonies,  to  the  same  ef- 
fect, from  those  whose  professional 
business  it  is  to  settle  and  adjust  the 
affairs  of  large  estates,  that  I  more  and 
more  distrust  its  boasted  advantages.  I 
deny  the  validity  of  that  boast.  In 
truth,  I  am  sick  of  the  world's  admira- 
tion of  wealth.  Almost  all  the  noblest 
things  that  have  been  achieved  in  the 
world,  have  been  achieved  by  poor  men : 
poor  scholars  and  professional  men ; 
poor  artisans  and  artists  ;  poor  philoso- 
phers, and  poets,  and  men  of  genius. 

It  does  appear  to  me  that  there  is 
a  certain  staidness  and  sobriety,  a  cer- 
tain moderation  and  restraint,  a  certain 
pressure  of  circumstances,  that  is  good 
for  man.  His  body  was  not  made  for 
luxuries ;  it  sickens,  sinks,  and  dies, 
under  them.  His  mind  was  not  made 
for  indulgence  ;  it  grows  weak,  effemi- 
nate, and  dwarfish,  under  that  condition. 
It  is  good  for  us  to  bear  the  yoke  ;  and 
it  is  especially  good  to  bear  the  yoke  in 
our  youth.  I  am  persuaded  that  many 
children  are  injured  by  too  much  atten- 
tion, too  much  care  ;  by  too  many  ser- 
vants at  home,  too  many  lessons  at 
school,  too  many  indulgences  in  soci- 
ety. They  are  not  left  sufficiently  to 
exert  their  own  powers,  to  invent  their 
own  amusements,  to  make  their  own 
way.  They  are  often  inefficient  and  un- 
happy, they  lack  ingenuity  and  energy, 
because  they  are  taken  out  of  the  school 
of  providence,  and  placed  in  one  which 
our  own  foolish  fondness  and  pride 
have  built  for  them.     Wealth,  without 


a  law  of  entail  to  help  it,  has  always 
lacked  the  energy  even  to  keep  its  own 
treasures.  They  drop  from  its  imbecile 
hand.  What  an  extraordinary  revolu- 
tion in  domestic  life  is  that  which,  in 
this  respect,  is  presented  to  us  all  over 
the  world  !  A  man,  trained  in  the  school 
of  industry  and  frugality,  acquires  a 
large  estate.  His  children,  possibly, 
keep  it.  But  the  third  generation  al- 
most inevitably  goes  down  the  rolling 
wheel  of  fortune,  and  ihei-e  learns  the 
energy  necessary  to  rise  again.  And 
yet  we  are,  almost  all  of  us,  anxious  to 
put  our  children,  or  to  insure  that  our 
grandchildren  shall  be  put,  on  this  road 
to  indulgence,  luxury,  vice,  degradation, 
and  ruin  ! 

This  excessive  desire  and  admiration 
for  wealth  is  one  of  the  worst  traits  in 
our  modern  civilization.  We  are,  if  I 
may  say  so,  in  an  unfortunate  dilemma 
in  this  matter.  Our  political  civilization 
has  opened  the  way  for  multitudes  to 
wealth,  and  created  an  insatiable  desire 
for  it ;  but  our  mental  civilization  has  not 
gone  far  enough  to  make  a  right  use  of 
it.  If  wealth  were  employed  in  promot- 
ing mental  culture  at  home  and  works 
of  philanthropy  abroad  ;  if  it  were  mul- 
tiplying studios  of  art,  and  building  up 
institutions  of  learning  around  us  ;  if  it 
were  every  way  raising  the  intellectual 
and  moral  character  of  the  world,  —  there 
could  scarcely  be  too  much  of  it  But 
if  the  utmost  aim,  effort,  and  ambition 
of  wealth  be  to  procure  rich  furniture 
and  provide  costly  entertainments,  I  am 
inclined  to  say  that  there  could  scarcely 
be  too  little  of  it.  "  It  employs  the 
poor,"  do  I  hear  it  said  .^  Better  tiiat 
it  were  divided  \i\\\\  the  poor.  Willing  • 
enough,  am  I  that  it  should  be  in  few 
hands  if  they  will  use  it  nobly,  —  with 
temperate  self-restraint  and  wise  philan- 
thropy. But  on  no  other  condition  will 
I  admit  that  it  is  a  good,  either  for  its 
possessors  or  for  anybody  else.  I  do 
not  deny  that  it  may  lawfully  be,  to  a 
certain  extent,  the  minister  of  elegan- 
cies and  luxuries,  and  the  handmaid  of 
hospitality  and  physical  enjoyment  ;  but 


PHI    BETA   KAPPA   ORATION. 


279 


this  I  say,  that  just  in  such  proportion 
as  its  tendencies,  divested  of  all  higlier 
aims  and  tastes,  are  running  that  way, 
are  they  running  to  evil  and  to  peril. 

That  peril,  moreover,  does  not  attach 
to  individuals  and  families  alone  ;  but 
it  stands,  a  fearful  beacon,  in  the  experi- 
ence of  cities  and  empires.  The  lessons 
of  past  times,  on  this  subject,  are  em- 
phatic and  solemn.  I  undertake  to  say 
that  the  history  of  wealth  has  always 
been  a  history  of  corruption  and  down- 
fall. The  people  never  existed  that 
could  stand  the  trial. 

Boundless  profusion — alas!  for  hu- 
manity—  is  too  little  likely  to  spread  for 
any  people  the  theatre  of  manly  energy, 
rigid  self-denial,  and  lofty  virtue.  Where 
is  the  bone  and  sinew  and  strength  of  a 
country  ?  Where  do  you  expect  to  find 
its  loftiest  talents  and  virtues  ?  Where, 
its  martyrs  to  patriotism  or  religion.'' 
Where  are  the  men  to  meet  the  days 
of  peril  and  disaster .''  Do  you  look  for 
them  among  the  children  of  ease  and 
indulgence  and  luxury  ? 

All  history  answers.  In  the  great 
march  of  the  races  of  men  over  the 
earth,  we  have  always  seen  opulence 
and  luxury  sinking  before  poverty  and 
toil  and  hardy  nurture.     It  is  the  very 


law  that  has  presided  over  the  great 
processions  of  empire.  Sidon  and  Tyre, 
whose  merchants  possessed  the  wealth 
of  princes  ;  Babylon  and  Palmyra,  the 
seats  of  Asiatic  luxury;  Rome,  laden 
with  the  spoils  of  a  world,  overwhelmed 
by  her  own  vices  more  than  by  the  hosts 
of  her  enemies, —  all  these,  and  many 
more,  are  examples  of  the  destructive 
tendencies  of  iminense  and  unnatural 
accumulation.  No  lesson  in  history  is 
so  clear,  so  impressive,  as  this. 

I  trust,  indeed,  that  our  modern,  our 
Christian,  cities  and  kingdoms  are  to  be 
saved  from  such  disastrous  issues.  I 
trust  that,  by  the  appropriation  of  wealth 
less  to  purposes  of  private  gratification, 
and  more  to  purposes  of  Christian  phi- 
lanthropy and  public  .spirit,  we  are  to  be 
saved.  But  this  is  the  very  point  on 
which  I  insist.  Men  must  become  more 
generous  and  benevolent,  not  more  self- 
ish and  effeminate,  as  they  become 
more  rich,  or  the  history  of  modern 
wealth  will  follow  in  the  sad  train  of  all 
past  examples,  and  the  story  of  Ameri- 
can prosperity  and  of  English  opulence 
will  be  told  as  a  moral  in  empires  be- 
yond the  Rocky  Mountains,  or  in  the 
newly  discovered  continents  of  the  Asi- 
atic Seas. 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND    OCCASIONAL. 


XIV. 

AN  ORATION  DELIVERED  AT  CAM- 
BRIDGE, BEFORE  THE  SOCIETY 
OF  PHI  BETA  KAPPA,  AUGUST, 
1830. 

Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen: 

This  Society  was  formed  for  the  pro- 
motion, though  chiefly  by  an  indirect 
influence,  of  a  sound  and  healthful  lit- 
erature. And  the  use  of  this  anniver- 
sary festival  —  for  I  think  it  has  a  use, 
beyond  the  pleasure  that  it  brings  with 
it  —  is  to  strengthen  the  bonds   of  lit- 


erary duty  and  friendship  ;  to  rekindle 
the  fires  which,  separate  and  solitary, 
are  apt  to  die  away  ;  to  revive  that  zeal 
for  study,  which  is  too  liable  to  fail,  or 
to  falter  at  least,  in  its  struggle  with 
professional  cares.  From  the  midst  of 
those  cares,  from  the  labors  of  the  pul- 
pit, from  the  toils  of  the  bar,  from  the 
watchings  of  the  stck-room,  from  the 
weariness  of  the  teacher's  lorm,  our 
tribes  have  come  up  to  pay  the  annual 
offering,  and  keep  the  yearly  jubilee. 

What   are    the  principles   which,    on 
our  return  to  those  fields,  will    msure 


28o 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


us  the  most  successful  cultivation  of 
them?  What  is  the  true  science,  the 
rationale,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  thorough 
improvement  and  refinement?  What 
are  the  true  means  of  spreading  at  once 
weahh  and  beauty  over  the  paths  of 
literary  labor  ? 

For  the  wide  range  of  discussion 
which  this  question  opens  to  us,  I  shall 
select  two  views,  two  principles  of  in- 
tellectual culture  (this  is  my  general 
subject)— the  one  practical,  the  other 
theoretical ;  both  of  which  derive  ur- 
gent claims  to  attention,  as  I  think, 
from  the  character  of  the  literature  that 
is  prevalent  at  the  present  day,  and 
from  the  state  of  our  little  republic  of 
letters.  My  practical  principle  is,  that 
the  loftiest  attainments  of  the  mind  in 
every  sphere  of  its  exertion  are  imme- 
diately, —  much  as  the  original  tendency 
or  temperament  may  vary,  —  are  imme- 
diately the  fruit  of  nothing  but  the  deep- 
est study;  that,  for  instance,  the  great 
poet  and  the  great  artist,  as  well  as  the 
profound  metaphysician  or  astronomer, 
is  by  nothing  more  distinguished  than  by 
his  thorough  and  patient  application  ; 
that  natural  genius,  as  it  is  called,  ap- 
pears in  nothingelse,  and  is  nothing  else, 
but  the  power  of  application  ;  that  there 
is  no  great  excellence  without  great  la- 
bor ;  that  the  inspirations  of  the  muse 
are  as  truly  studies,  as  the  lucubrations 
of  philosophy.  In  other  words,  it  is  the 
deepest  soil  that  yields  not  only  the  rich- 
est fruits,  but  the  fairest  flowers  ;  it  is 
the  most  solid  body  which  is  not  only 
the  most  useful,  but  which  admits  of  the 
highest  polish  and  brilliancy  ;  it  is  the 
strongest  pinion  which  not  only  can  carry 
the  greatest  burden,  but  which  soars  to 
the  loftiest  flight. 

That  the  most  intense  study  is  neces- 
sary to  the  loftiest  attainments  in  every 
department,  whether  of  philosophy  or 
poetry,  of  science  or  imagination,  of  re- 
ality or  fiction,  of  judgment  or  taste, 
would  perhaps  be  best  made  to  appear, 
by  showing  the  strict  and  close  connec- 
tion there  is  between  them  ;  and  that 
there  is  such  a  connection,  is  indeed  my 


theoretical  principle.  To  some  sugges- 
tions on  these  subjects,  as  all  that  the 
present  occasion  permits,  —  to  some 
suggestions,  I  must  say,  rather  than 
discussions,  let  me  now  invite  your 
attention. 

My  position  then,  in  theory,  is,  that 
between  these  various  qualities  of  mind 
and  departments  of  literature,  of  which 
I  have  just  spoken,  there  is  no  incon- 
gruity, none  of  the  commonly  supposed 
warfare,  but  perfect  harmony.  These  ex- 
tremes, as  they  are  usually  considered, 
do  actually  meet  and  mingle  in  every 
perfect  mind  and  in  every  perfect  litera- 
ture. In  fact,  the  most  distinguishing 
trait  in  all  the  greatest  minds  of  the 
world,  the  pre-eminent  seal  of  genius 
upon  all  its  noblest  works,  has  been  this 
union  of  opposite  qualities  :  of  sense  and 
sprightliness,  of  philosophy  and  fancy, 
of  acuteness  and  invention. 

The  maxim  that  "  extremes  meet,'' 
has,  indeed,  been  commonly  received, 
and  too  often  exemplified  in  a  very  differ- 
ent sense.  The  too  constant  imperfec- 
tion of  our  own  experiments  in  the  science 
of  the  mind  has  nearly  overthrown  what 
in  theory  is  the  only  perfect  rule.  It  is 
true  that  metaphysical  speculation,  for 
instance,  when  it  goes  to  what  is  called 
an  extreme,  when  it  goes  beyond  fact, 
beyond  the  range  of  simple  induction, 
runs  into  transcendental  mysticism, 
and  is  at  war  with  plain  good  sense,  and 
tends  to  chill  the  fervor  of  fancy  and 
feehng.  The  hoary  wisdom  of  learning, 
too,  sometimes  verges  very  nearly  upon 
childish  pedantry ;  the  extreme  of  acute- 
ness sinks,  in  some  instances,  into  a 
trifling  and  petty  accuracy  about  details  ; 
and  extreme  good  sense  —  alas!  it  is 
sometimes  dull  and  unmeaning  as  non- 
sense. And  there  is  nothing,  indeed, 
that  IS  more  sure  to  become  vapid  and 
tedious,  than  the  incessant  even  though 
it  be  for  a  time  the  successful,  endeavor 
to  be  brilliant  and  sprightly ;  as  the 
agreeable  trifling  of  our  foreign  Month- 
lies has,  at  some  periods  of  their  history, 
strikingly  demonstrated.  Even  Cer- 
vantes is  often,  to  my  mind,  but  a  sorry 


PHI   BETA   KAPPA   ORATION. 


281 


jester,  in  the  overstrained  effort  at  per- 
petual wit ;  an  effort,  whose  occasional 
failure,  indeed,  argues  no  want  of  power, 
since  it  is  as  impossible  to  succeed  in 
it,  as  it  would  be  to  make  the  lightning, 
which  falls  in  transient  flashes  from  the 
cloud,  the  permanent  medium  of  vision. 

But  what  follows  from  these  instances 
in  the  history  of  the  human  mind  ?  Does 
it  follow,  that,  compatible  with  the  nature 
of  these  qualities,  there  can  be  too  much 
of  true  wisdom,  acuteness,  sense,  spright- 
hness,  or  wit?  Never.  The  truth  is, 
that  these  things  become  other  things 
when  they  go  too  far,  —  when,  in  the  bad 
sense,  they  go  to  extremes.  The  maxim, 
in  this  sense,  like  all  false  paradoxes, 
keeps  its  meaning  only  to  the  ear,  and 
breaks  it  to  the  judgment. 

It  may  be  said,  indeed,  with  sufficient 
accuracy,  perhaps,  for  common  parlance, 
and  when  speaking  of  common  men, 
that  such  an  one  is  a  man  of  strong 
sense,  but  has  not  a  particle  of  imagina- 
tion ;  that  another  dwells  in  a  world  of 
fiction  and  knows  nothing  of  reality,  is 
a  poet  and  knows  nothing  of  human  na- 
ture ;  and  some  harmless  people  may 
harmlessly  imagine  that  the  grand  mark 
of  intellectual  distinction  is  maudlin  sen- 
timent and  visionary  nonsense;  but  in 
the  severe  and  high  cultivation  of  the 
mind  it  is  necessary' to  set  up  a  different 
principle.  It  is  necessary  to  maintain 
that,  in  their  perfection,  the  noblest  qual- 
ities of  the  mind  meet  and  modify  each 
other.  They  may  go  to  their  utmost  ex- 
tent, they  may  go  to  their  extremes,  yet 
if  they  do  meet,  if  they  do  control  each 
other,  if  they  mingle  in  perfect  harmony, 
their  union  presents  us,  at  once,  with  the 
strongest  and  the  most  beautiful  forms 
of  intellectual  power.  So  that  the  se- 
verest sense  is  not  barely  compatible 
but  consonant  with  the  richest  fancy  ; 
so  that  genuine  logic  is  no  enemy  to  gen- 
uine poetry  :  so  that  perfect  wisdom  is 
identical  with  perfect  beauty. 

For  the  correctness  of  the  principle 
which  I  maintain,  I  appeal  now,  for  a 
moment,  to  the  philosophy  of  the  mind. 
The  questions  to  be  asked  here  are  very 


simple,  but  they  are  very  decisive.  What 
is  the  mind  ?  Is  it  not  one  intelligence  ? 
And  is  it  not  the  same  intelligence,  and 
no  other,  that  is  employed  in  every  intel- 
lectual effort,  and  in  every  department 
of  literature?  Is  not  that  intelligence,  I 
still  ask,  whether  it  builds  up  a  science 
or  an  art,  deals  with  theory  or  practice, 
constructs  a  problem  or  a  poem,  one  and 
the  same  thing  ?  Is  not  the  aliment  by 
which  the  mind  is  to  grow,  truth,  —  sim- 
ple, single,  harmonious,  divinely  accor- 
dant truth  ?  And  is  not  the  right  order 
in  which  its  faculties  are  to  rise  to  their 
highest  excellence,  that  of  perfect  propor- 
tion ?  And  must  not  all  disproportion 
among  its  powers  indicate  an  imperfect 
and  crude  development  ?  Furthermore, 
is  there  any  clashing  among  the  natural 
powers  of  the  mind  ?  Is  there  to  be 
found,  in  fact,  on  an  accurate  analysis, 
any  of  the  commonly  supposed  incongru- 
ity between  reason  and  fancy,  between 
the  judgment  and  the  imagination  ?  -What 
is  reason?  It  is  usually  defined  to  be 
the  power  of  comparing  our  ideas,  and 
of  discriminating  their  resemblances  and 
differences.  What  is  the  imagination  ? 
It  is  the  power  of  calling  up  at  will,  and 
assembling  congruous  ideas,  so  as  to 
form  harmonious  pictures.  These  pow- 
ers, then,  do  not  exist  in  a  state  of  war, 
but  of  perfect  alHance  with  each  other. 
They  Are  mutually  necessary  to  each 
other's  strength  and  perfection.  Fancy 
without  judgment  is  extravagance  and 
folly.  Judgment  without  fancy  is  unpro- 
ductive drudgery.  It  may  be  correct  as 
far  as  it  goes  ;  but  without  any  of  that 
power  called  fancy,  without  any  new  or 
extensive  combinations  of  thought,  with- 
out any  capability  of  stirring  from  the 
field  of  observation  immediately  before 
it,  the  judgment  does  not  go  far.  In  the 
habit  that  still  prevails  of  regarding  the 
mind  as  if  it  were  divided  into  distinct 
departments,  thought  and  feeling  are 
constantly  distinguished  as  if  they  were 
opposite  powers.  But  what  is  feeling  ? 
It  is  an  emotion  arising  from  the  per- 
ception of  some  object;  arising,  that 
is,  from,  or  rather  with,  some  thought. 


;82 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


Feeling,  then,  so  far  from  being  opposed 
to  thinking,  is  oftentimes  but  a  more 
vivid  and  intense  thinliing  ;  and  Pythag- 
oras, when  he  demonstrated  the  Forty- 
seventh  proposition,  and  offered  his 
hecatomb  in  thanksgiving  for  that  dis- 
covery, no  doaht/eli  as  strongly  as  Ho- 
mer, when  he  described  the  wrath  of 
Achilles,  or  the  tears  of  Andromache. 
Different  minds  possess  indeed  different 
capacities,  both  of  thought  and  feeling  ; 
but  with  this  qualification,  and  speaking, 
as  I  now  do,  not  of  animal  sensations, 
but  of  intellectual  states  of  mind,  I  say 
that  the  strong  feeling  is  the  strong 
thought. 

These  views,  simple  as  they  may 
seem,  form  the  best  argument,  per- 
haps, against  the  commonly  supposed 
incongruity  of  the  different  efforts  and 
productions  of  the  mind,  and  therefore 
I  have  been  willing  to  bring  tiiem  for- 
ward at  the  risk  of  wearying  my  audi- 
ence with  scholastic  statements.  The 
actual  results  in  literature  seem  to  me 
to  correspond  with  these  acknowledged 
elements  of  our  philosophy.  Suppos- 
ing a  certain  amount  of  talent,  an 
amount  sufficient  to  stand  in  the  trial 
for  literary  distinction  ;  and  then  I  say, 
that  the  reason  of  failure  is  always  to 
be  found  in  the  want,  either  of  the  due 
proportion,  or  of  the  due  exertion,  of 
the  faculties  of  the  mind.  The  whole 
history  of  literature  bears  me  out  in 
this  position.  How  many  poems,  for 
instance,  charged  and  overcharged  with 
imagination,  have  fallen  into  worse  than 
the  hated  and  fatal  mediocrity,  for  the 
want  of  a  sound  judgment !  How  many 
treatises,  on  the  contrary,  laden  and 
weighed  down  with  good  sense,  and 
much  learning  too,  have  sunk  to  ob- 
livion, because  there  was  no  kindling 
warmth  of  imagination  to  buoy  them 
up  and  bear  them  on  to  after  ages ! 
And  in  the  few  works  that  have  secured 
the  consenting  homage  of  all  countries 
and  of  all  times,  what  a  singular  union 
has  there  been  of  the  severest  sense 
with  the  most  brilliant  fancy  !  The  very 
idea,  that  these  are  warring  principles. 


shows,  that  in  general  they  have  not 
been  well  and  rightly  developed.  No 
doubt  the  imagination  may  be  cultivated 
and  perhaps  strengthened  at  the  expense 
of  the  judgment,  but  then  it  is  not  well 
cultivated.  And  we  see  the  judgment,  in 
certain  instances,  acquiring  vigor  at  the 
expense  of  the  imagination.  It  is  said 
to  be  so,  at  times,  in  the  pursuits  of  the 
law  and  of  the  mathematics.  But,  then, 
I  shall  venture  to  aver  that,  for  the 
whole  man,  the  judgment  is  not  well 
cultivated.  If  such  cultivation  is  a 
sacrifice,  on  the  part  of  the  individual, 
to  the  advancement  of  the  particular 
science  he  studies,  that  is  the  most  that 
can  be  said  of  it.  But  even  then,  it  is 
not  a  necessary  sacrifice,  as  there  are 
many  illustrious  instances  to  show. 
And  so  far  from  believing  that  any  of 
these  principles  are  bestowed,  as  natu- 
ral endowments  to  the  exclusion  of 
pthers,  I  undertake  to  say,  that  .  where- 
ever  there  is  a  powerful  imagination, 
there,  with  proper  culture,  might  be  a 
powerful  judgment,  and  the  contrary ; 
and  that  wherever  there  is  strong  feel- 
ing, there  might  be  strong  thinking. 
There  it  z's,  for  the  moment.  The 
strong  feeling  imphes  a  vivid  percep- 
tion of  its  object.  And  the  perception 
that  is  vivid  for  a  moment  may,  by 
sufficient  care,  become  habitually  keen, 
discriminating,  strong,  and  comprehen- 
sive. In  truth,  it  is  not  the  fanatic,  in 
religion  or  in  hterature,  that  feels  the 
most  strongly.  The  true  feeling,  as 
well  as  the  true  judgment,  is  deep, 
calm,  sustained,  and  thus  powerful. 

If  all  this  is  true,  we  are  prepared  to 
judge  what  connection  there  is  between 
profound  philosophy  and  poetry,  be- 
tween judgment  and  taste,  between  pro- 
found thought  and  a  fine  imagination. 
This  connection,  did  the  time  permit,  is 
capable  of  other  illustrations  from  the  . 
philosophy  of  the  mind.  For  it  might  be 
shown  that  those  departments  of  liter- 
ature which  have  now  been  named,  are 
not  only  co-ordinate  and  harmonious, 
but  that  each  imparts  a  distinct  and  sig- 
nal power  over  the  other.     It  might  be 


PHI   BETA  KAPPA   ORATION. 


283 


shown,  and  indeed  it  must  be  obvious, 
that  lie  who  understands  the  philosophy 
of  the  mind  is,  for  that  reason,  better 
prepared  to  address  the  mind  ;  that 
he  who  understands  the  philosophy  of 
poetry,  of  its  subjects,  of  its  machinery, 
its  figures,  its  appropriate  thoughts  and 
feehngs,  will  possess  advantages  in  that 
knowledge  ;  that  his  taste,  too,  will  be 
1  etter,  who  has  studied  its  principles  ; 
that  his  fiction  will  be  better,  who  is 
most  familiar  with  reality.  It  is  true, 
tiiat  a  man  without  these  aids  may 
blunder  into  the  right  path  ;  or  he  may 
be  carried  into  it  by  the  strong  impulse 
of  genius  ;  by  a  philosophy,  in  fact, 
which  he  has  not  analyzed.  For  the 
guidance  here  is  not  instinct :  that  is 
heaven's  guidance,  and  is  always  safe. 
While  the  whole  history  of  criticism 
shows,  that  genius,  even  of  the  noblest 
order,  has  always  been  committing  the 
most  deplorable  errors  for  the  want  of 
knowledge. 

If,  Gentlemen,  I  am  stating  new  doc- 
trines, I  may  be  permitted,  at  least  to 
desire  that  they  be  not  misunderstood. 
I  do  not  deny,  that  in  different  indi- 
viduals the  various  faculties  of  the  mind 
exist  in  great  disproportion  to  each 
other;  that  in  some  the  imagination 
is  stronger  than  the  judgment,  and  that 
in  others  the  reverse  is  manifest  ;  but 
I  do  deny  the  necessity  of  any  such  dis- 
proportion, and  maintain  that  the  great- 
est failures  of  really  lofty  talent  have 
arisen  from  this  very  incongruity.  I 
do  not  deny  that  diiTerent  writers,  and 
more  especially  in  the  present  state  of 
intellectual  cultivation,  are  particularly 
qualified  for  different  departments  of 
literary  labor  ;  but  I  maintain  that  to 
tile  perfection  of  each  of  these  depart- 
ments all  the  faculties  must  harmoni- 
ously contribute  :  that  poetry  as  truly 
requires  judgment  as  imagination;  and 
that  philosophy  as  truly  requires  imagi- 
nation as  judgment.  1  scarcely  need 
except,  indeed,  the  mathematics  ;  pro- 
duct of  pure  reason  as  it- is  commonly 
thought  to  be.  It  would  have  failed  of 
many  of  its  interesting  applications  ;   it 


would  have  stopped  short  of  its  bound- 
less range  amidst  the  pathways  of  heav- 
en, but  for  the  prompting  and  guidance 
of  imagination.  I  say,  therefore,  that 
for  rearing  up  the  intellectual  man,  for 
raising  the  noblest  forms  of  intellectual 
production,  every  faculty  of  the  soul 
must  do  its  part ;  and  not  only  so,  but 
that  every  power  must  labor  ;  that  fancy 
is  a  working  faculty  as  truly  as  reason. 
This,  indeed,  is  the  practical  principle 
which  I  have  already  stated,  and  which 
I  shall  now  undertake  to  defend.  The 
denial  of  it  has  commonly  appeared  in 
the  form  which  my  language  has  just 
implied  ;  in  the  exemption,  that  is  to 
say,  of  certain  powers,  such  as  fancy, 
taste,  genius,  &c.,  from  the  necessity  of 
study.  No  popular  error  in  literature, 
I  conceive,  is  deeper  or  more  injurious 
than  this.  To  counteract  this  ;  to  show 
the  universal  necessity  of  study,  of  a 
thorough  and  patient  application  of 
mind,  in  every  department  of  litera- 
ture ;  to  bring  all  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties under  the  one  grand  condition  of 
improving  by  exercise,  I  have  thought 
it  not  irrelevant  to  insist,  briefly  as  I 
have,  on  the  congruity  which  exists 
among  them  all.  Let  me  not,  how- 
ever, be  understood  to  say,  for  I  do  not 
and  shall  not  say,  that  study,  formal 
study,  can  compensate  for  all  defects 
of  original  genius,  or  that  there  are  no 
differences  of  natural  endowment,  for 
they  certainly  are  great ;  but  this  I 
maintain,  that,  let  the  original  power 
be  what  it  may,  without  strong  and 
fixed  application,  formal  or  informal, 
seen  or  unseen,  with  books  or  without 
them,  that  power  can  produce  nothing 
that  will  live,  or  is  worthy  to  live.  In- 
deed, I  might  say,  that  without  such 
study  there  is  neither  fruit  nor  evidence 
of  high  natural  endowment.  I  will  only 
further  premise,  that  in  my  remarks  on 
the  value  and  importance  of  study  I 
shall  solicit  your  indulgence  to  a  pretty 
free  range  of  topics,  and  that  I  shall 
occupy  the  passing  hour,  not  so  much 
with  an  abstract  discussion  of  the  prin- 
ciple I  contend  for,  as  with  strictures  on 


284 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


some  of  those  circumstances  of  our  in- 
tellectual condition,  and  some  of  those 
opinions  in  the  literary  world,  which  are 
unfriendly  to  severe  and  thorough  men- 
tal culture  and  application. 

From  that  fair  proportion  of  the  mind 
of  which  I  have  spoken,  from  the  severe 
old  models  of  united  strength  and  grace, 
and,  more  than  all,  from  the  study  neces- 
sary to  the  imitation  of  them,  I  appre- 
hend, it  is  the  tendency  of  much  of  our 
modern  literature,  as  well  as  of  many 
maxims  among  us,  to  depart.  And  the 
peculiar  situation  of  scholars  in  this  coun- 
try, or  of  those  who  should  be  scholars, 
is  lending  its  aid  to  the  same  result.  I 
venture  to  say,  of  those  who  should  be 
scholars  ;  for  the  truth  is,  that  we  are, 
so  many  of  us,  men  of  business  and 
men  of  action  rather  than  of  study,  and 
there  is  as  yet  so  little  division  of  intel- 
lectual labor  among  us,  that  superficial 
acquisitions,  and  vague  pursuits,  and 
negligent  habits  of  mind,  are  our  great- 
est dangers. 

But  I  must  undertake  more  particu- 
larly to  point  out  some  of  the  causes  that 
are  leading  to  this  result  ;  that  are  lead- 
ing many,  certainly,  to  a  neglect  of  hard 
study,  and  to  a  disproportioned  and 
defective  culture  of  the  mind.  As  one  of 
these  causes,  I  was  speaking  of  the  gen- 
eral tendencies  of  our  modern  literature. 

It  is  often  said  that  the  present  age 
Is  characterized  by  a  strong  thirst  for 
excitement.  Is  it  a  craving  for  excite- 
ment,—  or  is  it  that  somewhat  less 
respectable  characteristic,  a  craving  for 
entertainment,  that  marks  the  age  ? 
There  is  no  occasion,  however,  to  set 
them  up  as  rival  passions  ;  being,  as 
they  doubtless  are,  but  different  degrees 
of  the  same  passion.  They  are  not 
stronger,  probably,  than  they  have  al- 
ways been,  among  nations  of  the  Euro- 
pean stock  ;  than  they  were  amidst  '•  the 
fierce  democracy  "  of  Greece,  the  stern 
Roman  delight  in  gladiatorial  shows,  or 
amidst  the  chivalry  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
But  the  observation,  which  is  of  impor- 
tance, is  this  ;  that  while  the  world  is 
becoming  more  civilized,  more  intellec- 


tual, and  more  addicted  to  peaceful  pur- 
suits, both  of  these  passions,  the  thirst 
for  excitement  and  the  thirst  for  enter- 
tainment, are  making  demands  upon  lit- 
erature, such  as  they  have  never  made 
at  any  former  period.  The  spread  of, 
education  is  bringing  forward  a  host  of 
readers  ;  the  art  of  printing  is  provid- 
ing them  with  books ;  and  the  gradual 
disuse  of  public  sports  and  spectacles, 
the  decline  of  fetes  and  tournaments, 
the  departure  from  the  public  eye  of  the 
"pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious 
war,"  are  carrying  home  the  want  of 
entertainment  to  millions  of  peaceful 
firesides. 

This  state  of  things  is  creating  a  new 
era  in  literature.  Books,  to  an  extent 
before  unprecedented,  are  becoming  lux- 
uries ;  and  these  luxuries  are  having  the 
usual  effect  when  substituted  in  the  place 
of  substantial  food  ;  they  are  making  men 
effeminate;  they  are  making  effeminate 
scholars.  It  is  true,  that  many  of  the 
great  productions  of  antiquity  were  de- 
signed for  the  people  ;  but  few  of  them 
for  their  entertainment ;  and  none,  that 
I  remember,  for  the  idle  or  weary  hours 
of  domestic  relaxation.  They  were  de- 
signed for  the  people  ;  but  still  for  the 
assembled  people,  for  the  eager  throng 
of  the  forum,  of  the  Centuries,  of  the 
Olympic  games,  or  of  the  theatre;  and 
the  theatre  too,  it  is  to  be  remembered, 
was  a  school  of  far  severer  morals  and 
more  pointed  satire,  than  our  own.  In 
one  form  or  another,  the  great  public 
was  ever  before  the  eyes  of  the  ancient 
popular  writers.  What  they  wrote  for 
the  people  at  all,  was  designed  for  pop- 
ular, not  for  private  use.  And,  inspired 
as  their  productions  were  by  this  stirring 
sense  of  general  interests,  and  by  the 
anticipated  and  immediate  verdict,  upon 
their  claims,  of  great  assemblies,  they 
are  of  a  character  not  to  enervate,  but 
to  arouse  and  strengthen  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  Literature,  in  modern  times,  is 
domesticated.  It  is  converted,  indeed, 
to  a  most  important  use  ;  but  it  is  pass- 
ing, too,  by  the  ordinary  process  of  refine- 
i  ment,  from  use  to  luxury. 


PHI    BETA   KAPPA   ORATION. 


285 


r 


Tlie  immediate  effects  of  that  great 
change,  which  the  spread  of  education 
and  the  development  of  new  social  wants 
are  creating,  of  that  change  which  has 
substituted  a  reading  for  a  hearing  pub- 
lic, and  the  lounger  at  the  fireside  for 
the  agitated  assembly,  —  the  immediate 
effects,  I  say,  are  sufficiently  obvious. 
The  remote  consequences  may  not  be  so 
n'n'ious,  but  they  are  no  less  certain. 

The  first  effect  is  to  lower  the  style 
of  literary  composition,  and  to  render 
the  standard  more  vague  and  uncertain. 
The  style  is  to  be  read.  It  may,  there- 
fore, be  negligent  and  irregular  at  less 
hazard.  The  sentence  that  is  not  clear 
on  the  first  reading,  may  be  read  again  ; 
and  if,  as  is  not  uncommon,  it  requires  a 
third  reading,  the  author  is  not  present 
to  receive  the  salutary  tokens  of  the 
displeasure  or  vexation  he  causes.  The 
standard,  too,  becomes  vague  from  the 
extension  and  variety  of  the  audience  to 
be  addressed.  There  is  no  one  public^ 
of  grave  Romans  or  acute  Athenians, 
where  an  author's  rivals  were  ready  to 
note  him,  and  the  common  people  were 
critics  ;  but  his  style  takes  its  chance  for 
praise  or  censure  among  all  the  reading 
families  of  an  empire.  Hence,  if  it  is  not, 
in  fact,  more  difficult  to  tell  what  good 
English  is,  than  to  decide  the  same  point 
in  the  ancient  languages,  it  is  at  any  rate 
more  difficult  to  check  the  aberrations  of 
literary  pretension  and  vanity. 

The  next  effect  of  the  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  intellectual  and 
social  condition  of  the  world  is  the 
prodigious  multiplication  of  books  of 
entertainment  for  the  people.  We  are 
deluged  with  works  of  this  class  ;  and 
the  passing  tide  bears  us,  every  day,  not 
only  new  productions,  but  new  forms  of 
literary  production.  It  would  be  a  very 
serious  task  to  master  even  the  literature 
of  the  Annuals.  Meanwhile  periodical 
publications  crowd  upon  us,  keeping 
pace  with  every  division  of  time  but 
hours  and  minutes  (for  even  the  news- 
papers grow  learned),  filling  all  the 
spaces  not  occupied  by  larger  trifles,  and 


(covering,  with  grievous  and  pertinacious 


disorder  and  disarray,  the  tables  that, 
fifty  years  ago,  were  pressed  only  by 
goodly  quartos  or  reverend  folios.  Se- 
riously, it  is  impossible  to  keep  up  with 
the  literature  of  the  day,  without  losing 
sight  of  things  far  more  important.  Pro- 
fessional duties  must  be  attended  to  ; 
and  these  discharged,  the  contest  lies, 
with  many,  between  sound  learning  and 
trifling  entertainment. 

And  here  is  found  the  worst  effect  of 
all,  of  the  state  of  modern  literature  ; 
more  remote,  as  I  have  said,  but  not  less 
certain.  For  it  is  not  to  be  doubted 
that  many  fail  in  that  contest  ;  that  many, 
who  might  and  should  be  sound  scholars, 
become  mere  men  of  taste,  and  of  very 
superficial  taste,  too,  for  the  want  of  se- 
vere study  and  of  thorough  and  philo- 
sophical habits  of  mind.  If  I  do  not 
very  much  mistake  the  literary  signs  of 
the  times,  this  is  not  a  matter  of  mere 
groundless  apprehension.  It  is  not  only 
true  that  the  mighty  folios  of  former  days 
have  gone  out  of  fashion,  but  I  venture 
to  think  that  books  and  essays  of  the 
most  moderate  dimensions,  that  require 
profound  attention,  stand  less  chance 
in  the  competition  with  lighter  works, 
than  they  once  did. 

It  shall  be  allowed  that  there  have 
been  great  temptations.  The  muse  of 
fiction,  it  is  true,  has  laid  aside  some 
of  her  enchantments  and  sorceries  ;  but 
she  has  clothed  herself  in  the  sober  liv- 
ery of  history,  and  no  one  fears  her ;  she 
has  clothed  herself  with  immortal  genius 
and  beauty,  and  no  one  can  resist  her. 
She  has  become  no  less  powerful,  and 
far  more  wise.  It  is  this  that  has  carried 
the  works  of  the  mighty  Magician,  and 
with  them  a  multitude  of  humbler  friends, 
into  universal  society.  For  that  master- 
spirit has  proved  himself  a  magician  in  a 
wider  sense  than  that  of  having  enchant- 
ed his  individual  readers  ;  he  has  given 
a  bias  to  the  whole  reading  of  the  age. 
The  novel-reading  of  former  days  was, 
comparatively,  a  lady's  luxury;  it  is  now 
the  business  of  men  ;  it  is  one  of  the 
great  employments  of  society;  it  is  in- 
vading the  department  of  the  scholar's 


L 


286 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


labors.  The  novel  is  no  longer  "  a  book 
of  the  boudoir, "  but  it  is  a  book  of  the 
study.  That  long  and  lengthening  series 
of  volumes  in  our  libraries,  marked  Wa- 
verley,  though  it  may  be  high  up  in  the 
pile,  threatens  insecurity  to  the  whole 
fabric. 

This  influence  of  the  literature  of  the 
day  to  beguile  us  from  deep  study  and 
profound  thought,  is  not  left  to  operate 
by  itself,  but  we  have  sundry  clever  and 
convenient  maxims  to  help  it  on.  The 
prevailing  ideas  of  originality  of  thought, 
of  imagination,  of  poetry,  of  eloquence, 
of  fine  writing,  and  of  study  itself,  lean, 
as  I  think,  to  this  injurious  result. 

I  say,  in  the  first  place,  of  study  it- 
self, —  of  the  very  business  of  mental 
culture.  And  speaking  on  this  point  and 
going  to  the  primary  deficiency,  I  venture 
to  question  whether  the  very  ideas  of 
intellectual  improvement,  even  among 
thinking  men,  do  not  fall  farther  short  of 
the  thoroughness  and  consistency  of  a  real 
system  and  science  than  any  other  ideas 
that  prevail  among  us.  I  put  it  to  the 
scholars  who  hear  me,  with  all  deference, 
how  far  they  have  settled  within  thern- 
selves  the  plan,  so  to  speak,  of  what  they 
will  be,  or  will  attempt, — nay,  whether, 
in  fact,  the  indistinct  conceptions  which 
are  commonly  entertained  are  not  as 
wavering  and  fluctuating  as  they  are  ill 
defined.  The  idea  of  a  perfect  man,  upon 
which  Cicero  so  often  and  eloquently 
discourses,  under  the  name  of  the  orator, 
seems  scarcely  to  have  any  place  among 
our  modern  speculations.  He  was  to 
be  not  a  philosopher  only,  not  a  math- 
ematician, nor  a  student  of  history,  nor 
an  amateur  in  the  arts,  nor  a  poet,  nor  a 
good  man  (yea,  and  a  pious  man),  only; 
but  he  was  to  be  all  of  them  in  one;  and 
so  trained  in  all  his  faculties,  that  when 
he  put  forth  their  united  effort,  that  ef- 
fort should  be  expressed  by  nothing  but 
the  Demosthenic  word,  action,  —  concen- 
trated, intense,  all-powerful  action  ! 

It  may  be  said  that  the  extent  of  mod- 
ern science,  and  the  multiplicity  of  its 
details,  absolutely  require  a  division 
of   intellectual   labor,  inconsistent  with 


Cicero's  description  of  a  perfect  man. 
I  am  not  about  to  enter  upon  the  discus- 
sion of  a  topic  so  extensive.  But  this 
at  least  may  be  said,  that  there  are  living 
instances  of  all  that  extent  and  variety 
of  attainment  which  his  description  re- 
quires; instances,  too,  in  which  all  this, 
instead  of  distracting  or  diverting  the 
mind,  contributes  in  fact  to  its  pre-emi- 
nence in  some  one  department ,  and  this, 
for  all  professional  men  at  least,  is  the 
true  division  of  intellectual  labor. 

But,  not  to  dwell  upon  this  point,  con- 
cerning which  perhaps  it  does  not  be- 
come me  to  pronounce,  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  the  most  thorough  and 
powerful  principles  are  yet  fairly  and 
prominently  enough  introduced  into  our 
systems  for  improving  the  mind.  I  say 
nothing  of  studying  sixteen  hours  a  day; 
sixteen  hours  a  day  !  for  fifty  years,  and 
then  finding  a  fresh  and  vigorous  old 
age:  an  achievement  to  be  looked  for 
in  the  moon  —  or  in  Germany!  I  say 
nothing  of  the  vaunted  practical  spirit 
of  the  age,  whose  wisdom  seems  to  con- 
sist in  overlooking  all  necessary  means, 
all  previous  training,  to  spring  to  the 
end.  I  say  nothing  of  the  imperfect 
courses  of  education  with  which  many 
of  our  youth  are  obliged  to  be  content, 
or  to  which  at  least  they  are  obliged  to 
confine  themselves.  But  what  are  the 
grand  impulses  and  projects  offered  to 
those  who  have  the  best  opportunities? 
We  are  laboring  hard  at  the  mind  ;  and 
the  main  lever, — •  I  should  not  complain 
if  it  were  only  an  auxiliary  power, —  but 
the  main  lever  with  which  we  are  striving 
to  raise  it  up  is  ambition,  and  ambition, 
too,  for  immediate  display  and  distinc- 
tion. This  is  the  grand  principle  in 
almost  all  our  schools.  We  are  working 
with  this  convenient  and  ready  but  com- 
paratively gross  and  clumsy  instrument, 
rather  than  inspiring  the  soul  with  those 
principles  and  bringing  forth  from  within 
it  that  development  by  which  it  will  rise, 
irresistibly  rise,  of  \tseli  With  the  Greek 
and  Roman  systems  of  moral  teaching, 
ambition  was  the  only  principle,  perhaps, 
that  could  be  relied  on.     But  wnh  oui 


PHI   BETA   KAPPA   ORATION. 


287 


systems,  with  the  simple  and  subh'me 
precepts  of  Christianity,  with  the  solemn 
revelation  of  a  future  life,  that  pours  con- 
tempt upon  all  human  pride,  the  selfish 
love  of  distinction,  in  all  noble  minds,  is 
deprived  of  more  than  half  its  vigor ;  and 
when  the  whole  weight  is  leaned  upon  it, 
it  is  found  to  be  a  reed,  that  is  constantly 
wavering  and  swaying  beneath  us. 

Observe,  also,  how  cautiously  religion, 
the  strongest  impulse  in  the  human 
soul,  is  excluded  from  the  paths  of  our 
literature;  how  little  our  literary  men 
have  been  taught  to  draw  from  that 
deepest  fountain  of  human  nature  ;  how 
little  our  scholars,  those  minds  that 
should  bear  the  brightest  impress  of  the 
Divinity,  —  how  little  they  have  felt 
themselves,  as  scholars,  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  religion  !  Observe  how  staid 
and  precise  an  air  it  has  worn,  when  it 
has  entered  one  of  our  literary  Reviews; 
not  Puritanism  was  ever  more  precise ; 
it  has  been  a  scholastic  dignitary,  or  a 
fine  gentleman,  decent,  decorous,  super- 
ficial, cold.  Thus,  too,  has  it  passed 
through  almost  the  entire  range  of  our 
classic  English  literature.  Even  of  Ad- 
dison, Soame  Jenyns  has  somewhere 
said,  with  too  much  justice,  that  he 
seemed  to  regard  the  Supreme  Being 
with  an  awe  as  vague  and  indefinite  as 
that  with  which  a  child  gazes  upon  the 
mighty  elephant.  Even  our  great  mor- 
alist, as  it  has  been  said,  when  Mr.  Bos- 
well  urged  upon  him  some  of  the  deeper 
and  more  anxious  questionings  of  the 
human  heart  on  the  subject  of  religion, 
had  nothing  to  say,  but,  "  My  dear  sir, 
keep  your  mind  free  from  cant."  We 
may  not  say,  perhaps,  that  our  literature 
is  singularly  irreligious  ;  but  it  certainly 
is,  taken  as  a  body,  singularly  deficient 
in  the  depth  and  power  that  belong  to 
that  sentiment. 

I  cannot  altogether  join  in  a  similar 
charge,  which  is  now  somewhat  famil- 
iarly brought  against  our  intellectual 
philosophy.  I  should  be  glad,  at  least, 
to  understand  Kant  and  Coleridge, 
before  I  can  agree  to  it.  I  should  be 
glad  to  understand  that  some  of  their 


language  has  any  meaning,  or  any  that 
answers  to  the  mystical  depths  of  their 
phraseology.  And,  indeed,  so  much  of 
simple  and  of  glorious  truth  do  I  find  in 
the  transcendental  school,  that  it  would 
be  far  easier  to  be  reconciled  to  its 
doctrines,  than  to  the  absurd  language 
in  which  their  advocates  have  seen  fit 
to  clothe  them. 

But,  after  all,  what  chance  there  is 
for  a  thorough  philosophy,  in  the  ten- 
dencies of  our  English  literature  at  the 
present  day,  is  a  doubtful  point.  The 
good  old  times,  when  men  sat  down 
amidst  comparatively  few  books  to  think 
for  themselves,  seem  to  be  giving  place 
to  days  of  multifarious  and  monstrous 
reading.  I  look  in  vain  in  England  for 
patient  thinkers  like  Bacon  and  Locke 
and  Tucker  and  Reid  ;  and  I  know  not 
precisely  where  we  are  to  look,  among 
ourselves,  for  men  like  Edwards  and 
his  school  of  metaphysical  divines. 

Indeed,  in  almost  every  department 
there  is  too  little  of  that  patient  and 
thorough  cultivation  which  measures 
years  in  its  plan,  before  it  proposes  to 
come  to  its  finished  result.  It  is  a 
striking  remark  of  D^g^rando,  that 
"  the  extraordinary  most  generally  have 
sacrificed  some  condition  essential  to 
future  progress."  It  is  worth  the  con'^ 
sideration  of  eminent  men,  how  far 
their  distinction  may  be  procured  at 
this  sacrifice,  or  may  be  liable  to  bring 
about  this  result  in  the  progress  of  their 
future  being  ;  how  far  the  cultivation 
of  some  powers  may  have  been  carried 
on,  to  the  neglect  of  others,  or  of  their 
whole  intellectu  d  and  moral  nature.  J 
Be  this  as  it  may,  —  and  it  is  not  neces- 
sary, as  I  have  undertaken  to  show,  —  it 
is  certain  that  in  the  youthful  student  a 
diseased  and  superficial  ambition,  eager 
for  display,  anxious  to  be  known,  pant- 
ing for  distinction  rather  than  for  excel- 
lence, seeking  for  manifestation  rather 
than  for  development,  urging  itself,  — ■ 
not  urged  from  within,  —  but  urging 
itself  on,  with  a  premature  and  feverish 
excitement;  that  such  an  ambition.  1 
say,  is  making  fatal  sacrifices  of  future 


288 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


merit,  and  .distinction  also,  to  present 
notoriety.  It  is  painful  to  see  the  dis- 
position of  so  large  a  portion  of  the 
early  and  promising  talent  among  us, 
to  rely  upon  its  present  attainments  or 
its  hasty  efforts,  to  rely  upon  the  ready 
coin  which  it  bears  about  with  it,  rather 
than  patiently  to  cultivate  the  deep 
mine  within  ;  and  were  it  not  for  the 
salutary  admonition  afforded  us,  it  would 
be  yet  more  painful  to  behold  its  brief, 
spendthrift  career  and  final  poverty. 

In  short,  the  very  first  article,  in  a 
sound  literary  creed,  is  but  half  believed 
among  us  ;  and  this  scepticism  vitiates 
all  our  faith.  We  believe  in  genius, 
and  eloquence,  and  poetry  ;  we  believe 
in  glorious  thoughts,  and  intellectual 
inspirations,  and  visions  of  beauty;  but 
we  do  not  believe  in  —  Study  ;  and  we 
do  but  half  believe  in  truth.  "  Truth  !  ' 
says  the  sceptic  sage,  "  it  is  a  very 
dangerous  thing."  —  "  Truth  !  "  says  the 
small,  practical  philosopher,  "  what  is 
truth  good  for,  if  it  will  not  give  us 
a  warmer  hearth,  or  a  more  plentiful 
board  ?"  In  short,  utility,  we  are  told, 
is  taking  such  a  lead  in  the  affairs  of 
mankind,  that  the  world  must  grow 
intellectually  dull,  tame,  and  spiritless  ; 
it  is  getting  to  be  too  cultivated  for 
poetry,  too  comfortable  for  eloquence, 
too  busy  for  literature,  and  too  sharp- 
sighted  for  faith.  All  its  nobler  pro- 
ductions, it  is  said,  must  decline  amidst 
this  grand  modern  improvement ;  and 
the  world  must  henceforth  be  governed, 
not  by  mind,  but  by  machinery  ;  it  is  no 
longer  to  seek  for  truth,  — painful  toil !  — 
but  for  comfort.  Whatever  will  pro- 
mote this  —  sciences  or  arts,  govern- 
ments or  manufactories,  railways  or 
books,  no  matter  what,  that  tends  to  this 
result  —  is  to  engross  the  future  atten- 
tion of  mankind. 

"  We  run,  alas !  after  truth,"  said 
Voltaire,  long  ago ;  '■  ah  !  believe  me, 
error  has  its  value."  That  is  the  real 
and  infidel  text,  from  which  all  this  fine 
doctrine  is  derived  ;  for  the  old  French 
philosophy  was  as  infidel  with  regard 
to   what  is  human,  as   with   regard  to 


what  is  divine.  And  even  Mr.  Burke 
may  be  quoted  for  the  observation,  that 
"  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination  are 
much  higher  than  any  which' are  derived 
from  a  rectitude  of  the  judgment,"  as  if 
the  two  qualities  were  inconsistent  with 
each  other.  And  we  have  the  prover- 
bial authority  of  Dr.  Johnson  for  the 
declaration  (I  do  not  undertake  to  give 
his  words)  that  all  eloquence  is  founded 
on  extravagance.  And  a  lady,  who  has 
risen  to  the  dignity  of  being  the  author 
of  forty  volumes,  has,  not  long  since, 
told  us,  that,  for  her  own  sex  at  least, 
intuition  is  better  than  reasoning.  And 
our  poets  have  ever  been  singing  of  the 
charm  and  rapture  of  youthful  fancy ; 
leaving  it  to  be  inferred  that  riper  years 
and  sounder  judgment  must  chill  and 
quench  its  fervors,  instead  of  guiding 
them  upward  to  an  increasing,  steady, 
noontide  strength  and  splendor.  And 
our  philosophers  have  decided  that  the 
favored  age  of  poetry  is  the  youth  of 
the  world  ;  as'  if  the  poems  of  Homer 
could  have  been  the  production  of  a  rude 
and  undisciplined  mind. 

But  let  us  collect  some  of  these  max- 
ims, that  have  long,  with  undefined 
shape  and  uncertain  tendency,  been 
floating  about  in  the  world,  and  put 
them  in  some  form,  and  place  them 
directly  before  us.  Let  us  examine 
some  of  those  qualities  and  efforts  of 
mind  which  are  commonly  thought  to 
be,  less  than  any  others,  the  fruit  of 
patient  study.  The  instances,  which 
every  one's  reflection  will  at  once  pre- 
sent us  with,  are  such  as  poetry,  elo- 
quence, the  walks  of  fiction,  and  espe- 
cially such  as  originality  of  mind  and 
native  genius.  These  forms  and  fea- 
tures of  literary  talent  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  touch  in  but  a  single  point  ; 
and  although  it  were  easy,  no  doubt, 
to  make  each  of  them,  even  on  this 
point,  the  subject  of  extensive  discus- 
sion, it  will  not  be  necessary,  perhaps, 
to  my  argument ;  it  must,  at  any  rate, 
on  this  occasion  be  dispensed  with. 

What,  then,  is  poetry  ?  The  com- 
mon answer  would  be,  that  it  is  some 


PHI   BETA    KAPPA   ORATION. 


289 


peculiar  gift,  some  intellectual  effluence, 
(iistinct,  not  merely  in  form,  not  merely 
in  rhythm,  but  essentially  and  in  its  very 
nature  distinct  from  all  prose  writings. 
Its  numl^ers  are  mystic  numbers  ;  its 
themes  are  far  above  us,  and  away  from 
us,  in  the  clouds,  or  in  the  hues  of  the 
distant  landscape  ;  it  is  at  war  with  tlie 
realities  of  life,  and  it  is  especially 
afraid  of  logic.  It  is  using  no  extrav- 
agant language,  it  is  committing  no 
vulgar  mistake,  to  say  that  poetry  is 
regarded  as  a  kind  of  "peculiar  trade 
and  mystery,"  nay,  in  a  sense  beyond 
that  of  this  technical  language,  as  a  real 
and  absolute  mystery.  In  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  journals  of  the  day, 
we  find  a  writer  complaining  after  this 
sort :  "  Poetry,"  says  he,  '"  the  workings 
of  genius  itself,  which,  in  all  times,  and 
with  one  or  another  meaning,  has  been 
called  inspiration,  and  held  to  be  mys- 
terious and  inscrutable,  is  no  longer 
without  its  scientific  exposition."*  And 
why,  let  us  ask,  why  should  it  be  with- 
out its  exposition? — ay,  and  if  there 
were  any  such  thing  as  a  science  of  criti- 
cism among  us  ( for  the  truth  is,  there 
is  a  great  deal  less  of  it  than  there  was 
in  the  days  of  Addison  and  Johnson),  I 
would  say  it  is  scientific  exposition. 
What  is  poetry  ?  What  is  this  myste- 
rious thing,  but  one  form  in  which 
human  nature  expresses  itself?  What 
is  it  but  embodying,  what  is  it  but 
"  showing  up,"  in  all  its  moods,  from 
the  lowliest  to  the  loftiest,  the  same 
deep  and  impassioned,  but  universal 
mind,  which  is  alike  and  equally  the 
theme  of  philosophy  ?  What  does  poe- 
try tell  us,  but  that  which  was  already 
in  our  own  hearts  ?  What  are  all  its  in- 
termingled lights  and  shadows  ;  what 
are  its  gorgeous  clouds  of  imagery, 
and  the  hues  of  its  distant  landscapes  ; 
what  are  its  bright  and  blessed  visions, 
and  its  dark  pictures,  of  sorrow  and 
passion,  but  the  varied  reflection  of  the 
beautiful  and  holy,  and  yet  overshad- 
owed, and  marred,  and  afflicted  nature 
within  us  ?     And   how    then   is   poetry 

*  Edinburgh    Review. 


any  more  inscrutable  than  our  own 
hearts  are  inscrutable  ?  To  whom  or 
to  what,  let  us  ask  again,  does  poetry 
address  itself  ?  To  what,  in  its  heroic 
ballads,  in  its  epic  song,  in  its  humbler 
verse,  in  its  strains  of  love,  or  pity,  or 
indignation,  —  to  what  does  it  speak, 
but  to  human  nature,  but  to  the  com- 
mon mind  of  all  the  world  ?  And  its 
noblest  productions,  its  Iliads,  its  Ham- 
lets and  Lears,  the  whole  world  has 
understood,  — the  rude  and  the  refined, 
the  anchorite  and  the  throng  of  men. 
There  is  poetry  in  real  life,  and  in  the 
humblest  life.  There  is  "unwritten  poe- 
try ; "  there  is  poetry  in  prose  ;  there  is 
poetry  in  all  living  hearts. 

Let  him  be  the  true  poet  who  shall 
find  it,  sympathize  with  it,  and  bring  it 
to  light.  He  that  does  so  must  deeply 
study  human  nature.  He  that  does  so 
must,  whether  he  knows  it  or  not,  be  a 
philosopher.  Much  there  is,  no  doubt, 
of  technical  language,  much  about  quid- 
dities and  entities,  that  he  may  not 
know.  But  he  must  know,  and  that  by 
deep  study  and  observation,  how  feel- 
ings and  passions  rise  in  the  human 
breast,  what  are  those  which  coexist, 
what  repel  each  other,  what  naturally 
spring  one  from  another;  he  must  know 
what  within  is  moved,  and  how  it  is 
put  in  action  by  all  this  moving  world 
around  us  ;  what  chords  are  struck,  not 
only  by  the  rough  touches  of  fortune, 
but  what  are  swept  by  invisible  influ- 
ences ;  he  must  know  all  the  wants,  and 
sufferings,  and  joys  of  this  inward  be- 
ing, what  are  its  darkest  struggles,  i's 
sublimest  tendencies,  its  most  soothing 
hopes  and  most  blessed  affections  ; 
and  all  this  is  divine  philosopliy.  He 
must  wait  almost  in  prayer  at  the  oracle 
within  ;  he  must  write  the  very  language 
of  his  own  soul  ;  he  must  write  no  rash 
response  from  the  shrines  of  idolized 
models  ;  but  asking,  questioning,  listen- 
ing to  the  voice  within  as  he  writes; 
and  then  will  the  deepest  philosophy 
take  the  form  of  the  noblest  inspira- 
tion. 

And   what   more   does    the   eloquent 


19 


290 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  OCCASIONAL. 


man,  let  us  ask  again,  —  what  more  does 
he,  than  express  that  which,  in  greater 
or  less  power,  is  within  us  all  ?  He  cre- 
ates nothing.  He  is  but  an  interpreter 
of  what  God  has  created  within  us.  He 
only  gives  it  language.  In  the  old  Puri- 
tan phrase,  as  true  in  philosophy  as  in 
religion,  he  is  "but  an  instrument." 
He  but  unlocks  the  sources  of  feeling, 
and  it  flows  of  itself.  And  the  key  which 
is  to  open  for  him  a  way  to  the  hearts  of 
others  is  a  profound  study,  a  deep  knowl- 
edge, an  exquisite  sense  of  what  is  in 
his  own  heart. 

And  what  is  fiction  ?  — for  I  find  that 
I  must  not  dwell  upon  these  instances, 
—  what  is  fiction,  but  assembhng  in 
various  combinations  the  traits  of  real 
life?  Nor  do  all  the  efforts  of  imagina- 
tion ever  go  beyond  the  simple  reality. 
Nor  can  all  the  tales  of  imaginary  dis- 
tress or  joy  ever  equal  what  takes  place 
in  the  dwellings  of  human  affection. 
The  tones  of  rapturous  or  agonized  hu- 
man sympathy,  tenderness,  love,  pity, 
the  gentle  voices  of  kindness  that  echo 
from  the  familiar  hearth-stone,  the  ac- 
cents in  which  a  mother  speaks  to  her 
sick  and  suflfering  child,  surpass  all  that 
fancy  can  imagine  or  the  stage  exhibit. 
And  no  fictitious  heroism  is  more  noble 
than  that  which  swells  many  a  heart  in 
the  secret  and  solitary  strife  of  virtue. 
And  all  the  sentimental  descriptions  in 
the  world  are  but  cold  rhapsody,  in  com- 
parison with  what  is  actually  witnessed 
and  felt  in  the  daily  communion  of  heart 
with  heart. 

The  argument  which,  in  pursuance  of 
my  design,  I  might  draw  from  these 
observations,  is  evident.  By  laying  the 
foundation  of  poetry,  eloquence,  and  fic- 
tion in  human  nature,  I  say  that  they 
are  brought  within  the  range  of  the 
strictest  philosophy,  and  that  they  de- 
mand the  most  thorough  and  philosophi- 
cal study. 

While  I  thus  refer  again  to  the  argu- 
ment I  am  pursuing,  I  will  advert,  in 
passing,  to  the  common  objection.  It 
is  said  that  study  often  has  the  effect  to 
chill  the  sensibility  and  enthusiasm  neces- 


sary to  success  in  these  lofty  arts,  or  that 
it  leads  to  those  fine  discriminations  of 
thought,  which  take  proportionably  from 
its  strong  and  bold  outline  and  coloring. 
The  answer  is,  that  the  study  which 
produces  this  effect  is  not  of  the  right 
kind  ;  that  it  is  not  healthful  to  the  mind, 
nor  in  the  higliest  degree  thorough,  sound, 
and  discriminating  in  itself;  that  it  cer- 
tainly is  not  properly  adapted  to  its  end  ; 
that,  with  reference  to  its  end,  it  certain- 
ly is  not  philosophical.  No  doubt  there 
are  instances  in  which  the  poetic  fire 
is  chilled  by  metaphysical  abstraction. 
There  are  those  who  have  become  less 
eloquent  writers  for  being  more  refined 
thinkers,  and  others  who  have  become 
less  eloquent  speakers  in  the  study  to 
improve.  But  in  every  such  instance,  I 
contend  that  the  study  is  not  sound,  and 
wise,  and  well  applied.  I  cannot  admit 
that  the  mystical  and  misty  speculations 
of  Mr.  Coleridge,  with  however  much  of 
noble  thought  and  deep  penetration 
they  discover,  are  any  exception  to  the 
remark.  I  cannot  admit  that  he  is  any  the 
better  philosopher  for  being  the  worse, 
if  he  z's  the  worse,  poet.  The  essayist 
Foster  is  a  remarkable  example  of  an  elo- 
quent writer  sinking,  as  he  has  done  in 
his  later  productions,  under  the  weight 
of  tedious  and  perplexed  sentences, 
from  too  much  refinement  of  thought. 
His  brain  has  spun  the  matter  of  his  late 
discussion  so  thick  and  fine  with  qualifi- 
cations, that  his  own  manly  sense  is 
scarcely  able  to  break  through  them  '; 
and  his  reader  is  wearied  with  pursuing 
out,  first  one  line  of  qualification  and 
then  another,  tilliie  loses  the  main  thread 
of  the  discourse.*  But,  then,  I  main- 
tain that  the  same  acuteness  which  led 
him  toperceive  the  innumerable  discrim- 
inations into  which  thought  branches 
out,  should  have  led  him  in  popular 
discourse,  to  cut  off  those  smaller  limbs 
which  detract  alike  from  the  strength, 
beauty,  and  distinctness  of  the  picture. 
What  we  have  to  require  of  such  writers 
is,  not  that  they  should  think  less,  but 
they  should  think  more.     We    demanc' 

*  As  in  the  Essays  on  Popular  Ignorance. 


PHI    BETA    KAPPA   ORATION. 


291 


an  effort  beyond  tliat  of  philosophizing, 
—  the  effort  of  communication  ;  an  effort 
which  is  declared  by  Dr.  Brown  to  be 
the  very  end  of  "a  judicious  logic." 
And  in  order  to  the  success  of  this  effort, 
we  demand  the  study,  tlie  strong  and 
vivid  perception,  that  emblazons  its  main 
thought,  on  every  page,  with  a  bright- 
ness that  extinguishes  every  inferior 
light. 

The  case  of  those  writers,  and  it  is 
not  rare,  who,  from  the  time  of  their 
first  successful  production,  fall  ever 
after  into  a  lower  and  poorer  style, 
will  not  be  thought  to  offer  any  objec- 
tion. The  deterioration  arises  precisely 
from  want  of  study,  from  self-confi- 
dence and  carelessness,  from  poverty  of 
thought  in  many  cases,  and  in  some, 
from  the  vanity,  in  the  writers,  of  sup- 
posing that  it  was  the  charm  of  their 
peculiarities,  and  not  the  claim  of  their 
general  merits,  that  had  attracted  the 
public  notice. 

The  same  general  remarks  apply  to 
the  labors  for  improvement  of  .the  public 
speaker.  There  is  one  common  observa- 
tion on  this  subject,  however,  which  is 
often  made  with  great  confidence,  and 
as  a  triumphant  argument  against  study, 
to  which  I  shall  not  reply  as  an  objec- 
tion, because  I  entirely  controvert  its 
truth.  It  is  said  that  some  of  our  most 
eloquent  speakers  are  native  orators, 
and  have  never  studied  their  productions 
at  all,  with  reference  to  delivery.  This 
I'deny;  for  one  of  the  most  important 
departments  of  rhetorical  study  is  left 
out  of  this  statement.  I  mean  what 
rhetoricians  call  the  "  silent  study  "  of 
apiece,  —  in  which  the  celebrated  Sid- 
dons  is  said  so  much  to  have  exercised 
herself, — and  which,  however  uncon- 
sciously, I  am  as  certain  that  eloquent 
speakers  have  used,  as  I  am  that  the 
painter  has  studied  the  picture  on  his 
canvas. 

But  to  refer  to  the  common  rlietorical 
exercises  ;  I  maintain  that  study  fails 
here,  if  at  all,  from  the  want  of  thorough- 
ness, patience,  or  good  sense,  —  fails,  es- 
pecially, because  it  is  not  study  enough. 


The  orator  is  thinking  too  much  of  his 
art,  perhaps,  is  thinking  of  principles 
and  rules  and  criticisms,  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  attempts  to  exchange 
his  art  for  action.  But  what  is  the  in- 
ference? Not  that  philosophy  and  prac- 
tice prevent  success  ;  not  that  they  are 
useless  ;  but  that  he  does  not  know 
how  to  use  them  ;  that  he'has  not  used 
them  enough.  He  is  not  familiar  witii 
them.  He  is  encumbered  by  that  whic'a 
might  aid  him.  He  is  intimidated,  in 
fact,  by  the  armor  which  he  has  not 
learned  to  wield.  He  is  like  the  raw 
recruit,  who  is  all  the  while  thinking 
what  terrible  weapons  he  is  using,  and 
what  fearful  passes  he  makes.  We 
would  have  the  soldier,  certainly,  taught 
the  art  of  fence  ;  but  if  he  were  con- 
stantly thinking  of  its  rules  and  princi- 
ples, if  his  head  were  filled  with  his 
books  and  his  practice,  as  he  went  into 
the  battle,  he  would  of  course  fight  tim- 
idly and  awkwardly  ;  his  philosophy,  so 
to  call  it,  —  his  superficial  accomplish- 
ment, that  is  to  say,  —  would  be  a  bad 
thing  for  him.  But  then,  again,  the 
inference  would  be,  not  that  the  art  of 
fence  is  a  bad  thing,  but  that  he  is  badly 
or  imperfectly  instructed  in  it. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  real  study, 
of  real  philosophy,  in  fact,  without  the 
name,  and  without  even  the  conscious- 
ness of  it.  And  I  undertake  to  say,  as 
to  mere  style,  that  in  the  composition 
of  a  single  paragraph  of  a  high  order 
and  of  any  great  beauty,  though  the 
writer  may  be  insensible  of  it,  there  is 
as  keen  and  careful  a  selection  and 
discrimination  of  thoughts,  as  exact  a 
proportion  of  one  thing  to  another,  as 
decisive  and  determinate  a  rejection  of 
every  thought  that  would  interfere  with 
the  whole  effect,  as  there  is  judgment  or 
taste  in  the  construction  of  a  fine  build- 
ing or  in  the  delineation  of  a  splendid 
picture.  The  process,  the  art,  the  writer, 
may  not  be  perceived,  or  even  thought 
of,  by  the  reader.  So  neither,  in  the 
full  impression  of  architectural  or  pic- 
torial beauty,  do  we  think  of  the  artist. 
Yet,  in  either  case,  the  judgment  and 


292 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND   OCCASIONAL. 


the  taste  are  there,  and   have    labored 
liard  at  their  finished  work. 

And  although  the  talent  employed  may 
possess  the  almost  mystic  charm  which  is 
usually  expressed  by  the  phrase,  original 
talent,  yet  it  is  only  the  more  true  that 
it  must  labor  for  its  distinction.  What 
is  true  originality  of  thought  but  that 
thorough  and"painful  elaboration  of  ideas 
wliich  gives  them  the  peculiar  cast  and 
character  of  the  mind  they  pass  through  ? 
The  original  mind  is  but  the  crucible  in 
which  old  and  well-known  materials  are 
transmuted  into  new  forms  :  and  it  is  not 
a  flash  or  a  gleam  that  gives  the  result, 
but  the  trial  of  fire  !  The  Scripture  dec- 
laration applies  here  more  truly  than 
anywhere  else,  since  it  applies  to  the 
permanent  intellectual  nature  of  man, 
that  "  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun."  Even  the  vaunted  modern  systems 
of  metaphysical  philosophy,  if  we  may 
believe  Professor  Cousin,  are  but  repro- 
ductions of  the  old  ;  and  the  world,  after 
its  long  sleep  in  the  niglit  of  tlie  Middle 
Ages,  is  but  just  coming  up  with  Plato 
and  Aristotle.  To  make  new  and  supe- 
rior fabrics  out  of  common  materials, 
must  be  a  work  of  labor.  Singularity, 
eccentricity,  may  be  the  natural  and 
mushroom  products  of  a  shallow  and 
barren  soil,  but  originality  is  a  plant  of 
another  and  different  growth.  The  man 
who  thinks  for  himself,  who  thinks  dif- 
ferently from  other  men,  and  pays  their 
opinions  the  respect  to  compare  them 
with  his  own,  who  strikes  out  new 
paths  of  reflection  and  investigates  them, 
—  the  original  thinker,  in  other  words, 
deserving  the  name,  —  must  think  deeply 
and  patiently.  He  is  bound  to  do  this, 
beyond  all  men,  and  if  he  is  faithful  to 
iiis  own  mind,  he  will  do  it.  It  may  be 
doubted,  indeed,  whether  much  that 
passes  for  originality  is  not  some  novel 
and  really  indefensible  modification  of 
thought,  which  the  author  of  it  labors 
hard  and  ingeniously  to  clothe  in  such 
forms  as  not  to  shock  the  general  judg- 
ment. But  even  this,  the  lowest  and 
most  doubtful  form  of  original  thought, 


is  anything,  it  is  apparent,  but  the  result 
of  hasty  impulses  and  suggestions. 

As  the  most  illustrious  example  of  true 
originality,  of  the  almost  mysterious  de- 
velopment of  great  native  powers,  Shak- 
speare  is  constantly  quoted.  He  is  called 
the  child  of  nature.  His  works  pass 
with  us  for  a  sort  of  inspiration.  Our 
ignorance  of  this  wonderful  being,  of 
wliom  nearly  all  that  can  be  said  is  in 
the  words  of  a  critic,  that  "  after  having 
written  his  thirty-eight  plays,  he  went 
carelessly  down  to  the  country,  and  lived 
out  his  days,  apparently  unconscious  of 
having  done  anything  at  all  extraordi- 
nary,"—  this  mystery,  which  shrouds  the 
circumstances  of  his  life,  helps  to  spread 
over  his  immortal  productions  an  air,  not 
of  effort,  but  of  enchantment.  Into  that 
deep  and  silent  world  of  thoughts  and 
passions,  the  mind  of  Shakspeare,  well 
shadowed  forth  by  the  outward  silence 
of  history,  few  men  have  sent  any  search- 
ing analysis;  few  can.  There  is  enough, 
indeed,  of  verbal  annotation  and  small 
criticism  upon  his  works  in  his  native 
tongue.  And  German  critics  have  writ- 
ten of  liim,  in  language  of  unbounded  ad- 
miration, often  bordering  on  rhapsody, 
and  yet  of  much  deeper  sympathy  with 
him  too;  but  the  philosophy  of  Shak- 
speare's  genius  is  yet  to  be  studied.* 
Yet  who  can  doubt  that  that  world  of  his 
secret  thoughts  was  a  w'orld  of  labor  ? 
Who  can  doubt  that  to  him  who  lingered 
in  some  humble  employment  about  the 
theatre,  the  great  globe  itself  was  a  stage, 
and  that  all  men  passed  before  him  as 
actors  ;  that  he  saw  them,  as  they  passed, 
as  none  other  had  seen  them  ;  saw, 
tlirough  every  disguise,  the  mean  man 
and  the  mighty,  the  dark,  the  fierce,  the 
passionate,  the  meek,  the  lovely,  the  sor- 
rowful, the  rejoicing,  —  sympathized  with 
all,  studied  all,  revolved  in  his  own  bosom 
all  human  thouglit,  feeling,  passion,  de- 
sire, till  they  came  forth  the  living  beings 

*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  except  from  this  remark 
the  Lectures  of  A.  W.  Schlegel  ;  though  of  all  the 
writers  on  Shakspeare,  he  would  be  most  justly  des- 
ignated, perhaps,  as  the  man  to  execute  this  noble 
task. 


PHI    BETA   KAPPA   ORATION. 


293 


of  his  own  mind,  and  destined  to  live  in 
the  admiration  and  delight  of  men 
forever. 

As  a  further  and  final  example  of  the 
point  I  have  labored  to  establish,  let  me 
refer  to  that  undefined  and  much  mis- 
apprehended quality,  called  genius. 

'  The  favorite  idea  of  a  genius  among 
us,  is  of  one  who  never  studies,  or  who 
studies  nobody  can  tell  when,  —  at  mid- 
night, or  at  odd  times  and  intervals,  — 
and  now  and  then  strikes  out,  at  a 
heat^  as  the  phrase  is,  some  wonderful 
production.  This  is  a  character  that 
has  figured  largely  in  the  history  of  our 
literature,  in  the  person  of  our  Fieldings, 
our  Savages,  and  our  Steeles,  —  "  loose 
fellows  about  town,"  or  loungers  in  the 
country,  who  slept  in  ale-houses  and 
wrote  in  bar-rooms,  who  took  up  the  pen 
as  a  magician's  wand  to  supply  their 
wants,  and  when  the  pressure  of  neces- 
sity was  relieved,  resorted  again  to  their 
carousals.  Your  real  genius  is  an  idle, 
irregular,  vagabond  sort  of  personage, 
who  muses  in  the  fields  or  dreams  by  the 
fireside;  whose  strong  impulses  —  that 
is  the  cant  of  it —  must  needs  hurry  him 
into  wild  irregularities  or  foolish  eccen- 
tricity ;  who  abhors  order,  and  can  bear  no 
restraint,  and  eschews  all  labor  :  such  an 
one,  for  instance,  as  Newton,  or  Milton  ! 
What  !  they  must  have  been  irregular, 
else  they  were  no  geniuses. 

"The  young  man,"  it  is  often  said, 
"  has  genius  enough,  if  he  would  only 
study."  Now  the  truth  is,  as  I  shall 
take  the  liberty  to  state  it,  that  genius 
will  study,  it  is  that  in  the  mind  which 
does  study  ;  that  is  the  very  nature  of 
it.  I  care  not  to  say  that  it  will  always 
use  books.  All  study  is  not  reading, 
any  more  than  all  reading  is  study.  By 
study  I  mean  —  but  let  one  of  the  noblest 
geniuses  and  hardest  students  of  any 
age  define  it  for  me  :  "  Studium,"  says 
Cicero,  "  est  animi  assidua  et  vehemens 
ad  aliquam  rem  applicata  magna  cum 
voluntate  occupatio,  ut  philosophise, 
poeticae,  geometrias,  literarum."*  Such 
study,  such  intense  mental  action,  and 

*  De  Inveiitione,  Lib.  I.  c.  25. 


nothing  else,  is  genius.  And  so  far  as 
there  is  any  native  predisposition  about 
this  enviable  character  of  mind,  it  is  a 
predisposition  to  that  action.  That  is 
the  only  test  of  the  original  bias  ;  and 
he  who  does  not  come  to  that  point, 
though  he  may  have  shrewdness  and 
readiness  and  parts,  never  had  a  genius 
No  need  to  waste  regrets  upon  him,  as 
that  he  never  could  be  induced  to  give 
his  attention  or  study  to  anytliing  ;  he 
never  had  that  which  he  is  supposed  to 
have  lost.  For  attention  it  is,  —  though 
other  qualities  belong  to  this  transcen- 
dent power,  —  attention  it  is,  that  is  the 
very  soul  of  genius  :  not  the  fixed  eye, 
not  the  poring  over  a  book,  but  the  fixed 
thought.  It  is,  in  fact,  an  action  of 
the  mind  which  is  steadily  concentrated 
upon  one  idea,  or  one  series  of  ideas, 
—  which  collects  in  one  point  the  rays 
of  the  soul  till  they  search,  penetrate, 
and  fire  the  whole  train  of  its  thoughts.  J 
And  while  the  fire  burns  within,  the 
outward  man  may  indeed  be  cold,  in- 
different, negligent,  —  absent  in  appear- 
ance ;  he  may  be  an  idler,  or  a  wanderer, 
apparently  without  aim  or  intent:  but 
still  the  fire  burns  within.  And  what 
though  "  it  bursts  forth, "at  length,  as  has 
been  said,  "  like  volcanic  fires,  with  spon- 
taneous, original,  native  force  .'"'  It  only 
shows  the  intenser  action  of  the  elements 
beneath.  What  though  it  breaks  hke 
lightning  from  the  cloud  .''  The  electric 
fire  had  been  collecting  in  the  firmament 
through  many  a  silent,  calm,  and  clear 
day.  What  though  the  might  of  genius 
appears  in  one  decisive  blow,  struck  in 
some  moment  of  high  debate,  or  at  the 
crisis  of  a  nation's  peril  1  That  mighty 
energy,  though  it  may  have  heaved  in 
the  breast  of  a  Demosthenes,  was  once 
a  feeble  infant's  thought.  A  mother's 
eye  watched  over  its  dawning.  A  fa- 
ther's care  guarded  its  early  growth.  It 
soon  trod  with  youthful  step  the  halls 
of  learning,  and  found  other  fathers  to 
wake  and  to  watch  for  it, —  even  as  it 
finds  them  here.  It  went  on  :  but  si- 
lence was  upon  its  path,  and  the  deep 
strugglings  of  the  inward  soul  marked 


294 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


its  progress,  and  the  cherishing  powers 
of  nature  silently  ministered  to  it.  The 
elements  around  breathed  upon  it  and 
"touched  it  to  liner  issues."  The  gold- 
en ray  of  heaven  fell  upon  it,  and  ri- 
pened its  expanding  faculties.  The  slow 
revolutions  of  years  slowly  added  to  its 
collected  treasures  and  energies  ;  till  in 
its  hour  of  glory  it  stood  forth  embodied 
in  the  form  of  living,  commanding,  irre- 
sistible eloquence  !  The  world  wonders 
.at  the  manifestation,  and  says,  "  Strange, 
strange  that  it  should  come  thus  un- 
sought, unpremeditated,  unprepared!" 
But  the  truth  is,  there  is  no  more  a  mira- 
cle in  it  than  there  is  in  the  towering  of 
the  pre-eminent  forest- tree,  or  in  the  flow- 
ing of  the  mighty  and  irresistiWe  river, 
or  in  the  wealth  and  the  waving  of  the 
boundless  harvest. 

Fathers  and  Guardians  of  our  youth- 
ful learning  !  —  behold  it  here  —  the 
germ  of  all  that  glorious  power,  in  the 
strong,  generous,  and  manly  spirits  of 
the  rising  youth  around  you  ;  and  say 
if  you  would  relinquish  an  office,  so 
honored,  and  so  to  be  rewarded,  for 
the  sceptre  of  any  other  dominion. 
Youthful  aspirants  after  intellectual 
eminence  !  —  forget,  forget,  I  entreat 
you  ;  banish,  banish  forever,  the  weak 
and  senseless  idea,  that  anything  will 
serve  your  purpose,  but  study  ;  intense, 
unwearied,  absorbing  study  ;  "  animi 
assidua  et  vehemens  occupaiio." 

I  recall  one  who  more  than  thirty 
years  since  trod  these  hallowed  paths 
of  learning,  whose  life  of  literary  en- 
terprise and  labor  shows  that  he  had 
taken  that  word  for  his  motto.  The 
leisure  of  his  early  manhood  was  de- 
voted to  works  that  have  done  honor 
to  our  youthful  literature,  and  his  zeal 
for  letters  found  a  place  for  similar 
studies,  even  amidst  the  labors  of  a 
responsible,  and  honorable,  and  well- 
discharged  commission  abroad,  from 
the  government  of  his  country.  I  need 
not  say  that  I  allude  to  the  accom- 
plished and  lamented  TuDOR.  The 
distinguished  place    which   he  held  in 


our  republic  of  letters,  as  well  as  in 
this  association,  would  justly  require 
of  us  an  apology,  not  for  speaking  of 
him,  but  for  being,  on  this  occasion, 
silent.  As  my  acquaintance  with  his 
character  was  not  personal,  I  can  speak . 
only  of  those  literary  projects  and  pro- 
ductions which  certainly  entitle  him  to 
a  respectful  and  grateful  commemora- 
tion among  us.  To  die  in  a  foreign 
land,  to  die  amidst  strangers,  to  die  on 
the  eve  of  a  long-desired  return  to  his 
country,  is  mournful.  But  to  have  per- 
formed honorable  and  honored  services 
for  his  country  ;  to  have  left  the  im- 
press of  his  mind  on  its  permanent 
literature  ;  to  have  left  memorials  of 
himself,  too,  in  the  still  ripening  fruits 
of  his  intelligent  enterprises  ;  to  have 
portrayed,  with  a  discriminating  hand, 
"the  living  manners  as  they  rise,"  and 
well  and  worthily  to  have  celebrated 
the  glorious  dead,  and  at  last  himself 
to  have  gone  down  to  the  grave  amidst 
the  regrets  of  all  who  knew  him, —  these 
are  testimonials  to  literary  usefulness 
and  honor,  which  any  man  among  us 
might  covet,  when  his  own  labors  also 
shall  come  to  their  end. 

How  soon  they  may  be  brought  to  it, 
and  how  suddenly,  Divine  Providence 
has  very  lately  given  us  a  most  affecting 
and  solemn  intimation.  I  know  that 
the  minds  of  many  who  hear  me  will 
turn,  without  hesitation,  and  not  witli- 
out  strong  emotion,  to  our  late  dis- 
tinguished, most  honored,  —  and  I 
give  the  full  force  to  that  word,  when 
I  add,  —  to  our  beloved  Chief  Justice  !  * 
Speaking  as  I  do  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  have  been  his  associates 
and  companions  through  many  favored 
years,  I  feel  that  they  will  not  ask  of 
one,  who  has  not  enjoyed  that  happi- 
ness, to  pronounce  his  eulogy.  Nor 
needs  it  to  be  spoken  here;  for  his 
praise  is  in  all  the  borders  of  this  Com- 
monwealth,  and  it  is  permanently  re- 
corded on  one  of  the  iiighest  pages  in 
the  history  of  its  jurisprudence.     And 

*  Chief  Justice  Parker  died  on  the  25th  of  Julyi 
1S30. 


THE   ARTS   OF    INDUSTRY. 


295 


yet  there  is  one  —  apology,  shall  I  call 
it  ?  —  for.  the  admiration  and  homage 
of  all  who  knew  him.  For  of  no  man 
could  it  be  more  properly  said,  that  his 
distinction,  his  honor,  his  worth,  were 
the  property  of  us  all ;  for  they  shone 
upon  all ;  they  made  friends  of  all  ;  they 
cheered  every  one,  whether  hi;;h  or  low, 
whether  old  or  young,  whom  he  took  by 
the  hand  with  a  simplicity  and  kindness 
as  honorable  to  him  even  as  his  emi- 
nent talents  and  distinguished  learning. 
Noble  and  excellent  man  !  now,  alas  ! 
added  to  the  number  of  the  lamented 
and  venerated  !  be  the  path  that  thou 
hast  trod — the  path  of  labor,  of  toil,  of 
study,  of  virtue,  of  piety,  —  be  it  our 
own  path  to  usefulness  and  honor ! 

In  the  presence  of  such  contempla- 
tions, I  need  not  be  reminded  that 
further  discussion  would  be  improper. 
Suffice  the  argument  which  is  supported 
by  such  e.xamples  ;  examples  more  pow- 
erful than  any  words  of  mine  to  illus- 
trate and  enforce  our  duty  as  scholars. 
Suffice  the  inducements,  when  every 
year's  assembling  here,  with  sad  com- 
memoration of  the  departed,  solemnly 
teaches  us  that  life  is  short,  is  short- 
ening ;  while  the  field  of  knowledge 
spreads  before  us  in  bright  and  bound- 
less prospect.  "That  which  I  know," 
were  the  dying  words  of  the  illustrious 
La  Place,  —  "  that  which  I  know,  is 
limited;  that  which  I  do  not  know,  is 
infinite  !  " 


XV. 

THE  .A.RTS  OF  INDUSTRY;  WITH 
THEIR  MORAL  AND  INTELLEC- 
TUAL INFLUENCE  UPON  SOCI- 
ETY.* 

Mr.    President,   and    Gentlemen    of    the    In- 
stitute : 

We  have  come  together,  this  evening, 
to  celebrate  the  great  and  noble  arts  of 

An  Address  delivered  before  the  members  of  the 
American  Institute,  iu  the  City  of  New  York,  Octo- 
ber, 1K37. 


industry.  I  say,  the  great  and  noble 
arts  of  industry.  I  cannot  say,  the 
humble  arts,  in  deference  to  popular 
phraseology  ;  the  splendid  spectacle  of 
your  Annual  Fair  would  rebuke  me  if  I 
did  so.  I  confess  that  it  has  given  me 
new  ideas  of  what  industry  can  do  —  of 
what  mind  can  do  with  matter.  As 
I  have  stood  in  your  magnificent  hall 
of  exhibition,  visions  of  Oriental  mag- 
nificence —  descriptions  from  the  gor- 
geous page  of  Milton  —  have  been  in  my 
thoughts.  And  yet,  "  the  wealth  of  Or- 
mus  and  of  Ind,"  '"barbaric  pearls  and 
gold,"  could  offer  nothing  so  gratifying 
to  the  eye  of  patriotism,  as  that  splen- 
did assemblage  of  the  products  of  me- 
chanic art.  To  one  who  had  not  wit- 
nessed that  spectacle,  this  might  seem 
extravagant.  But  I  am  sure  that  I 
should  not  do  justice  to  the  feelings  of 
those  who  have  seen  it,  without  speak- 
ing of  it  as  I  do.  And  when  we  remem- 
ber that  it  is  but  two  centuries  since 
the  rude  savage  wandered  across  this 
wooded  island,  —  all  his  weapons,  tools 
and  instruments  together,  but  a  toma- 
hawk, a  scalping-knife,  and  a  hunter's 
bow,  —  we  might  imagine  that  the  Gen- 
ius of  Civilization  had  stretched  out  its 
wand,  and  conjured  up  this  fairy  scene, 
to  celebrate  its  triumph. 

How  characteristic  is  this  spectacle, 
gentlemen,  of  the  times  in  which  we 
live  !  In  other  days  it  would  have 
been  the  tournament,  or  the  feasting- 
hall,  hung  round  with  helmets  and 
swords,  and  the  grim  and  shaggy 
trophies  of  the  chase.  And,  indeed, 
if  we  had  fixed  our  eye  first  upon 
the  upper  end  of  that  hall,  we  might 
have  imagined  that  we  were  witness- 
ing only  the  same  thing,  in  higher 
perfection,  —  only  more  gorgeous  ca- 
parisons and  trappings  of  the  war- 
horse,  more  polished  weapons,  and  more 
fata!  instruments  of  death.  But,  as  we 
look  around  us,  we  see  other  tokens  ; 
the  products  of  the  peaceful  loom  and 
planing-tool.  carving  and  tapestry,  works 
of  equal  utility  and  beauty  in  iron,  and 
marble,  and  glass,  and  shining  metals  ; 


296 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


comforts  for  home,  and  conveniences 
for  travel  ;  and  books,  in  bindings  splen- 
did enough  to  seduce  the  eye  from  those 
attractive  and  ponderous  ledgers,  in 
which  there  is  to  be  so  much  more  prof- 
itable writing.  We  see,  too,  that  the 
busy  and  delicate  hand  of  woman  has 
been  there.  Meanwhile,  music,  far 
other  than  that  of  the  war-song,  flings 
its  notes  over  the  gay  scene,  and  all 
around  us  breathes  of  peace  and  pros- 
perity. It  is  a  characteristic  and  strik- 
ing exhibition  of  the  arts  that  conduce 
to  human  improvement  ;  and  it  is  to 
some  reflections  bearing  upon  this  point, 
that  I  wish,  on  the  present  occasion,  to 
invite  the  attention  of  this  assembly. 

The  distinguished  gentlemen  who  have 
preceded  me  in  the  delivery  of  this 
annual  discourse,  and  whose  eminence 
has  made  the  office  as  difficult  as  the 
appointment  of  the  American  Institute 
has  made  it  honorable,  have  been  very 
naturally  led,  by  their  public  stations 
and  duties,  to  consider  the  political 
questions  which  are  connected  with  the 
arts  of  industry.  Those  questions  are 
doubtless  important,  and  they  have 
probably  been  settled  to  your  satisfac- 
tion. I  suppose  no  doubt  is  entertained 
in  this  assembly,  whether  American 
industry  ought,  in  some  degree,  to  be 
protected.  But  whether  American  in- 
dustry, or  any  other  industry,  is  hon- 
ored as  it  ought  to  be ;  whether,  in 
fact,  it  is  usually  sensible  of  its  own 
dignity,  and  of  its  many  and  important 
relations  to  the  public  welfare,  may  not 
be  so  clear.  This  is  the  direction, 
therefore,  that  I  would  give  to  your 
thoughts  on  the  present  occasion  ;  and, 
not  to  wander  over  too  large  a  field,  my 
principal  design  will  be  to  consider  the 
connection  between  the  arts  of  indus- 
try, and  especially  the  mechanic  arts, 
and  the  ifitelleciual  and  moral  improve- 
ment of  society. 

This  topic  is  very  naturally  presented 
by  the  occasion  that  has  bjrought  us 
together.  For  this  annual  Fair  is  not 
held  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  splendid 
and   idle    display.      It    is   so   splendid. 


indeed,  that  it  appears  to  me  worthy  of 
being  made  for  its  own  sake.  The  de- 
lighted and  satisfied  visitor  can  hardly 
ask  for  any  object  beyond  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  it.  But  this  is  not  the  only 
object.  Nor  is  its  only  end  to  gratify 
private  ambition,  or  to  advance  private 
interests  ;  lawful  and  proper  for  them, 
as  it  is,  indeed,  thus  to  present  them- 
selves to  the  pubhc  attention.  But  the 
occasion  points  to  something  beyond ; 
it  points  directly  to  the  ultimate  and 
great  design  of  your  association  ;  which 
is,  not  only  to  benefit  yourselves,  but 
to  benefit  your  country  ;  not  merely  to 
develop  and  foster  the  arts  of  fife,  but 
to  develop,  and  foster,  and  exalt  the  life 
of  society,  —  that  Hfe  of  society  which 
depends  for  its  highest  welfare  upon  an 
intellectual  and  moral  culture. 

All  improvement  avails  but  little,  that 
does  not  result  in  this  culture  of  the 
mind  and  heart.  All  that  is  done  in  the 
world,  without  this  end,  is  but  weary 
toil  without  reward ;  a  splendid  appa- 
ratus, without  result.  Separated  from 
this,  none  but  an  idiot  could  enjoy  the 
spectacle.  For  to  what  purpose  is  it, 
that  all  the  comforts  and  elegancies  of 
life  are  spread  around  us  ;  to  what  pur- 
pose is  it,  that  the  products  of  the 
forest  and  the  mine,  and  all  the  powers 
of  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  are  brought 
into  subservience  to  the  human  will  ;  to 
what  purpose  is  it,  that  the  earth  is 
better  tilled,  and  the  ocean  is  more 
successfully  navigated,  and  more  splen-' 
did  cities  are  rising  all  round  its  spread- 
ing shores,  if  man,  in  the  presence  of 
all  ihis  profusion  and  magnificence,  is 
only  growing  more  ignorant,  slavish, 
effeminate,  and  corrupt  ?  Too  rapid  is 
the  march  of  improvement,  too  swift 
are  our  travelling  cars,  though  ambi- 
tious of  a  greater  speed,  if  they  are 
bearing  us  on  to  this.  Too  high  already 
is  the  structure  of  mechanic  art,  if,  like 
the  lofty  pyramid,  it  is  only  to  over- 
shadow a  dwarfed  and  degraded  people. 
And  sad  and  thankless  were  the  task, 
if  all  that  the  most  accomplished  indus- 
try of  human  hands  can  do,  is  to  build 


THE   ARTS   OF   INDUSTRY. 


297 


but  a  more  splendid  couch  for  the  pre- 
mature disease,  decay,  and  death  of 
society. 

And  such,  in  fact,  you  know  is  said, 
by  some,  to  be  the  inevitable  tendency 
of  the  arts  of  civilization.  The  inven- 
tions and  devices  of  art  are  sometimes 
regarded  as  only  disturbing  the  order  of 
society,  in  their  progress  ;  and  in  their 
consummation,  as  only  precipitating  it 
to  i.  speedier  downfall.  Sentimental 
sighings  over  barbarous  ages  (mis- 
called golden  ages),  now  past  and  gone, 
and  practical  resistance  to  new  inven- 
tions in  machinery,  have  alike  given  tes- 
timony to  this  absurd  way  of  thinking. 

I  can  scarcely  admit,  indeed,  that  it 
deserves  a  serious  refutation ;  and  I  do 
not  so  much  propose  an  argument  in 
favor  of  the  mechanic  arts,  as  an  illus- 
tration of  their  natural  tendency  and 
immense  power  to  improve  society. 

And  the  first  and  lowest  illustration 
of  this  nature  is  found  in  the  influence 
which  the  products  of  art  exert  through 
that  mental  law  called  the  law  of  asso- 
ciation. 

The  things  that  are  about  us  impart  a 
hue  and  shape  to  our  minds.  They  are 
our  teachers,  the  models  of  our  thought. 
It  is  scarcely  conceivable,  that  the  minds 
of  men  in  general  should  have  been 
turned  to  admiration  and  touched  to  rap- 
ture, if  they  had  not  been  surrounded, 
in  the  works  of  nature,  with  a  world  of 
beauty.  The  fair  and  tranquil  scene 
around  us  steals  insensibly  into  the  heart, 
and  becomes  within  us  an  image  and  a 
life.  I  know,  indeed,  that  the  mind  im- 
parts a  character  to  the  scene  around  it; 
but  it  also  receives. a  character  in  turn. 
And  so  powerful  and  so  necessary  is 
this  influence  in  the  infancy  of  man  and 
of  nations,  that  a  world  bereft  of  beauty, 
fragrance,  and  music,  and  of  all  graceful 
forms  —  all  rude  and  shaggy  as  our 
mountain-tops  —  must  have  been  a  world 
of  beings  far  worse  than  barbarians. 

That  which  is  true  of  the  habitation 
that  God  has  builded  for  us,  is  true  of 
those  which  we  build  for  ourselves.  A 
man  who  Uves  like  the  Bedouin  Arab 


and  the  wild  Tartar,  in  a  barn,  and  among 
the  cattle  that  he  tends  or  drives,  is  like- 
ly to  have  as  much  of  the  brute  as  the 
man  in  him.  The  first  step  of  improve- 
ment, for  such  a  people,  would  be  im- 
provement in  the  arts  of  living.  Nay, 
filth  and  slovenliness  almost  inevitably 
dwell  in  mud-walled  and  unfloored  cot- 
tages ;  and  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to 
sa)',  that  filth  and  slovenliness  are  en- 
emies to  good  morals.  "Cleanliness,"' 
says  John  Wesley,  "  is  next  to  godliness. " 
We  are  all  in  some  sense  actors,  and  we 
naturally  suit  our  action  to  the  scene  in 
which  we  move.  We  have  often  heard 
that  Diogenes  lived  in  a  tub ;  but  it  has 
not  been  as  often  considered,  perhaps, 
that  his  rude  manners  and  speech  were 
such  as  befitted  his  residence ;  that,  if 
we  were  to  give  an  account  of  his  pro- 
verbial rudeness,  we  should  say,  not  that 
Diogenes  made  the  tub,  but  that  the  tub 
made  Diogenes. 

He.  then,  who  is  building  commodious 
dwellings,  or  filling  them  with  splendid 
furniture,  is  making  no  mean  contribu- 
tion to  the  grace  and  accomplishment  of 
human  life.  He  is  often  creating  a 
school,  in  fact,  for  vulgar  wealth,  in  which 
it  cannot  resist  improvements ;  he  is 
often  the  master,' as  he  is  the  superior, 
of  the  idle  and  flattered  inheritor  of  for- 
tune. And  it  may  well  be  a  grateful 
consideration  to  him  who  is  toiling  at 
his  work-bench,  that  he  is  toiling  for  the 
improvement  of  society.  It  is  a  noble 
stimulus  to  the  perfection  of  his  work  ; 
to  the  production  of  more  perfect  con- 
veniences, more  graceful  forms,  more  ex- 
quisite instruments  for  the  mind's  culture. 
He  who  designs  and  erects  a  noble  struc- 
ture, speaks  to  passing  multitudes,  who 
seldom  perhaps  read  a  book,  and  helps 
to  refine  and  humanize  the  ages  that 
shall  come  after  him.  Even  he  who 
makes  a  musical  instrument,  is  laying 
up,  in  those  hidden  chambers  of  melody, 
the  sweet  influences  that  sliall  amuse, 
and  soften,  and  refine  many  a  domestic 
circle  through  life. 

The  first  point,  then,  which  I  present 
to   your   consideration,  is,  that   by   the 


298 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND    OCCASIONAL. 


very  law  of  mental  association,  we  are 
improved  by  the  improvements  tliat  are 
around  us.  It  is  true  that  every  law  may 
be  broken,  and  this  is  doubtless  some- 
times broken  by  the  pride  of  display. 
But  still,  when  I  look  upon  the  most  gor- 
geous scene  which  the  most  vulgar  pas- 
sion for  display  has  spread  around  it,  it 
is  not  without  some  complacency  in  the 
thought,  that  that  scene  may  help  in  turn 
to  elevate  the  mind  of  its  possessor.  He 
who  inhabits  a  palace  may  really  be  infe- 
rior to  him  who  built,  or  to  him  whoadorns 
it ;  but  it  would  be  strange  if  he  should 
not  catch  something  from  that  school  of 
taste  in  which  he  is  placed.  Wealth  is 
indeed  the  friend  of  mechanic  art:  but 
the  favor  is  often  well  and  fully  returned  ; 
opulence  is  often  as  much  indebted  to 
art,  as  art  is  to  opulence.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  something  that  the  sense  of  our  own 
dignity  is  affected  by  the  objects  that 
surround  us  ;  as  well  it  may  be  by  the 
glorious  mansion  which  the  Infinite  Arch- 
itect has  provided  for  us.  When  Nero 
had  caused  to  be  built  his  magnificent 
palace  on  the  Palatine  Hill,  called  his 
•'  golden  house,"  which  was  of  such  ex- 
tent that  it  had  a  single  piazza  of  three 
rows  of  columns,  more  than  half  a  mile 
long,  —  a  single  room  -148  feet  long  and 
98  broad;  which  covered  acres  enough 
for  a  moderately  sized  farm,  and  was  in 
fact  a  little  city  by  itself,  of  quadrangles, 
towers,  pillars,  statues,  baths,  and  foun- 
tains ;  he  is  reported  by  Suetonius  to 
have  said  that  he  had  now  a  house  fit 
for  a  MAN  to  live  in.  There  was  some- 
thing of  nobility,  if  there  was  more  of 
pride,  in  that  saying.  And  if  he  had 
remembered,  that  while  the  man  Nero 
dwelt  in  the  golden  house,  the  men  Sev- 
erus  and  Celerus,  who  built  it,  ay,  and 
every  hod-carrier,  dwelt  in  that  habita- 
tion whose  foundation  is  earth,  whose 
pillars  the  mountains,  and  whose  dome 
the  spreading  heavens,  —  yes,  if  he 
had  rightly  remembered  this,  his  pride 
had  been  less,  and  his  true  nobihty 
greater. 

But  the  next  observation  I   have   to 
offer,  is  on  the  effects  of  mechanic  art 


in  promoting  the  comfort  and  relieving 
the  toils  of  mankind. 

The  advantage  in  this  respect,  I  know, 
has  been  held  to  be  more  than  question- 
able. The  operatives  who  have  been 
from  time  to  time  flung  out  of  employ- 
ment by  the  successive  inventions  of  me- 
chanic art,  have  said  that  their  toils 
were  indeed  relieved  to  their  injury, 
and  that  their  comforts  were  not  in- 
creased, but  much  lessened.  And  this 
reasoning  has  not  been  confined  to  the 
operatives.  William  Lea,  the  inventor 
of  the  stocking-frame,  made  a  pair  of 
stockings  by  the  frame,  we  are  told,  in 
the  presence  of  King  James  the  First  ; 
but  his  invention,  thougli  approved,  was 
discountenanced,  upon  the  plea  that  it 
would  deprive  the  poor, 

"  The  knitters  in  the  sun 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with 
bones," 

of  their  subsistence.  And  after  having 
met  with  similar  disappointments  in 
France,  William  Lea  died  in  Paris  of  a 
broken  heart.  The  inventor  of  the  first 
cotton-spinning  machine,  in  1733,  him- 
self destroyed  it,  under  the  generous 
apprehension  that  it  might  deprive  the 
poor  of  bread.  And  such,  indeed,  may 
be  the  temporary  effect' of  improved  ma- 
chinery in  certain  instances ;  but  the 
conclusion,  as  one  of  general  and  per- 
manent application,  is  altogether  a  mis- 
take. For  it  is  found  that  with  the 
easier  and  cheaper  production  of  any 
article,  a  more  general  use  obtains,  a 
quicker  and  wider  demand  is  created, 
and  the  field  of  labor,  instead  of  being 
straitened,  is  indefinitely  extended.  The 
invention  of  Arkwright,  labor-saving 
as  it  is,  has  given  employment  to  mill- 
ions. We  may  always  be  sure  that  the 
expanding  desire,  i.  e.  the  market  de- 
mand of  society,  will  keep  in  advance 
of  the  supply.  If  it  falls  behind  for  a 
moment  in  any  case,  it  will  soon  come 
up,  and  will  always  win  the  race.  For 
it  is  the  race  of  mind  with  matter,  the 
contest  of  ever  boundless  desire  with 
ever  boundless  supply.  The  swiftest 
car  will  flag  in  that  contest.     The  driv- 


THE   ARTS   OF   INDUSTRY. 


299 


ers  of  coaches  are  apt,  at  first,  to  look 
with  jealousy  upon  a  railroad.  But  they 
soon  find  that  the  stream  of  travel  which 
Hows  upon  it  sends  off  branches  for 
them  to  occupy,  greater  than  the  original 
stream.  The  Vetturini  of  Italy  usually 
travel  at  the  tedious  rate  of  about  thirty 
miles  a  day;  and  they  demand  the  mo- 
nopoly of  public  conveyances.  When, 
a  few  years  ago,  an  attempt  was  made 
to  run  an  English  coach  from  Florence 
to  Leghorn,  the  coachman  and  guard 
were  murdered  on  the  way  by  a  banditti, 
composed  probably  of  these  fierce  and 
ignorant  Vetturini.  Had  this  improve- 
ment been  admitted,  they  would  have 
found,  by  this  time,  that  their  business 
had  increased  fourfold. 

But  I  have  said  enough  on  this  point ; 
and  I  return  to  the  proposition  that  the 
mechanic  arts  improve  society  by  in- 
creasing its  comforts  and  lessening  its 
toils. 

Comfort,  to  a  certain  extent,  is  un- 
doubtedly favorable  to  social  improve- 
ment ;  and  toil,  beyond  a  certain  extent, 
is  as  clearly  unfavorable.  I  make  this 
statement  in  these  guarded  terms,  be- 
cause the  comforts  of  civilized  life  may 
be  carried  to  a  vicious  and  enervating 
indulgence ;  and  because  labor,  when 
not  excessive,  so  far  from  being  an  evil, 
is  a  blessing  to  the  world.  If  a  man 
can  make  a  machine  to  work  for  him, 
it  is  not  best  indeed  for  him  to  stand 
idle  ;  nor  is  he  likely  to  stand  idle. 
He  will  probably  turn  his  hand  to  some- 
thing else.  He  will  set  himself  to 
relieve  some  want ;  to  remove  some 
annoyance ;  to  smooth  some  rough- 
ness in  his  path.,  or  to  extract  some 
thorn  of  vexation ;  and  thus  to  make 
his  way  easier  and  happier.  A  certain 
state  of  ease  and  comfort  is  good  for 
our  moral  nature.  Courage  and  frugal- 
ity may  be  virtues  of  savage  life,  but 
good-nature,  gentleness,  generosity,  and 
patience  have  but  a  poor  chance  amidst 
its  rough  and  desolate  fortunes.  It  is 
not  good  for  a  man  to  live  like  a  bear 
or  an  otter.  It  is  scarce  likely  to  im- 
prove his  temper,  for  him  to  wear  hair- 


cloth, or  to  freeze  in  winter,  or  to 
breathe  in  his  house  the  smoke  that 
ought  to  have  gone  up  the  chimney  ;  or 
when  he  travels,  to  have  his  carriage 
broken  down  on  rough  roads  ;  or  when 
he  rests,  to  sleep,  as  the  old  chronicles 
say  was  common  in  England  three 
centuries  ago,  "  with  a  good  round  log 
under  his  head  for  a  bolster."  * 

Let  us  be  permitted  to  dwell  a  mo- 
ment on  one  or  two  of  the  points  now 
referred  to  ;  for  I  suppose  that  details 
are  not  improper  on  such  an  occasion 
as  this  ;  and  that  the  suggestions  even 
of  the  unskilful,  if  they  aim  at  improve- 
ment in  the  arts  of  civilized  life,  will 
meet  with  indulgence.  We  do  not 
sleep,  it  is  true,  with  a  good  round  log 
for  a  pillow.  Our  pillows  are  as  soft 
as  feathers  and  down  can  make  them. 
To  them,  I  have  nothing  to  object. 
But  our  beds,  I  am  tempted  to  sa}',  are 
either  too  soft  or  too  hard.  Neither 
feathers  nor  hair  is  so  good  a  material 
for  this  purpose  as  wool.  The  French 
bed,  which  usually  consists  of  two  thin 
mattresses  of  wool,  upon  a  foot  deep 
of  hay  or  straw,  is  four  times  as  cheap 
as  ours,  and  twice  as  comfortable.  On 
the  subject  of  warming  our  houses, 
also,  permit  me  to  say  a  word.  It  is 
scarcely  too  much  to  aver,  that  one  half 
of  the  fuel  burnt  in  this  country  is 
literally  thrown  away  ;  the  heat  passing, 
as  it  does,  into  the  dead  wall  of 
the  chimney.  The  air-chamber,  which 
should  take  its  place,  is  but  little  known 
in  the  country,  and  is  seldom  used,  I 
believe,  even  in  this  city.  Then,  again, 
with  regard  to  tiie  use  of  anthracite 
coal,  great  difficulty  is  experienced  from 
the  want  of  a  little  knowledge.  Many 
who  have  tried  it  complain  of  its  effect 
in  drying  the  air,  destroying  furniture, 
and  even  injuring  health.  They  say, 
that  in  mild  and  moist  weather  it  burns 
too  freely,  and  in  cold  and  dry  weather 
it  goes  out  entirely;  and  that  in  the 
warm  days  of  the  autumn  and  spring 
they  cannot  regulate  it  at  all.  For  this 
last  difliiculty,  let  me  observe,  in  pass- 
*  HoUingshead. 


300 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


ing,  there  is  a  very  simple  remedy.  A 
bank  of  fine  coal  of  proper  thickness, 
spread  over  a  grate-full  of  already  ignited 
coarse  coal,  will  make  a  fire  that  will  burn 
moderately  forty-eight  hours  without 
being  touched.  But  the  chief  remedy 
for  all  the  inconveniences  before  men- 
tioned, is  the  evaporation  of  water. 
Within  the  mason-work  of  every  grate 
that  is  set  for  this  kind  of  coal,  and  of 
course  entirely  out  of  sight,  and  about 
an  inch,  — you  will  pardon  me  for  being 
particular,  for  I  have. made  experiments, 
—  about  an  inch,  a  little  less,  from  the 
soapstone  at  the  side  of  the  grate,  should 
be  set  a  copper-fastened  or  earthen 
evaporator,  with  a  pipe  leading  out  to 
the  side  of  the  breastwork  of  the  chim- 
ney. This  vessel  will  evaporate  about 
two  quarts  of  water  in  a  day,  which  will 
give  a  sufficiently  humid  and  entirely 
healthful  atmosphere,  and  will  cause 
the  coal  to  burn  with  undiminished 
intensity  the  coldest  and  driest  day  in 
winter.  One  word  more,  if  you  please, 
in  connection  with  fuel  ;  and  that  is, 
upon  smoky  chimneys,  —  that  plague 
and  vexation  to  almost  half  the  houses 
in  the  country.  It  is  sufficiently  extraor- 
dinary that  it  should  be  so,  when  the 
fact  which  I  am  about  to  slate  is  un- 
questionable. And  this  fact  is,  that  a 
Franklin  stove,  set  in  the  fireplace  of 
one  of  these  smoky  chimneys,  is  usually 
found  to  correct  the  error  committed  in 
their  construction.  And  if  this  fact, 
when  it  is  considered,  will  not  lead  to 
the  true  principle  of  chimney-building, 
the  artisan  must  be  more  stupid  than 
the  brick  and  mortar  that  he  v/orks  in. 

In  making  these  suggestions,  I  have 
scarcely  strayed  from  the  topic  on 
which  I  am  engaged.  For  I  can  hardly 
think  that  the  /;//«<'/ is  fairly  dealt  with, 
■ —  I  can  hardly  think  that  virtue,  good- 
nature, ay,  that  patience  itself,  has  any 
fair  chance,  when  the  body  is  dried  like 
a  potsherd,  or  the  eyes  are  bleared  and 
vexed  with  smoke,  or  rheumatisms,  aches, 
and  pains,  as  bad  as  those  of  the  cave 
of  Prospero,  are  ever  comin^in,  through 
the  half-open-door,  upon  an  apartment,  | 


almost  as  much  exposed  to  the  searching 
air  without  as  the  mountain  itself. 

But  I  have  also  spoken  under  this  head 
of  the  relief  from  toil,  which  is,  and  is 
yet  more  to  be,  effected  by  the  progress 
of  the  mechanic  arts.  It  may,  however, 
be  recollected,  and  therefore  objected 
against  this  topic,  that  I  have  already 
said  that  labor-saving  machines  have 
ultimately  had  the  effect,  thus  far,  to  in- 
crease labor,  or  at  least  to  employ  a 
greater  number  of  hands.  It  is  neces- 
sary, then,  to  discriminate.  What  toil 
is  relieved  1  I  answer,  it  is  the  hardest, 
the  most  uninteresting  toil, —  the  drudg- 
ery of  toil,  that  is  relieved.  To  speak 
more  definitely,  it  is  that  part  of  labor 
which  is  employed  as  power.  The 
wheel  now  is  turned,  and  the  saw  is 
pushed,  and  even  the  planing-tool  is 
propelled,  by  steam.  The  consequence 
is,  that  labor  is  becoming  more  a  busi- 
ness of  dexterity  and  less  of  strength; 
and  toil  is  constantly  rising  to  tiie  dig- 
nity of  an  art.  Man  is  learning  that 
there  is  power  enough  in  nature  ;  and 
that  his  high  office  is  to  acquire  the 
skill  necessary  to  direct  it.  It  is  a  fur- 
ther advantage  to  the  mind  that  the 
power  which  man  thus  brings  to  aid 
him  is  certain ;  and  he  is  no  longer 
obliged  to  wnitior  the  wind  to  blow,  or 
the  stream  to  rise.  He  is  not  doomed, 
I  say,  to  ivaitiiig,  —  that  most  tedious 
method  of  passing  time,  that  utter  loss 
of  time,  that  only  utter  loss  of  time  ;  for  it 
is  the  only  condition  in  which  a  man  can 
neither  do  anything,  nor  think  anything, 
—  that  loss,  in  fact,  of  patience  itself. 
I  have  sometimes  been  tempted  to  wish 
that  there  were  some  machinery,  moral 
or  physical,  that  would  bring  men  punc- 
tually to  committee  meetings,  to  lectures, 
ay,  and  to  church  itself. 

But  further;  will  not  the  time  come 
when  the  improvements  in  machinery 
will  yet  more  signally  relieve  mankind  : 
when  not  only  their  strength,  but  their 
attention  in  a  greater  degree,  may  be 
spared  from  the  care  of  gaining  a  sub- 
sistence ;  when,    in   other    words,    they 


THE   ARTS    OF   INDUSTRY. 


301 


will  give  less  labor  to  mere  manual 
tasks,  and  have  more  time  for  reading 
and  thinking?  Without  some  intelli- 
gence, without  some  thought,  labor  is 
an  intolerable  drudgery.  Man  was  not 
made  to  be  a  mere  beast  of  burden. 
The  elements  of  toil  are  dark  and  heavy, 
and  forever  they  must  be,  till  they  are 
mixed  up  with  intellectual  and  moral 
liglit.  It  is,  in  this  view,  that  I  look 
with  pity  upon  much  of  tiie  toil  that  is 
in  the  world.  I  do  not  pity,  there  is  no 
occasion  to  pity,  the  intelligent  laborer ; 
"  the  peasant  saint,  if  such  a  one  were 
anywhere  to  be  met  with,  now-a-days" 
I  can  scarcely  conceive  of  any  position 
more  desirable  than  that  of  the  man 
who  goes  to  his  field  or  his  workshop, 
with  a  moderate  task  to  discharge,  and 
a  mind  to  think  as  well  as  a  hand  to 
work  ;  who  looks  upon  the  elements  he 
deals  with  as  the  teachers  of  wisdom 
and  the  ministers  of  piety  ;  who  studies 
and  understands  the  philosophy  of  his 
mechanism  and  manufacture,  his  soil 
and  flower-garden,  and  lives  in  his 
family  to  teach  it  the  like  wisdom.  La- 
bor, alas  !  too  often  wants  such  high 
and  cheering  ministration,  and  such  holy 
ends.  Its  brow  is  too  vacant  and  heavy. 
I  know  that  there  are  exceptions  ;  but 
to  my  eye  oftentimes  its  brow  is  too 
heavy,  its  lips  are  too  silent,  its  steps 
too  weary.  In  every  dark  mass  of 
worldly  materials  before  it,  there  is  some 
truth,  some  principle ;  but  the  eye  of 
labor  too  seldom  kindles  at  that  truth, 
that  principle.  Man  may  not  sink  to- 
wards tlie  condition  of  the  animal,  and 
find  it  well  for  him.  Let  him  go  to 
what  task,  to  what  conflict  he  will,  and 
leave  the  immortal  principles  of  his  na- 
ture behind  him,  and  he  will  find  himself 
deprived,  not  only  of  his  shield,  but  of 
the  very  fire  of  courage.  So  it  is  on  the 
very  steppes  of  Russia  ;  so  it  is  even 
in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine,  and  on  the 
plains  of  Italy.  To  my  eye,  there  is  no 
courage,  no  cheering,  there,  but  faces 
bowed  down  in  sad  and  bitter  earnest 
to  the  daily  task.  May  it  be  otherwise 
with  us  !     May  invention  relieve  labor, 


and  intellect  be  mixed  with  toil,  till  it 
become  that  high  dispensation  which 
God  designed  it  to  be,  for  the  improve- 
ment and  blessing  of  the  world  ! 

But  I  find  myself  entering  upon  a 
topic  which  I  intended  to  make  a  distinct 
one.  For  the  arts  of  industry  not  only 
indirectly  tend  to  improve  society  by 
increasing  its  comforts  and  relieving  its 
toils,  but  tliey  have  a  direct  bearing 
upon  the  same  end. 

For,  in  the  first  place,  they  elicit  and 
employ  the  mind  of  society.  I  have 
already  said,  indeed,  that  it  is  most  de- 
sirable and  needful  that  more  thought, 
more  insight  into  principles,  should  be 
mixed  up  with  the  employments  of  the 
mass  of  the  people.  But  still  it  is  not  to 
be  forgotten  that  labor,  and  especially 
cultivated  labor,  does  and  must  exercise 
and  task  the  intellect.  It  would  be  the 
mistake  only  of  the  most  arrant  book- 
worm, to  suppose  that  the  mind  never 
labors  but  over  the  written  page  or  the 
abstract  proposition.  The  merchant, 
the  manufacturer,  the  mechanic,  is  of- 
ten a  harder  thinker  than  the  student. 
The  machinist  and  the  engineer  are  em- 
ployed in  somfe  of  the  finest  schools  of 
intellect.  Books,  so  far  as  they  relate 
to  these  several  employments,  are  only 
designed  to  make  those  engaged  in  them 
more  accomplished  and  intellectual  la- 
borers. There  are  tasks,  indeed,  rising 
but  little  above  the  toils  of  the  tread- 
mill, for  which  no  such  consideration 
can  be  pleaded ;  and  I  cannot  help 
hoping,  that  some  method  will  be  found 
to  relieve  the  labors  of  the  hod.  That 
which  Herodotus  tells  us,  of  the  work- 
men who  built  the  pyramids,  is  not 
strange  ;  that  they  held  the  memory  ofthe 
royal  projectors  of  those  unsightly  moun- 
tains of  stone  and  mortar,  upon  the  bare 
construction  of  one  of  which  —  not  the 
working  in  quarries,  but  upon  the  bare 
construction  of  the  largest  of  which, 
100,000  men  were  employed  for  twenty 
years,  —  that  in  Egypt,  I  say,  they  held 
the  memory  of  these  mighty  tyrants  in 
perpetual  execration. 

In  the  next  place,  industry  is  the  great 


302 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


school  of  human  virtue.  It  is  not 
enough  to  say,  that  this  dispensation  is 
necessary  to  keep  men  out  of  evil  and 
mischief.  It  is  not  enough  to  say,  that 
the  industrious  are  always  the  most 
virtuous  classes.  But  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served that  human  industry  is  placed 
in  peculiar  circumstances,  especially 
fitted  and  designed  to  elicit  and  try  tiie 
virtues  of  human  beings.  The  animal, 
following  his  instincts,  finds  a  certain 
facility  in  his  path.  Human  industry, 
on  the  contrary,  is  always  a  conflict  with 
difficulties.  The  animal  organs  are  pre- 
cisely fitted  to  their  respective  tasks,  and 
are  already  sufficient  to  all  the  pur- 
poses of  animal  industry.  But  man 
has  to  adjust  his  powers  to  an  infinite 
variety  of  exertions  ;  ten  thousand  deli- 
cate manipulations  and  feats  of  dexter- 
ity are  required  of  him  ;  his  eye  is  to 
be  trained  to  precision,  and  his  mind  to 
taste ;  new  instruments,  too,  are  con- 
stantly to  be  invented  to  overcome  the 
difficulties  in  his  way.  This,  then,  is 
the  theatre  of  energy  and  patience  ;  yes, 
and  I  add,  of  moral  wisdom  and  self- 
restraint.  The  animal  may  gorge  him- 
self, and  can  then  lie  down  and  sleep  off 
his  surfeit  ;  and  he  takes  no  harm  from 
midnight  dew,  or  the  open  and  chill 
canopy  that  is  spread  over  him.  But 
man  cannot  endure  such  indulgence  or 
exposure.  If  he  gives  himself  up  to 
sensual  excess,  his  powers  at  once  begin 
to  fail  him.  His  eye  loses  its  clearness, 
his  hand  its  dexerity,  his  finger  its 
nicety  of  touch,  and  he  becomes  a  lame, 
deficient,  and  dishonored  workman. 

Nor  is  this  all.  How  many  natural 
ties  are  there  between  even  the  humblest 
scene  of  labor  and  the  noblest  affections 
of  humanity  !  In  this  view  the  employ- 
ment of  mere  muscular  strength  is  enno- 
bled. There  is  a  central  point  in  every 
man's  life,  around  which  all  his  toils  and 
cares  revolve.  It  is  tliat  spot  which  is 
consecrated  by  the  names  of  wife,  and 
children,  and  home.  A  secret,  an  almost 
imperceptible  influence  from  that  spot, 
which  is  like  no  other  upon  earth,  steals 
into  the  breast  of  the  virtuous  laboring 


man,  and  strengthens  every  weary  step 
of  his  toil.  Every  blow  that  is  struck 
in  the  workshop  and  the  field,  finds  an 
echo  in  that  holy  shrine  of  his  affections. 
If  he  who  fights  to  protect  his  home 
rises  to  the  point  of  heroic  virtue,  no 
less  may  he  who  labors,  his  life  long,  to 
provide  for  that  home.  Peace  be  within 
those  domestic  walls,  and  prosperity  be- 
neath those  humble  roofs  !  But  should 
it  ever  be  otherwise  ;  should  the  time 
ever  come  when  the  invader's  step  ap- 
proaches to  tx)uch  those  sacred  thresh- 
olds, I  see  in  the  labors  that  are  taken 
for  them  that  wounds  will  be  taken  for 
them  too ;  I  see  in  every  honest  work- 
man around  me  a  hero. 

So  material  do  I  deem  this  point —  the 
true  nobility  of  labor,  I  mean  —  that  I 
would  dwell  upon  it  a  moment  longer, 
and  in  a  larger  view.  Why,  then,  in  the 
great  scale  of  things,  is  labor  ordained 
for  us  ?  Easily,  had  it  so  pleased  the 
great  Ordainer,  might  it  have  been  dis- 
pensed with.  The  world  itself  might 
have  been  a  mighty  machinery  for  the 
production  of  all  that  man  wants.  The 
motion  of  the  globe  upon  its  axis  might 
have  been  the  power  to  move  that  world 
of  machinery.  Ten  thousand  wheels 
within  wheels  might  have  been  at  work  : 
ten  thousand  processes,  more  curious 
and  complicated  than  man  can  devise, 
might  have  been  going  forward  without 
man's  aid  ;  houses  might  have  risen  like 
an  exhalation, 

"  With  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet. 
Built  like  a  temple  ;  " 

gorgeous  furniture  might  have  been 
placed  in  them,  and  soft  couches  and 
luxurious  banquets  spread,  by  hands  un- 
seen ;  and  man,  clothed  with  fabrics  of 
nature's  weaving,  richer  than  imperial 
purple,  might  have  been  sent  to  disport 
himself  in  these  Elysian  palaces.  "  Fair 
scene  !  "  I  imagine  you  are  saying:  "for- 
tunate for  us,  had  it  been  the  scene  or- 
dained for  human  life  ! "  But  where  then, 
tell  me,  had  been  human  energy,  perse- 
verance, patience,  virtue,  heroism  ?  Cut 
oflf  with  one  blow  from,  the  world  ;  and 


THE   ARTS   OF   INDUSTRY. 


303 


mankind  had  sunk  to  a  crowd,  nay,  far 
beneath  a  crowd  of  Asiatic  voluptuaries. 
No,  it  had  not  been  fortunate.    Better 
that  the  earth  be  given  to  man  as  a  dark 
mass  whereon  to  labor.    Better  that  rude 
and  unsightly  materials  be  provided  in 
the  ore-bed  and  the  forest,  for  him  to 
fashion  into  splendor  and  beauty.  Better, 
I  say,  not  because  of  that  splendor  and 
beauty,  but   because   the   act    creating 
them  is  better   than    the   things   them- 
selves ;  because  exertion  is  nobler  than 
enjoyment  ;  because  the  laborer  is  great- 
er and  more  worthy  of  honor  than  the 
idler.    I  call  upon  those  whom  I  address, 
to  stand  up  for  that  nobility  of  labor.   It 
is  Heaven's  great  ordinance  for  human 
improvement.      Let   not  that  great  or- 
dinance  be  broken  down.     What  do  I 
sav  ?     It   Ts   broken  down;   and  it  has 
been  broken  down  for  ages.     Let  it  then 
be  built  up  again  ;  here,  if  anywhere,  on 
these  shores  of  a  new  world,  of  a  new 
civilization.     But  how,  I  may  be  asked, 
is  it  broken  down  ?     Do  not  men  toil  ?  it 
may  be  said.     They  do  indeed  toil,  but 
they  too  generally  do   it   because   they 
must.    Many  submit  to   it  as,  m  some 
sort,  a  degrading  necessity  ;  and  they  de- 
sire nothing  so  much  on  earth  as  escape 
from  it      They  fulfil  the  great  law  of  la- 
bor in  the  letter,  but.  break  it  in  spirit  ; 
fulfil  it  with  the  muscle,  but  break  it  with 
the  mind.     To  some  field  of  labor,  mental 
or  manual,  every  idler  should  hasten,  as 
a  chosen  and  coveted  theatre  of  improve- 
ment.    But  so  is  he  not  impelled  to  do, 
under   the   teachings    of   our  imperfect 
civilization.     On   the    contrary,  he    sits 
down,  folds  his  hands,  and  blesses  him- 
self in  his  idleness.     This  way  of  think- 
ing is  the  heritage  of  the  absurd  and 
unjust  feudal  system,  under  which  serfs 
labored,  and  gentlemen  spent  their  lives 
in  fighting  and  feasting.     It  is  dme  that 
this  opprobrium  of  toil  were  done  away. 
Ashamed  to  toil,  art  thou  ?     Ashamed  of 
thy  dingy    workshop   and  dusty   labor- 
field  ;    of  thy  hard   hand,   scarred   with 
service   more    honorable    than    that    of 
war :  of  thy  soiled  and  weather-stained 


garments,  on  which  mother  nature  has 
stamped,  midst  sun  and  rain,  midst  fire 
and  steam,  her  own  heraldic  honors  t 
Ashamed  of  these  tokens  and  titles,  and 
envious  of  the  flaunting  robes  of  imbe- 
cile idleness  and  vanity  ?  It  is  trea- 
son to  nature;  it  is  impiety  to  Heaven  ; 
it  is  breaking  Heaven's  great  ordinance. 
Toil,  I  repeat  —  toil,  either  of  the  bram, 
of  the  heart,  or  of  the  hand,  is  the  only 
true  manhood,  the  only  true  nobility. 

But  I  am  not  willing  to  leave  this 
subject,  of  which  I  have  spoke*  thus 
generally,  —  tlie  direct  tendency,  i.  e.  of 
labor  to  improve  society, —  without  some 
brief  suggestions  of  a  more  specific 
bearing. 

The  effect  of  our  political  institutions 
on  society  makes  it  necessary  that  we 
should  extend  a  special  and  fostering 
care  to  our  domestic  industry  ;  to  the 
industry,  I  mean,  of  families,  on  their 
own  property.  In  many  of  the  families, 
especially  of  farmers,  in  the  country, 
there  is  a  want  of  employment  for  the 
female  members  of  them  ;  and  many  a 
man  have  I  seen  sinking  beneath  that 
dearly  cherished  but  unproductive  por- 
tion of  his  domestic  charge.  The  state 
and  feeling  of  equality  among  our  peo- 
ple makes  him  unwilling  to  employ  his 
daughters,  or  to  consent  to  their  em- 
ployment, in  services  out  of  his  own 
family.  He  should  therefore  find  some- 
thing for  them  to  do  within  it.  And  on 
this  account,  as  well  as  for  other  rea- 
sons, all  manufactures  capable  of  being 
made  purely  domestic,  as  of  woollen 
cloths,  stockings,  &c.,  and  especially 
the  culture  of  the  mulberry  and  the 
making  of  silk,  are  entitled  to  the 
strongest  commendation  and  patron- 
age. No  community,  as  a  mass,  can 
thrive,  which  does  not  employ  all  its 
members ;  no  body  of  families  can 
flourish,  where  one,  two,  or  three  per- 
sons in  each  family  are  unproductive,  — 
a  sufficient  proof  that  God  never  made 
the  world  for  idleness.  Thus,  I  think, 
you  will  find  that  the  grazing  and  dairy- 
making   townships  in   the  country  are 


304 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


the  most  prosperous  ;  and  the  grain- 
growing  townships,  where  women  have 
less  employment,  far  less  so.  I  do  not 
deny  that  there  are  other  reasons  for 
this  difference,  but  I  think  this  is  one. 
And  I  have  observed,  too,  that  the  peo- 
ple from  the  hill-pastures  are  constantly 
coming  down  and  buying  up  the  pleas- 
ant-looking valleys  that  lie  spread  out 
beneath  them.  You  have  seen,  perhaps, 
the  experiment  of  putting  colored  par- 
ticles into  boiling  water,  to  show  how  the 
water  ascends  on  the  outside  of  the  ves- 
sel and  descends  in  the  centre,  towards 
the  bottom.  In  some  tracts  of  coun- 
try, I  have  observed  the  hill  and  valley 
process  to  be  almost  as  regular  as  that. 
Let  me  now  advert  to  an  entirely 
different  subject  ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
supply  of  our  cities  with  pure  water. 
The  introduction  of  New  River  into 
London  gives  every  family  in  that  vast 
metropolis  200  gallons  per  day,  for  two- 
pence. What  a  means  of  comfort  and 
cleanliness  this  must  be,  need  not  be 
said.  But  this  is  not  all.  I  have  heard 
scientific  persons,  medical  men  in  Lon- 
don, speaking  of  the  almost  unprece- 
dented improvement  of  their  city  in 
health,  ascribe  more  of  it  to  the  intro- 
duction of  New  River  than  to  all  other 
causes  put  together.  It  is,  in  fact,  a 
rushing  stream,  bearing  away  all  the 
filth  from  the  innumerable  sewers  con- 
nected with  it.  It  may  be  no  better 
than  the  suggestion  of  fancy  and  in- 
experience, but  I  cannot  help  wishing 
that  the  Croton  River,  when  it  is  brought 
here,  may  be  made  —  after  supplying  the 
citizens  with  water,  and  twenty  gener- 
ous fountains  besides  —  to  pass  down 
in  a  grand  sewer  under  Broadway,  and 
by  branches  under  the  principal  cross- 
streets  of  the  city  to  either  river.  Even 
then  we  should  not  have  done  what 
Rome  did  to  supply  herself  with  water, 
and  to  build  her  Cloaca  iJtaxima  and 
other  drains.  And  as  to  the  feasibility 
of  the  project,  a  hint  may  be  derived 
from  the  fact  that  the  stock  in  the 
New  River  Company  (London),  which 


originally  cost  one  hundred  pounds,  is 
now  worth  fifteen  hundred. 

One  topic  more  under  this  head,  and 
I  shall  have  approached  the  point  of 
relieving  your  patience  :  and  that  is, 
the  direct  tendency  of  the  arts  to  im- 
prove society  by  increasing  its  inter- 
course. 

A  journey,  to  an  observing  man,  is  as 
the  opening  of  a  volume  ;  ay,  and  with 
something  better,  too,  than  plates  and 
illustrations.  He  reads  men  and  man- 
ners, and  events,  and  circumstances, 
and  improvements.  His  knowledge  is 
increased,  his  prejudices  are  abated,  his 
charities  are  kindled,  his  ties  to  his 
countrymen  and  his  kind  are  strength- 
ened. In  countries  where  there  is  little 
travel,  one  is  struck  with  the  broad  and 
separating  marks  of  provincialism  at 
every  step.  Men  cultivate  the  earth 
as  their  fathers  did,  build  like  their 
fathers,  live  like  their  fathers,  and  die 
like  their  fathers.  The  wheels  of  social 
improvement  stand  still.  One  little  cir- 
cle, indeed,  of  social  being,  acts  upon 
those  perpetual  dwellers  at  home,  who 
sometimes  live  and  die  without  ever 
seeing  a  neighboring  city ;  but  the 
great  engine  of  society,  its  mighty  im- 
pulse, they  do  not  feel.' 

Our  steamboats  and  railroads  are 
tending  constantly  to  make  us  a  more 
homogeneous,  sympathizing,  and  hu- 
mane people.  A  visit  to  one's  distant 
friends,  everybody  knows,  is  a  very 
pleasant  thing ;  but  are  its  uses  in  the 
great  family  of  society  often  consid- 
ered ?  Intercourse,  in  such  circum- 
stances, is  usually  an  interchange  of 
all  the  thoughts,  views,  and  improve- 
ments that  prevail  in  different  parts  of 
the  country.  "  Their  talk  is  of  oxen,"  if 
you  please,  or  it  is  of  soils  and  grains, 
or  it  is  of  manufacture  and  trade,  or  it 
is  of  books  and  philosophies  ;  but  it  is 
all  good  —  good  for  somebody  at  least 
—  good  in  the  main  for  everybody. 
Thus,  our  steamboats  are  like  floating- 
saloons,  and  our  railroads  like  the  air- 
pipes  of   a  mighty   whispering-gallery  ; 


THE   ARTS   OF   INDUSTRY. 


305 


and  men  are  conversing  with  one  an- 
other, and  communicating  and  blend- 
ing their  daily  thoughts,  throughout  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
These  means  of  communication  are 
thus  constantly  interchanging,  not  only 
different  views,  but  the  advantages  of 
different  kinds  of  residence.  They  are 
imparting  rural  tastes  to  the  citizen,  and 
city  polish  to  the  countryman.  I  can- 
not help  thinking,  that  in  time  they  will 
produce  a  decided  effect  upon  city  resi- 
dence ;  relieving  us,  somewhat,  of  our 
crowded  and  overgrown  population ; 
sending  out  many  from  these  pent-up 
abodes  in  town,  to  the  green  and  pleas- 
ant dwelling-places  of  the  country. 

The  progress  of  communication  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  years  leaves  us  al- 
most nothing  to  wish,  and  yet  entitles 
us  to  expect  everything.  Many  of  you 
remember  what  a  passage  up  the  Hud- 
son was,  twenty  years  ago.  You  re- 
member the  uncertain  packet,  lingering 
for  a  wind  at  the  wharf  till  patience  was 
almost  exhausted  ;  and  then,  at  length, 
pursuing  its  zigzag  course,  now  waver- 
ing in  the  breeze,  now  halting  in  the 
calm,  like  a  crazy  traveller,  doubtful  of 
his  way,  or  whether  to  proceed  at  all. 
And  now,  when  you  set  your  foot  on  the 
deck  of  one  of  our  steamboats,  you  feel 
as  if  the  pawings  of  some  reined  courser 
were  beneath  you,  impatient  to  start 
from  the  goal ;  anon,  it  seems  to  you 
as  if  the  strength  and  stride  of  a  giant 
were  bearing  you  onward  ;  till  at  length, 
when  the  evening  shadow  falls,  and 
hides  its  rougher  features  from  your 
sight,  you  might  imagine  it  the  queenly 
genius  of  the  noble  river,  as  it  moves  on 
between  the  silent  shores,  and  flings  its 
spangled  robe  upon  the  waters. 

There  is  one  further  and  final  sug- 
gestion, which,  at  the  risk  of  its  being 
thought  professional,  I  would  not  alto- 
gether omit  in  this  survey  of  the  moral 
tendencies  of  mechanic  art.  It  leads 
the  mind  to  the  infinite  wisdom  of 
nature,  to  the  infinite  wisdom  of  its 
Author. 


The  materials,  for  instance,  on  which 
art  is  to  work, — how  wonderfully  are 
they  adapted  to  one  another,  and  to  the 
natural  powers  of  the  workman  !  The 
steel  is  adapted  to  the  wood  it  cuts  ; 
the  water  to  the  wheel  it  moves  and  to 
the  ship  it  bears  ;  the  plough  to  the 
soil  it  turns.  Weight  is  adjusted  to 
power.  If  the  hammer  weighed  a  hun- 
dred pounds,  vainly  would  the  hind 
strive  to  wield  it.  If  the  earth  were 
covered  with  a  forest  of  iron,  man  would 
labor  in  vain  to  cut  it  down  and  build 
it  into  houses. 

If  an  intelligent  manufacturer  or 
mechanic  would  carefully  note  down  in 
a  book  all  the  instances  of  adaptation 
that  presented  themselves  to  his  atten- 
tion, he  would  in  time  have  a  large 
volume  :  and  it  would  be  a  volume  of 
philosophy ;  a  volume  of  indisputable 
facts  in  defence  of  a  Providence.  I 
could  not  help  remarking  lately,  when 
I  saw  a  furnace  upon  the  stream  of  the 
valley,  and  the  cartman  bringing  down 
ore  from  the  mountains,  how  inconven- 
ient it  would  have  been  if  this  order  of 
nature  had  been  reversed  ;  if  the  ore- 
bed  had  been  in  the  valley,  and  the 
stream  had  been  so  constituted  as  to 
rise,  and  to  make  its  channel  upon  the 
tops  of  the  ridges.  Nay,  more  ;  treas- 
ures are  slowly  prepared  and  carefully 
laid  up  in  the  great  store-houses  of 
nature,  against  the  time  when  man  shall 
want  them.  When  the  wood  is  cut  off 
from  the  plains  and  the  hills,  and  fuel 
begins  to  fail,  and  man  looks  about 
him  with  alarm  at  the  prospect,  lo  !  l:ie- 
neath  his  feet  are  found,  in  mines  of 
bitumen  and  mountains  of  anthracite, 
the  long  hidden  treasures  of  Providence 
—  the  treasure-houses  of  that  care  and 
kindness  which  at  every  new  step  of 
human  improvement,  instead  of  appear- 
ing to  be  superseded,  seem  doubly  en- 
titled to  the  name  of  Pro^ndence. 

Nature,  too,  is  itself  a  world  of  mech- 
anism ;  and  it  invites  mechanic  art  at 
every  step  to  admire  that  intelligent, 
and,  it    I    may  say   so,   that   congenial 


3o6 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


wisdom  which  is  displayed  in  it.  The 
human  body  is  a  structure  of  art,  fear- 
iully  and  wonderfully  made.  The  hu- 
man arm  and  hand  is  a  tool,  an  in- 
strument ;  and  what  an  instrument !  — 
composed  of  twenty  or  thirty  solid, 
separate  parts,  besides  the  cartilages, 
ligaments,  and  nerves,  that  give  it  its 
wonderful  security,  strength,  and  tact. 
What  indefeasible  cunning  lies  in  that 
right  hand  ;  nay,  what  latent  cunning,  — 
every  new  year  of  mechanic  discovery 
developing  it  more  and  more,  —  what 
latent  cunning  sleeps  in  the  sinews  and 
nerves  of  that  folded  palm!  And  then 
that  curious  rotary  motion  of  the  fore- 
arm ;  what  efforts  of  mechanic  art  have 
there  been  to  imitate  that  skill  of  the 
great  Maker  of  our  frame  !  And  again, 
the  human  head  —  that  dome  of  the 
house  of  hfe  —  is  built  upon  the  most 
perfect  principles  of  that  kind  of  struc- 
ture ;  with  its  thicker  bones  in  the  base 
of  the  skull,  like  the  solid  masonry  of 
a  Roman  arch ;  with  its  interior  and 
supporting  ridges  of  bone,  hke  the  fly- 
ing buttresses  of  a  Gothic  cathedral. 
The  dome  of  St.  Sophia,  in  Constanti- 
nople, built  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor 
Justinian,  fell  three  times  during  its 
•erection  ;  the  dome  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Florence  stood  unfinished  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years,  for  the  want  of  an 
architect  ;  and  yet  it  has  been  justly 
said,  that  every  man  employed  about 
them  had  the  model  in  his  own  head. 

All  nature  is  not  only,  I  repeat,  a  world 
of  mechanism,  but  it  is  the  work  of  infi- 
nite art;  and  the  artisan,  the  toiler,  is 
but  a  student,  an  apprentice  in  that  school. 
And  when  he  has  done  all,  what  can  he 
do  to  equal  the  skill  of  the  great  original 
he  copies  ;  to  equal  the  wisdom  of  Him 
who  has  "stretched  out  the  heavens  like 
a  curtain,  who  laid  the  beams  of  his  cham- 
bers on  the  waters  ! "  What  engines 
can  he  form  like  those  which  raise  up 
through  the  dark  labyrinths  of  the  moun- 
tains the  streams  that  gush  forth  in 
fountains  from  their  summits  ?  What 
pillars  and  what  architecture  can  he  lift 


up  on  high,  like  the  mighty  forest  trunks, 
and  their  architrave  and  frieze  of  glori- 
ous foliage?  What  dyes  can  he  invent 
like  those  which  spread  their  ever-chang- 
ing and  many-colored  robes  over  the 
earth  ?  What  pictures  can  he  cause  to 
glow,  like  those  which  are  painted  on  the 
dome  of  heaven  ? 

It  is  the  glory  of  art  that  it  penetrates, 
and  develops  the  wonders  and  bounties 
of  nature.  It  draws  their  richness  from 
the  valleys,  and  their  secret  stores  from 
the  mountains.  It  leads  forth  every 
year  fairer  flocks  and  herds  upon  the 
hills  ;  it  yokes  the  ox  to  the  plough,  and 
trains  the  fiery  steed  to  its  car.  Il  plants 
the  unsightly  germ,  and  rears  it  into  vege- 
table beauty  ;  it  takes  the  dull  ore  and 
transfuses  it  into  splendor,  or  gives  it 
the  edge  of  the  tool  or  the  lancet;  it 
gathers  the  filaments  which  nature  has 
curiously  made,  and  weaves  them  into 
soft  and  compact  fabrics.  It  sends  out 
its  ships  to  discover  unknown  seas  and 
shores  ;  or  it  plunges  into  its  workshops 
at  home,  to  detect  tiie  secret  that  is 
locked  up  in  mineral,  or  is  flowing  in 
liquid  matter.  It  scans  the  spheres  and 
systems  of  heaven  with  its  far  sight  ;  or 
turns  with  microscopic  eye,  and  finds  in 
the  drops  that  sparkle  in  the  sun  other 
worlds  crowded  with  life.  Yet  more  ; 
mechanic  art  is  the  handmaid  of  society. 
It  has  made  man  its  special  favorite.  It 
clothes  him  with  fine  linen  and  soft  rai- 
ment. It  builds  him  houses,  it  kindles 
the  cheerful  fire,  it  lights  the  evening 
lamp,  it  spreads  before  him  the  manifold 
pages  of  wisdom  :  it  delights  his  eye 
with  gracefulness,  it  charms  his  ear  with 
music  ;  it  multiplies  the  facihties  of  com- 
munication and  the  ties  of  brotherhood; 
it  is  the  softener  of  all  domestic  chari- 
ties, it  is  the  bond  of  nations. 

Gentlemen  of  the  American  Institute! 
you  need  no  commendation  of  mine  ; 
your  works  speak  for  you  ;  and  I  have 
only  to  wish  that  they  may  advance  in 
improvement  and  extend  in  utility  ;  an 
honor  to  yourselves,  and  a  blessing  to 
our  common  country  ! 


THE    IDENTITY    OF   ALL   ART. 


307 


XVI. 
THE    IDENTITY    OF   ALL   ART* 
Gentlemen  of  the  Apollo  Association  : 

The  ground  on  which  I  shall  place 
myself,  in  addressing  to  you  a  few  ob- 
servations this  evening,  is  the  identity  of 
all  art ;  identity  in  object,  in  the  princi- 
ples of  criticism  and  culture,  and  in  the 
reasons  for  promoting  it.  This  is  at  once 
my  subject  and  my  apology  ;  my  apol- 
ogy, I  mean,  for  this  seeming  departure 
from  my  own  walk.'  Your  invitation,  in- 
deed, will  acquit  me  of  presumption  with 
you  ;  but  this  is  the  apology  which  I  have 
offered  to  myself.  For  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  am  departing  from  my  own  walk, 
so  far  as  I  may  at  first  seem  to  do.  Let- 
ters and  the  arts  of  design  belong  to 
the  same  great  school.  I  consider  my- 
self as  an  artist,  however  humble,  as 
much  as  anyone  who  has  placed  a  paint- 
ing on  your  walls.  I  regard  the  prin- 
ciples of  all  intellectual  production  as 
being  essentially  the  same. 

It  is  a  common  idea  that  painting,  as 
an  art,  and  pictures,  as  objects  of  criti- 
cism, stand  entirely  by  themselves  ; 
that  they  do  not  come  within  the  range 
of  men's  ordinary  judgment  and  feel- 
ings ;  that  common  men  have  no  busi- 
ness to  say  anytliing  about  them.  Of 
an  oration  they  think  they  can  judge, 
but  not  of  a  painting  ;  of  a  book,  but 
not  of  a  picture  ;  of  a  fine  landscape, 
but  not  of  its  representation  on  the 
canvas.  But  as  I  do  not  admit  the  pro- 
priety of  this  distinction,  I  do  not  feel 
the  need  of  any  pretension  or  pride  of 
connoisseurship,  to  warrant  me  in  offer- 
ing some  thoughts  to  you  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion ;  introductory  as  they 
appropriately  are  for  me  with  my  limited 
knowledge,  and  as  I  doubt  not  they  will 
be  to  deeper  views  by  others  on  the 
whole   subject  of  art. 

Let  us  then  consider  the  identity  of 
all  art.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  the  topic 
will  yield  some  reflections    not  inappro- 

*  An  Introductory  Lecture  before  the  Apollo  As- 
sociation in  New  York,  in  1840.  This  Institution 
has  bince   taken  the  title  of  the  American  Art-Union. 


priate  to  the  purposes  of  this  meeting, 
and  to  the  design  of  this  course  of 
Lectures. 

I  say  the  identity  of  all  art  ;  but  I 
might  say  the  identity  of  ail  action.  As 
the  universe  is  the  expression  of  a  Mind  ; 
as  everything  in  heaven  and  on  earth 
is  significant  of  something  beyond  itself : 
as  every  movement  has  a  meaning,  — 
not  a  rolling  world  nor  a  falling  leaf 
excepted,  — and  the  whole  creation  tinis 
bodies  forth  an  idea ;  so,  within  the 
limited  range  of  man's  action,  all  is  ex- 
pression. There  is  notliing  of  final 
import  in  the  whole  world  of  man's  in- 
dustry or  agency  but  this,  —  but  e.xpres- 
sion  ;  and  he  who  has  not  seen  this,  has 
seen  nothing.  He  has  neither  the  art- 
ist's nor  the  poet's,  nor  the  Christian's 
eye.  He  who  sees  nothing  around  him 
but  a  hard,  dull,  intractable,  lifeless 
world,  nothing  but  machinery,  brick 
and  mortar,  iiewn  stone  and  woodwork, 
—  that  man  understands  nothing,  can 
interpret  nothing,  can  describe,  can  paint 
nothing.  He  cannot  paint  still-life, 
without  this  insight.  Without  this,  he 
will  be  but  a  sort  of  Chinese  painter. 
Tlie  very  flowers  and  birds  which  the 
Chinese  paint  so  beautifully,  look  like 
wax-work  ;  and  the  portraits  which  they 
copy  seem  but  for  some  coloring,  to 
be  pictures  of  the  dead.  But  the  mere 
wooden  bowl  or  axe-helve  that  a  true 
artist  paints  has  life  in  it.  The  one 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  washed  a  thou- 
sand times,  and  the  other  as  if  it  had 
felled  a  thousand  trees. 

There  is,  I  repeat,  this  identity  in  ev- 
erything that  man  has  wrought,  —  that  it 
bears  the  .stamp  of  his  mind.  Whether 
it  be  a  plough  or  a  picture,  a  statue  of 
Canova  or  a  log-hut  beyond  the  moun- 
tains, an  airy  strain  of  music  or  a 
massive  pile  of  architecture,  a  cotton 
manufactory  or  a  gallery  of  art,  —  all  is 
expression.  The  living  thought  of  man 
not  only  wrestles  in  the  heaving  crowd, 
but  it  stands  revealed  in  the  stately  wall ; 
it  looks  out  through  the  windows  of 
every  house-front ;  it  breathes  from  the 
rifted  arches  of  every  mouldering  ruin  ; 


3o8 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  OCCASIONAL. 


it  sighs  through  the  green  leaves  and  the 
tall  grass  where  bloody  battle  has  been 
done  ;  it  comes  down  as  a  presence  upon 
every  great  field  of  momentous  history 
like  Italy,  and  weighs  and  presses  upon 
the  heart  more  than  as  if  a  living  multi- 
tude were  there.  The  face  of  the  culti- 
vated and  trodden  world  bears  the  impress 
of  human  thought  as  its  grand  expres- 
sion. The  tissues  of  human  hearts  have 
woven  all  round  this  mighty  globe  —  over 
mountain  and  over  valley,  over  empire 
and  throne,  and  bare  cottage  and  barren 
sand  —  a  robe  of  life. 

Now  it  is  the  peculiar  province  of  the 
fine  arts  to  unfold  this  life.  All  human 
action  exhibits  it;  but  art  proposes  this 
exhibition  as  its  very  purpose  and  end. 
And  in  this  definition  of  art  are  embraced 
not  only  architecture,  sculpture,  paint- 
ing, and  music,  but  also  oratory,  and 
writing,  whether  of  prose  or  poetry. 

Let  me  be  permitted,  in  passing,  to 
claim  this  place  for  prose  writing.  It  is 
as  truly  an  art  as  poetry.  I  question,  in 
fact,  whether  it  is  not  a  higher  art.  Poe- 
try, indeed,  is  more  artificial,  but  I  doubt 
whether  it  is  the  higher  art.  It  is  said 
to  be  the  elder-born, — born  of  ruder 
ages ;  and  I  can  well  believe  it.  That 
is  to  say,  I  can  believe  that  less  mental 
culture  is  required  to  put  words  in  that 
shape  than  in  the  shape  of  perfect  prose  ; 
just  as  in  the  body,  less  culture  would 
be  required  to  walk  easily  in  trammels 
than  to  walk  gracefully  without.  If  He- 
siod  and  Homer  had  written  in  prose,  I 
doubt  whether  it  would  have  been  as 
good  prose  as  their  poetry  was.  And, 
to  take  a  modern  instance,  I  think  no 
lioetry  of  Mr.  Southey  shows  so  much 
real  art  as  his  Espriella's  Letters.  It 
is  sometimes  said  to  a  prose  writer  of 
genius,  "  Why  do  you  not  write  poetry  ?  I 
am  certain  it  is  in  you."  I  am  not  sure  — 
the  poets  and  critics  must  pardon  my  ex- 
travagance —  I  am  not  sure  but  he  might 
answer,  "Because  I  am  doing  a  better 
thing."  "Yes,  but  it  is  so  much  ad- 
mired. If  the  thoughts  you  have  ex- 
pressed had  been  in  poetry  they  would 
have  given  you  a  reputation."     "  True, 


but  this  does  not  prove  that  poetry  is 
the  higher  art.     Whatever  is  unusual,  is 
most  likely  to  be  admired.     As  speech 
is  the  endowment  of  all,  few  are  likely 
to  understand  what  an  exquisite  instru- 
ment it  is,  and  what  exquisite  art  is  im- 
plied in  its  perfection.     A  military  man, 
with  epaulettes  and  gay  costume,  march- 
ing, with  measured  tread,  at  the  head  of 
his  troojDs,  will  draw  more  eyes  than  he 
who  walks  gracefully  along  the  street ; 
and  yet  the  military  man  perhaps  would 
never  reach  that  grc-^ceful  carriage.     If 
he  be  an  accomplished  man,  he  will,  in- 
deed; and  so  the  best  poets  are  among 
the  best  writers  of  prose  ;  as,  for  instance, 
Milton  and   Wordsworth,  and  our  own 
Bryant  and  Dana.     This  fact,   I   think, 
is  in  my  favor;  especially  when  taken  in 
connection  with  another,  viz.,  that  when 
you  descend  from  the  highest  walk  of 
the  art  of  writing,  you  will  find  more  in 
proportion  of  unexceptionable  and  har- 
monious poetry,  than  you  will  of  good 
sound    prose.      In    other   words,    more 
men  of  ordinary  talent,  proportionably, 
write  good  poetry  than  good  prose.    You 
will  observe  that  I  am  not  speaking  at 
all  of  the  essence  of  thought;  that  may 
exist  alike  in  both.     And  that  I  suppose 
is  what  is  mostly  meant  by  those  critics 
who  wrap  up  all  the  world's  genius  in 
poetry.     But  I  am  speaking  strictly  of 
xh&form  of  writing.     And  what  I  assert 
at  the  least  is,  that  prose-writing  is  as 
high  a  form  of  art  as  rhyme  or  rhythm. 
The  latter  is  more    admired,   I    repeat, 
because  it  is   unusual ;  because   it  is  a 
wonder ;  because  it  is  more  out  of  the 
common  reach.     But  this  no  more  proves 
that  it   is  a  higher   art,  than  the  same 
feeling  would  prove  that  court  etiquette 
is  a  higher  thing  than  true  gentlemanly 
tact  and  good-breeding  in  a  private  draw- 
ing-room.    'Verse,' says  Mr.  Bulwer, — 
I  beg  you  will  bear  with  this  digression 
a  moment  longer,  —  'verse  cannot  con- 
tain the  refining,  subtile  thoughts  which 
a  great  prose  writer  embodies  :  the  rhyme 
eternally  cripples    it ;  it   properly  deals 
with  the  common   problems  of   liuman 
1  nature,  which  are  now  hackneyed  ;  and 


THE   IDENTITY    OF  ALL  ART. 


309 


not  with  the  nice  and  philosophizing  cor- 
ollaries which  may  be  drawn  from  them. 
Though  it  would  seem  at  first  a  paradox, 
commonplace  is   the  element  of  poetry 
rather  than  of  prose.     And  sensible  of 
this,  even  Schiller  wrote  the  deepest  of 
his  tragedies,  Fiesco,  in  prose.'"     The 
wonder  is,  that  anybody  could  have  writ- 
ten a  great  tragedy  in  anything  else.    The 
formality  of  rhythm  is  not  natural  to  it ; 
it  stands    in  accordance    only  with    the 
buskins,  the  stage,  the  lights,  the  scene- 
shifting,  —  in    short,    with   the   artificial 
character   of   the    whole    thing.     What 
would  be  thought,  if  a  man  should  write 
a  speech  or  a  sermon  in  blank  verse  7 
Or,  to   take  a  stronger  instance  :  what 
would  be  thought  if  a  man,  in  a  great 
rage  in  the  street,  or  a  man  in  deep  grief 
by  the  fireside,  should  pour  out  his  grief 
or  anger  in  blank  verse  ?     Or  suppose 
a  man  were  to  make  love  in  blank  verse. 
In  all    these    cases,   I  think   the    verse 
would    be    very  blank   indeed,  and    the 
faces  of  the  persons  addressed  yet  more 
so.     But    to    tragedy    especially   belong 
these  bursts  of  feeling,  — of  rage,  grief, 
terror,    pity,    love.      And    therefore    we 
should  be  apt  to  say  that  tragedy  —  the 
language    of   passion —  should   be    the 
simplest  and  most  natural  tbrm  of  human 
speech.     If   any  man    has    got   a   trag- 
edy i?i  him  —  though  he  be  not  a  verse- 
maker —  I  wish  he  would  try  it.* 

If  I  must  ask  you  to  pardon  this  di- 
gression. Gentlemen,  I  hope  you  will 
admit  that  it  is  not  altogether  inap- 
propriate to  my  subject,  or  to  the  pres- 
ent occasion.  I  bring  a  new  claimant, 
asking  for  a  place  in  the  goodly  brother- 
hood of  the  arts.  And  far  be  it  from 
me,  in  doing  this,  to  depreciate  true 
poetry.  Whatever  well  embodies  the 
loftiest  forms  of  thought  is  well  and 
worthy.  But  the  poets  have  so  long 
been  considered  as  enjoying  a  kind  of 
monopoly  in    the   art    of  writing;    they 

*  Doubtless  certain  passages  —  declamations,  de- 
scriptions, speeches  —  might  be  best  given  in  blank 
verse  ;  but  whether  this  is,  in  general,  the  natural 
and  appropriate  form  of  dramatic  writing,  is  the  ques- 
tion. 


are  so  constantly  spoken  of  by  their 
critics  as  holding  in  their  charmed  vase 
all  the  finer  essence  of  genius,  that  they 
can  well  afford  to  bear  some  question 
of  this  pre-eminent  claim. 

But  to  return  to  my  general  theme  ; 
what  I  was  about  to  assert  is  the  iden- 
tity which  exists,  as  I  conceive,  among 
all  the  fine  arts. 

In  the  first  place,  the  object  of  them 
all  is  the  same  ;  to  exhibit  some  thought, 
some  passion,  or  to  set  forth  simply  the 
truth  of  things,  to  make  a  just  represen- 
tation of  a  thing  as  it  is.  Whether  the 
ideal  or  the  matter-of-fact  Le  the  thing 
in  hand,  all  the  arts  —  architecture, 
sculpture,  painting,  music,  writing,  ora- 
tory —  propose  to  do  the  same  thing. 
Portrait  painting  is  only  telling  —  better, 
indeed,  than  words  can —  but  still  it  is 
only  telling  how  a  man  looks.  Land- 
scape painting  answers  to  descriptive 
writing.  Historical  painting  but  em- 
bodies what  history  has  recorded.  And 
fancy  pieces  are  but  as  the  poet's  or 
essayist's  pictures.  Tiiey  are  olten 
taken  directly  from  the  poet's  or  the 
essayist's  page.  And  that  is  the  best 
painting,  we  are  accustomed  to  say, 
"which   tells   its  own   story." 

In  the  next  place,  the  means  used  in 
the  various  arts,  though  dissimilar,  are 
subject  to  the  same  laws.  The  pro- 
cedure of  thought  in  all  is  essentially 
the  same.  When  a  man  makes  an  his- 
torical picture,  he  chooses  a  subject,  he 
lays  out  a  plan,  he  divides  it  into  heads, 
he  determines  what  parts  he  will  bring 
out  into  prominence  and  what  he  will 
sink  into  shade,  and  he  keeps  in  mind, 
in  finishing  every  part,  the  general  effect 
he  intends  to  produce.  Precisely  so  is 
it  with  every  well-devised,  well-executed, 
artist-like  speecli,  oration,  discourse,  or 
essay.  When  I  look  upon  a  painter, 
as  he  proceeds  with  his  work.  I  am 
constantly  reminded  of  the  art  of  writ- 
ing. When  I  see  him  lay  out  his  plan, 
I  think  of  the  plan  of  a  discourse. 
When  I  see  him  blot  a  certain  part,  to 
work  it  out  again,  I  think  of  the  sape 
verte  stylum.     When  1  see  him  put  his 


3IO 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND    OCCASIONAL. 


finger  upon  a  certain  point  of  coloring, 
to  soften  it,  I  am  reminded  of  tlie  ex- 
change of  a  stronger  epitliet  for  a  milder 
one  :  for  all  must  have  a  keeping,  a  har- 
mony ;  if  a  thing  is  said  too  strongly 
in  one  place,  it  will  not  agree  with  an- 
other thing  said  in  another  place.  The 
painter's  lights  and  shades,  too,  remind 
me  of  the  lights  and  shades  of  a  dis- 
course. And  if  he  seeks  after  too  much 
light,  strives  to  make  all  striking  and 
glaring,  I  call  to  mind  more  than  one 
novice  that  I  have  known  who  did  the 
same  thing  in  his  discourse,  —  wanted 
to  make  every  paragraph  brilliant,  every 
point  prominent,  and  so  made  nothing 
prominent,  had  no  effective  brilliancy 
anywhere. 

II.  If  there  be  this  identity  in  all  art, 
then  it  follows  that  the  principles  of 
culture  and  the  principles  of  criticism 
in  all  are  essentially  the  same  ;  and  I 
submit  to  you,  as  the  second  point  in 
this  discourse,  whether  it  be  not  so. 

Let  us  look,  first,  at  the  principles  of 
criticism,  and  let  us  resume  for  this 
purpose  the  comparison  of  a  picture 
with  a  discourse  or  essay.  We  demand 
of  each  that  it  shall  say  something,  that 
it  shall  say  it  distinctly,  and  say  it  effec- 
tively ;  distinctly  that  we  may  under- 
stand it,  and  effectively  that  we  may 
feel  it.  In  order  to  meet  these  con- 
ditions there  must  be  a  reigning  idea  in 
a  painting,  and  there  must  be  sharpness 
of  outline  combined  with  softness  of 
coloring.  The  first  being  given  (i.  e., 
the  reigning  idea),  the  trial  point  with 
a  painter,  if  one  of  the  unlearned  may 
speak,  is  to  combine  the  two  last  (i.  e., 
tlie  distinctness  with  the  softness).  In 
Murillo's  paintings,  and  in  some  of  All- 
ston's,  there  is  a  softness  amounting  to 
haziness.  There  is  a  want  of  distinct 
.outline.  In  Michael  Angelo's  parccs, 
the  fates,  we  have  sharpness  of  outline 
even  to  harshness  and  severity,  though 
perhaps  his  style  in  this  respect  may  well 
suit  the  subject.  It  does  not,  however, 
as  I  must  think,  in  his  painting  of  the 
Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
In  the  pictures  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 


Raphael,  Guido,  and  Domenichino,  we 
have  the  true  combination,  —  the  clear- 
est outline  with  the  softest  coloring. 

Again  ;  it  is  a  principle  of  criticism 
in  letters,  that  a  writing  shall  not  pass 
beyond  the  modesty  of  nature  into  ex- 
travagance, nor  fall  short  of  the  life  of 
nature  into  dulness  :  and  this,  I  pre- 
sume, is  just  as  true  of  painting.  The 
Venetian  School  is  an  example  of  the 
former,  —  the  extravagance  ;  the  school 
of  the  Caracci  of  the  latter,  —  the  want 
of  vigor  and  spirit.  In  Vandyke's  por- 
traits, too,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is 
always  a  certain  extravagance,  not  of 
coloring,  but  of  expression  ;  while  in 
Holbein's  there  is,  as  far  as  I  have  seen 
them,  a  want  of  vividness. 

True  criticism,  especially  if  it  pro- 
ceed upon  the  broad  views  which  I 
now  advocate,  will  indeed  always  be 
liberal.  It  will  not  think  to  bring  every- 
thing to  the  same  standard.  There  are 
subjects  which  are  dream-like ;  where 
the  features  should  look  as  through  a 
veil  of  mist.  Such  are  some  of  All- 
ston's  ;  though  I  confess  that  for  a  gene- 
ral style  I  no  more  like  haze  in  a  pic- 
ture than  haze  in  a  speech.  It  may  be  an 
obtuseness  inme,  buti  must  acknowl- 
edge that  whether  I  read,  or  hear,  or 
see,  I  have  a  great  desire  to  know  some- 
thing. I  do  not  like  to  be  left  in  the 
dark  as  to  what  an  author  or  a  painter 
means.  I  have  thought  that  it  was  his 
very  business  to  tell  me,  that  that  was 
the  very  thing  he  professed  to  do;  and 
if  I  am  to  be  left  in  the  shadows  of 
imagination,  I  had  rather  they  sliould  be 
my  own,  than  his.  There  is  but  too 
much  of  this  style  in  our  modern  phi- 
losophy, poetry,  and  fine  writing,  as  we 
call  it  ;  and  I  will  not  deny  that  I  have 
intended  to  apply  the  same  observation 
to  the  style  of  Allston.  Mr.  Allston 
is  truly  a  poet  and  a  man  of  genius; 
but  I  cannot  fall  in  with  that  national 
spirit  of  self-praise,  which  maintains  that 
he  has  already  taken  his  place  by  the 
side  of  Guido  and  Raphael  and  Leon- 
ardo da  Vinci.  To  see  that  proved, 
I   must   wait,  —  I  will  say   it  though    I 


THE    IDENTITY    OF   ALL   ART. 


311 


die  for  it,  —  I   must  wait  for  the   Bel- 
shazzar.* 

True  criticism,  I  have  said,  is  liberal. 
It  will  distinguish  among  the  different 
works  of  the  same  hand.  Allston's 
Jeremiah  is  not  hazy,  and  the  Baruch 
in  that  piece  is  admirable,  —  soft  and 
distinct  too.  So  Rubens  often  paints 
—  as  I  think  it  has  been  said,  at  least 
I  have  often  thought  it — in  a  "raw- 
head  and  bloody-bones  "  style.  But 
when  I  came  to  see  the  Crucifixion  of 
St.  Peter  in  the  church  of  Cologne, 
and  especially  the  Twelve  Apostles  in 
the  Rospigliosi  Palace  at  Rome,  I  per- 
ceived that  his  genius  was  capable  of 
almost  any  style,  of  the  utmost  deli- 
cacy, finish,  and  beauty. 

But  it  is  time,  after  all  this  boldness, 
that  I  should  say  a  word  in  defence  of 
this  liberty  of  criticism.  And  my  de- 
fence lies  in  the  principle  I  am  con- 
tending for,  that  the  great  laws  of  all 
criticism  on  art  are  essentially  the  same. 
Any  one  of  you  that  is  a  painter  will 
not  hesitate  to  give  your  judgment  on 
books.  Why  shall  I  not  give  my  judg- 
ment on  pictures  ?  I  contend  that  the 
art  of  writing  is  as  profound  and  as 
dititicult  to  be  criticised  as  the  art  of 
painting  ;  nay,  and  I  think  more  so. 
Painting  more  directly  appeals  to  the 
eye,  —  to  the  general  observing  eye,  — 
to  the  general  and  natural  sense  of  pro- 
priety and  beauty.  Writing  is  a  more 
recondite  art ;  more  out  of  reach  of  the 
common  "judgment.  Good  writing  is 
really,  though  men  may  not  know  it,  a  ■ 
greater  mystery  than  good  painting. 
Do  I  say,  then,  that  no  culture,  no 
taste,  no  habit  of  observation  is  neces- 
sary to  judge  of  painting  .?  Far  enough 
from  it.  I  assert  the  right  to  judge, 
subject  precisely  to  these  limitations. 
But  the  same  limitations  apply  equally 
to  writing.  I  may  be  wrong  in  my 
judgment  of  one  or  the  other.  I  may 
be  quite  wrong  in  the  opinions  I    have 

*  I  have  waited,  and  am  convinced  that  the  finished 
parts  of  this  great  work  have  more  of  the  stamp  of 
the  great  masters  upon  them  than  anything  else  that 
Allston  has  produced. 


ventured  to  offer  concerning  painters 
and  paintings.  But  I  hope  I  have  vin- 
dicated the  common  right  to  judge,  and 
that  I  shall  not  be  charged  with  a  want 
of  modesty  in  having  ventured,  certainly 
with  diffidence,  to  use  it. 

Let  me  add  one  further  observation 
upon  criticism  and  the  arts.      I  have  said 
that  true  criticism  is  liberal ;  and  the  ob- 
servation I  have  to  make  is,  that  in  all  the 
fine  arts  great  injustice  is  generally  done 
to  all  but  the  first-rate  excellence.     In 
literature  and  in  painting  a  few  names 
bear    away    the    pahn    of  merit.     They 
fill  the  magazines,  the  newspapers,  the 
mouths  of  the  people.     There  is  no  just 
discrimination  of  the  many  artists  and 
writers  who   are  approaching   more  or 
less   nearly,    and   some    of    them   very 
nearly,  to  the  same  excellence.     This  is 
extremely  discouraging  as  well  as  unjust 
to  modest  and  patient  labor.    It  does  not 
ask  to  be  first,  if  itis  not  first ;  but  it  does 
and  does  rightfully  ask  to  be  appreciated. 
And  the  wrong  done  is  an  argument,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  for  what  you  are  doing,  gen- 
tlemen ;  for  spreading  a  truer  and  more 
discriminating  taste  among  the  people. 
For  this  it  is  precisely  that  is  wanted 
to  correct  the  superficial  and  wholesale 
judgments  of  the  public.      Listen  to  the 
conversation  of  cultivated  men,  and  you 
will  find  that  they  go  down  from  great 
works  that  rise  a  little  above  the  rest,  — 
from  the  great  and  ever-quoted  names, 
andfindathousand  beauties  in  the  regions 
that  lie  beneath.   Or  place  a  company  of 
artists  or  of  real  connoisseurs  in  this  gal- 
lery, and  you  will  find  that  they  are  not 
altogether  occupied  with  two   or    three 
pieces,  but  that  they  note  a  thing  —  a  part 
of  a  picture,  for  instance  —  beautifully 
done  here  ;  or  a  hand  or  an  eye  exquisitely 
painted  there  ;  and  they  do  justice  to  all. 
Just  as  a  hasty  traveller,  who  has  spent 
two  or  three  weeks  in  Switzerland,  comes 
home,  talking  of  nothing  but  Mt.  Blanc 
and  Jungfrau,  while  one  who  has  spent 
a  season  in  travelling  over   it  will  talk 
of  a  hundred  pinnacles  and  of  many  a 
lovely  nook  and  glassy  lake  spread  all 
over  that  land  of  beauty  ;  a  land  of  which 


312 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND    OCCASIONAL. 


a  friend  of  mine,  once  travelling  with  me 
there,  said,  as  we  stood  gazing  upon  its 
wonders,  "  Oh !  it  is  a  glorious  picture,  set 
in  the  frame  of  the  world."  But  the 
public,  in  the  great  field  of  literature 
and  art,  is  like  the  hasty  traveller.  It 
does  no  justice  to  minor  beauties  and 
humbler  merits.  For  in  this  respect 
a  gallery  of  pictures  —  and  I  think  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  has  made  the  same  re- 
mark in  his  lectures — is  like  a  library. 
There  is  many  a  book  in  which  there 
is  an  admirable  chapter,  though  it  be 
not  admirable  as  a  whole  ;  and  there  is 
many  a  book  of  great  merit  which  stands 
untouched  upon  the  shelf,  gathering  the 
dust  of  years  upon  it,  because  Shak- 
speare,  or  Bacon,  or  Milton  is  near  it. 
You  may  say  that  the  world  cannot  read 
or  study  everything,  and  that  it  is  best 
it  should  read  the  best  authors,  — study 
the  best  artists.  I  wish  it  really  and 
thoroughly  did  either  ;  for  then  would 
it  be  more  liberal  and  more  discerning 
towards  all  merit.  For  now  it  talks  the 
more  about  great  names,  the  less  it 
knows  about  them;  and  thus  upholds  a 
law  of  distinction,  —  a  dynasty  in  the 
world  of  mind,  which,  at  least  in  my 
opinion,  does  cruel  injustice  to  hundreds 
of  meritorious  authors  and  artists.  This 
error,  as  I  think  it,  ought  to  be  corrected, 
and  I  believe  it  will  be.  I  perceive  al- 
ready that  this  injustice  is  beginning  to 
give  way  before  a  more  diffusive  and 
generous  culture.  The  series  of  bio- 
graphical portraits  lately  appearing  in 
the  English  reviews,  and  the  devotion 
of  one  entire  publication  —  the  Retro- 
spective Review  —  to  the  recovery  of 
buried  treasures,  is  some  proof  of  this. 
So  too  it  is  felt,  that  in  the  moral  world, 
a  certain  notable  philanthropy  is  not  to 
carry  off"  all  the  honors  of  goodness. 
And  it  will  yet  come  to  be  seen  that  all 
the  world's  treasures  of  goodness, beauty, 
enthusiasm,  genius,  greatness,  through 
ages,  are  not  concentrated  in  a  hundred 
wonderful  individuals.  Ay,  and  the  hun- 
dred too  will  be  more  fully,  more  truly 
appreciated  then.  The  vulgar  stare  at  dis- 


tinction will  give  place  to  a  finer  discern- 
ment of  all  talent  and  merit. 

Let  us  now  proceed  from  the  princi- 
ples of  criticism  to  the  principles  of  cul- 
ture. What  I  assert  is,  that  the  jorinci- 
ples  of  culture  in  all  arts  are  essentially 
the  same  ;  and  those  upon  which  I  shall 
briefly  insist  are,  good  sense,  moral  feel- 
ing, and  the  general  cultivation  of  the 
whole  man. 

First,  good  sense.  In  statue,  picture, 
poem,  essay,  or  oration,  this  must  be  a 
pervading  characteristic.  Art  is  never 
to  spread  its  wings  beyond  this  strict 
boundary.  The  moment  that  the  poet 
or  painter,  the  orator  or  sculptor,  thinks 
that  good  sense  is  a  mean  quality,  and 
to  be  disregarded,  he  is  virtually  ruined. 
In  all  the  greatest  works  of  the  human 
hand,  in  the  poems  of  Homer,  in  the 
orations  of  Demosthenes,  in  the  Grecian 
sculpture,  and  in  the  best  paintings  of  the 
Italian  school,  is  ever  found  the  clear 
impress  of  this  quality.  If  it  is  not  the 
very  stuff  with  which  genius  works,  yet 
it  is  the  very  stamp  upon  the  true  coin. 
Many  a  forgotten  poet  had  as  much 
imagination  as  the  highest,  but  he  had 
not  good  sense.  Cowley's  conceits  were 
as  quaint,  and  curious,  and  brilliant  as 
Shakspeare's  ;  but  nobody  reads  Cowley, 
the  poet,  though  his  prose  is  admirable. 
The  extravagant  and  fantastic  Harvey 
had  as  much  fancy  as  Jeremy  Taylor,  but 
he  had  not  the  good  sense  which  is  ne- 
cessary to  chasten,  control,  and  guide  it. 

I  shall  be  asked,  perhaps,  what  is  good 
.sense  .''  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  better 
tell  than  every  one  already  knows.  But 
it  excludes  everything  that  is  unnatural, 
unreasonable,  extravagant,  improbable, 
unlike  truth  and  life,  unlike  the  genuine 
attitudes  and  expressions  of  real,  sincere, 
human  passion.  Perhaps  the  most  dis- 
tinctive mark  of  it  is,  that  the  reader,  the 
seer,  must  feel  that  he  might  have  acted, 
looked,  in  the  circumstances  supposed, 
just  as  the  picture,  the  essay  before  him 
represents.  If  not,  then  the  matter  be- 
fore him  wants  good  sense.  To  him^  at 
least,  it  wants  good  sense.     And  if  I  be 


THE    IDENTITY   OF   ALL  ART. 


313 


asked,  again,  who  is  to  be  the  judge  of 
this  quality?  I  answer,  the  common 
and  universal  mind  of  the  world.  Let  any 
woman,  who  looks  at  the  Judith  and  Hol- 
ofernes  of  Christopher  AUori,  ask  her- 
self whetiier  she  or  any  other  woman 
could  look  as  the  Judith  is  painted,  in  the 
circumstances, — a  woman  who  has  just 
cut  off  the  head  of  the  sleeping  satrap, 
and  brings  it  in  clutched  by  the  hair 
and  dripping  with  blood,  and  yet  looks 
as  calm  and  unconcerned  as  if  she  car- 
ried a  milk-pail.  Or,  to  make  a  more 
daring  observation,  look  at  the  Madonna 
della  Seggiola  of  Raphael.  It  is  the 
mother  of  the  long-expected  Messiah. 
So  much  was  this  honor  desired,  that 
marriage  among  the  Hebrews  was  held 
in  special  favor,  and  celibacy  was  a  pe- 
culiar disgrace  on  this  very  account. 
And  now  the  desire  that  swelled  in  the 
bosom  of  ages  is  accomplished  in  the 
breast  of  this  humble  female,  hailed  with 
angelic  congratulations,  favored  and 
blessed  among  women.  What  a  rapt  ex- 
pression of  gratitude  will  there  be  in  her 
countenance  !  What  depth  of  thought 
in  her  eye!  What  visions  will  seem  to 
float  before  her  of  wonders  and  glories  to 
be  unveiled  in  the  future.  Can  it  be, 
then —  I  ask  with  modesty  —  but  can  it 
be  that  the  Madonna  is  fitly  represented 
as  the  bcmi  ideal  oimtxe  physical  beauty, 
—  as  a  beautiful  woman,  seated  of  a  sum- 
mer's afternoon  in  a  luxurious  bower  ? 
"  Beautiful  exceedingly,"  it  is  ;  but  the 
question  is,  is  it  the  kind  of  beauty  that 
is  touched  with  the  expression  that  be- 
longs to  the  occasion  .''  Or,  for  another 
example,  —  look  at  xAllston's  Jeremiah. 
It  is  a  prophet  in  the  moment  of  inspira- 
tion, communing  with  God,  —  receiving 
a  message  from  the  Infinite  One  ;  and 
yet,  but  for  the  upward  cast  of  the  eye, 
it  appears  to  me  more  as  a  warrior  than 
as  a  prophet.  I  suppose  it  is  i\\t  furor 
diviitus  that  is  intended  to  be  repre- 
sented ;  but  I  cannot  admit  that  that/«- 
ror  should  so  entirely  partake  of  physi- 
cal and  earthly  qualities.  I  will  not  ask 
you  to  pardon  the  adventurousness  of 
these  criticisms.     I  am  not  pretending  to 


judge  of  minor  points  in  the  artist's  skill, 
but  of  the  great  and  leading  expression  ; 
and  of  this,  I  hold  I  am  as  much  entitled 
to  have  an  opinion  as  I  am  of  the  lead- 
ing impression  of  a  poem  or  a  discourse. 
I  may  be  quite  wrong  in  the  opinion  I 
have  ventured  to  express  concerning 
these  pictures  ;  but  nevertheless  a  man 
is  but  a  man,  and  I  know  no  idols,  no  di- 
vine models  among  men  ;  I  cannot  yield 
to  the  common  inference  that  because  a 
man  is  a  great  man,  therefore  everything 
which  he  does  is  great.  And  I  will 
only' ask  you  to  suppose  that  in  a  poem 
or  tale,  the  Judith,  the  Madonna,  or  the 
Jeremiah  were  represented,  —  the  lead- 
ing expression  of  their  character,  office 
or  situation  givenj  as  it  is  in  those  pic- 
tures, and  then  say  whether  it  satisfies 
you. 

The  second  principle  of  culture  which 
I  have  mentioned  is  moral  feeling. 
Without  this,  without  glowing  concep- 
tions, and  a  real  love  of  moral  beauty, 
there  can  be  no  successful  culture. 
What  Cicero  said  of  the  orator  is  equal- 
ly true  of  the  painter  :  he  must  be  a 
good  man.  A  bad  man,  a  man  essen- 
tially bad,  devoid  of  all  moral  and  spirit- 
ual emotion,  cannot  be  a  good  artist. 
And  for  this  plain  reason :  that  tiie 
highest  traits  in  everything  he  has  to 
paint  are  moral.  It  is  so  even  in  nature  ; 
it  is  emphatically  so  in  the  human  coun- 
tenance. Suppose  the  artist  attempts 
to  paint  the  countenance  of  the  martyr, 
of  him  who  in  the  last  dread  hour, 
amidst  the  blows  and  taunts  of  hardened 
and  malignant  executioners,  is  giving  up 
his  soul  to  his  Maker.  How  is  the  ar- 
tist to  do  this,  if  he  have  no  conception  of 
the  feeling  of  the  martyr,  no  experience 
in  himself  of  faith  or  prayer,  or  forgive- 
ness ?  How  otherwise  is  he  to  portray 
that  most  touching  vision  of  all  mortal 
loveliness  and  immortal  triumph  united  ; 
that  resplendent  divinity  and  softened 
humanity  which  blend  in  the  dying 
martyr's  countenance  ;  that  strength,  for- 
titude, might,  as  of  an  angel  to  endure; 
that  meekness  as  of  a  child  to  submit ; 
that  pity  as  it  were  of  a  seraph  clothed 


314 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


with  all  mortal  sensibility  ;  that  forgive- 
ness that  speaks  through  every  trem- 
bling feature,  "  Lay  not  this  sin  to  their 
charge  ;  "  that  trust  in  God  of  the  lifted 
eye  and  the  parted  lips,  —  that  trust 
swallowing  up,  embosoming  the  poor 
suffering  nature, — beaming  through 
the  last  departing  shadows  of  mortal 
struggle  and  infirmity,  buoying  up  the 
sinking  spirit,  and  bearing  it  away, 
disburdened  of  every  earthly  weight 
and  pain  and  sorrow,  to  the  bosom 
of  God  !  —  how,  I  say,  is  a  man  to  do 
this,  unless  he  has  it  in  him  to  feel  that 
he  too  could  be  a  martyr  to  truth  and 
duty  ? 

Hence  it  is  that  an  age  more  skeptioal 
than  believing,  more  inquisitive  than  con- 
fiding, is  not  likely  to  be  an  age  of  any 
great  achievements  in  art.  This,  more 
than  anything  else  perhaps,  explains  the 
present  decline  in  the  world,  of  poetry 
and  painting.  1  can  conceive  of  no 
worse  omens  for  literature  and  art  than 
that  their  cultivators  should  be  found 
separating  themselves  from  the  great 
bonds  of  religious  feeling  and  observ- 
ance, —  should  be  found  bending  over 
their  desks  or  their  easels  on  Sunday, 
rather  than  at  church  — should  be  found 
putting  off  one  form  of  religion,  and  not 
putting  on  another.  Nothing  perhaps 
so  well  accounts  for  that  extraordinary 
outburst  of  Italian  poetry  and  painting 
between  the  thirteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries  as  the  prevalence  then  of  a 
religious  spirit.  Dante,  Petrarch  and 
Tasso,  Michael  Angelo,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  and  Raphael,  were  filled  with  re- 
ligious devoutness,  such  as  it  was. 
Christianity  had  then  a  season  to  sink 
undisturbed  and  unquestioned  into  the 
hearts  of  men.  The  dark  ages  of  struggle 
had  passed  by  ;  and  the  doubting  age 
had  not  come.  Will  not  the  same  thing 
be  found  true  of  every  literature,  —  Gre- 
cian, Roman,  or  English,  —  that  it  has 
filled  just  such  intervals  ;  after  the  moral 
elements  ofsociety  have  settled  into  quiet 
faith,  and  before  they  have  been  clouded 
by  the  exhalations  of  prosperity  or 
choked  by  the    steains  of  luxury, — an 


interval  between  the  rugged  mountain 
and  the  low  rich  valley  ;  in  other 
words,  that  the  brightest  constellations 
of  genius  have  shone  forth  after  the 
storm,  and  before  the  earth-born  mists 
and  damps  had  risen  to  obscure  them  ? 
I  know  that  these  comparisons  may 
point  to  other  than  moral  influences  ;  but 
believing  that  moral  influences  are  the 
most  potent  of  all,  and  not  only  behev- 
ing,  but  knowing,  seeuii^,  that  every 
great  age  of  literature  and  art  has  been 
informed,  penetrated,  quickened,  kindled 
all  over,  with  moral  fervor,  I  am  per- 
suaded that  the  comparisons  1  have  made 
point  especially  to  these.  Inward,  con- 
fiding, believing,  spiritual  energy  is  the 
soul  of  art  and  literature  ;  it  is  the  in- 
tellectual might  of  the  world. 

One  further  principle  of  culture  I  pro- 
posed to  consider,  and  that  is  the  culti- 
vation of  the  whole  man.  Every  work 
of  art  is  the  work  of  the  whole  man, 
and  therefore  will  bear  the  stamp  of  his 
general  improvement.  If  it  were  a  work 
of  the  mere  fingers,  then  extraordinary 
execution  without  a  soul  might  make  a 
great  musician,  or  exquisite  finish  with- 
out a  just  plan  and  design  might  make 
a  great  painter.  But  it  does  not.  If 
the  fingers  only  work,  without  the  head 
and  the  heart,  the  result  may  be  pretty, 
finical,  wonderful  in  its  way  ;  but  it  will 
not  be  a  soul-moving  work  of  art. 
How  much  of  our  music  bears  this  char- 
acter, —  mere  digital  dexterity,  mere  trill- 
ing  and  quavering  of  the  voice  !  HoW' 
rarely  is  a  young  lady  told  that,  when 
she  seats  herself  at  the  piano-forte  or 
harp,  she  should  do  so  with  the  same 
view  as  a  man  rises  up  to  make  a 
speech,  —  to  say  something,  and  so  to 
say  it  that  others  shall  understand  and 
feel  it  !  This  is  true,  too,  of  instrumental 
music  :  it  is  nothing  if  it  does  not  ex- 
press a  sentiment  ;  and  the  mere  instru- 
ment, in  the  hands  of  a  great  performer, 
seems  to  have  more  soul  in  it  than  the 
entire  man  or  woman  who  is  a  mere 
execution-machine.  If  this  high  and 
spiritual  view  of  music  were  taken,  the 
time    now   so  wearily  devoted    to  it   by 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   ALL  ART. 


315 


many  would  not  be  felt  to  be  lost  upon 
the  acquisition  of  a  mere  fashionable 
accomplishment  ;  but  it  would  be  con- 
secrated to  the  culture  of  the  highest 
nature.  For  what  would  it  then  be,  if 
the  music  were  well  selected,  but  a  con- 
slant  endeavor  to  conceive,-  to  feel,  to 
lie  imbued  with,  the  purest  and  noblest 
sentiments  .''  It  is  said  that  the  songs 
are  almost  all  silly  love-songs,  filled  with 
sickly  sentiment.  I  must  take  leave  to 
object  to  this  as  a  general  detinition 
even  of  love-songs.  Many  of  them  ex- 
press the  noblest  sentiments.  I  will 
take  the  first  that  I  lay  my  hand  on  :  — 

"  And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire, 

And  siller  have  to  spare, 
Gin  ye  '11  consent  to  be  his  bride. 

Nor  think  on  Donald  mair. 

Oh  !  who  would  buy  a  silken  gown, 

With  a  poor  broken  heart  ; 
And  what  to  me  's  a  siller  crown, 

If  from  my  love  I  part  ? 

I  would  na  walk  in  silk  attire. 

Nor  braid  wi'  gems  my  hair, 
Gin  he  whose  faith  is  pledged  wi'  mine 
Were  wrangedand  grieving  sair." 

That,  I  aver,  is  no  sickly  sentiment ; 
and  well  were  it,  if  it  sunk  more  deeply 
into  the  heart  of  every  luxurious  and 
worldly  age.  Save  us,  above  all,  from 
making  woman  mercenary,  —  from  mak- 
ing the  love  of  woman  mercenary  !  It 
is  like  taking  the  richest  diamond,  and 
grinding  it  down  to  macadamize  the 
streets,  that  the  chariots  of  luxury  may 
roll  more  smoothly  over  thenr  ! 

But  to  draw  the  general  topic  on 
which  I  am  descanting  more  directly  to 
the  present  occasion  :  the  arts  of  design 
can  never  flourish  without  a  wide  and 
generous  culture  of  the  whole  man. 
When  in  my  early  youth  I  studied  Cicero 
de  Oratore,  I  thought  I  was  to  put  my- 
self under  the  teaching  of  a  mere  rheto- 
rician ;  that  he  would  tell  me  how  to 
stretch  out  my  hand,  and  how  to  tone 
my  voice,  and  things  of  that  sort. 
But  I  soon  found  that  the  noble  old 
Roman  was  demanding  that  the  orator 
should  learn  everything,  — know  every- 


thing, —  be  everything  ;  that,  according 
to  his  idea,  the  whole  rounded  circuit  of 
human  perfection  came  within  the  ora- 
tor's walk.  Now,  I  think  that  this 
equally  applies  to  the  artist  ;  and  in- 
deed in  the  greatest  artists  this  idea  has 
been  realized.  To  advert  for  a  moment 
to  their  positive  acquisitions  :  Michael 
Angelo  was  a  great  architect,  sculptor, 
and  poet,  as  well  as  painter.  Raphael 
was  studious  in  history,  versed  in  art 
of  poetry,  and  so  distinguished  for  his 
knowledge  of  architecture  that  he  gave 
designs  for  many  palaces  in  Rome,  and 
through  Italy,  and  was  intrusted  for  a 
while  with  carrying  on  the  building  of  St. 
Peter's.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  one  of 
the  inost  accomplished  men  of  his  time; 
conversant  not  only  with  all  the  fine  arts, 
but  with  science,  literature,  the  arts  of 
mechanism,  and  with  all  manly  exercises. 
But  positive  acquisitions  alone  do  not 
satisfy  our  idea  of  the  fully  cultivated 
and  accomplished  man.  They  may  still 
leave  the  man  quite  angular,  ill-shapen, 
defective.  As  all  the  accomplishments 
which  can  be  heaped  upon  a  young 
woman,  all  the  finishings  of  the  schools, 
all  the  languages,  and  all  the  rules  got 
by  heart,  may  still  leave  her  far  from 
being  a  graceful  and  agreeable  person, 
so  all  the  mere  learning  in  the  world 
may  fail  to  make  a  graceful  and  accom- 
plished artist.  The  true  culture,  which 
means  something  very  different  from 
mere  acquisition,  is  the  culture  of  the 
heart,  of  the  affections,  of  the  imagina- 
tion, of  the  taste,  of  beau  ideal  in  every- 
tliing.  As  in  the  human  body  it  takes  a 
hundred  organs,  sinews,  nerves,  to  make 
one  graceful  step,  gesture,  attitude;  so 
in  the  mind  it  requires  the  combination 
of  many  qualities  to  reach  the  grace  of 
art.  There  is  a  certain  fine,  almost 
indescribable,  perception  of  the  true,  the 
fit,  natural,  well-proportioned  and  har- 
monious, that  can  come  from  nothing 
but  general  culture.  Taste  in  art  is 
like  good-breeding  in  manners:  it  can- 
not be  learned  from  rules,  nor  diagrams, 
nor  scliools  any  way  ;  but  it  is  the 
breathing  out  of  the  inward  life.     What 


3i6 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  OCCASIONAL. 


but  this  is  it  that  spreads  over  some 
landscape-paintings  such  an  air  of  truth 
and  reality,  nay,  and  of  sentiment  too, 
as  if  they  were  touched  all  over  with  a 
feeling,  —  warm  without  being  garish, 
and  quiet  without  being  cold  ?  Nothing 
but  a  loving  communion  with  nature 
can  produce  such  i^aintings  ;  and  that 
communion  can  never  be  enjoyed  but 
by  a  pure,  gentle,  and  loving  spirit. 
Claude  Lorraine's  pictures  tell  you  at 
once  that  they  were  breathed  upon  by 
an  inward  life.  What  is  it,  again,  that 
produces  such  different  results  in  that 
favorite  subject  with  painters,  —  The 
Descent  from  the  Cross?  In  some  paint- 
ings of  that  scene,  all  is  literal,  cold, 
and  desolate  ;  death  weighs  upon  the 
picture,  and  weighs  upon  your  heart. 
But  others,  as  that  of  Guerin  in  the 
Baltimore  cathedral,  are  so  composed, 
so  colored,  so  filled  with  triumphant 
expression,  that  you  feel,  as  you  gaze, 
that  "  death  is  swallowed  up  of  victory." 
What  can  account  for  this  difference  but 
the  different  feeling  of  the  artists  ?  In 
the  one,  death  has  conquered  ;  in  the 
other,  it  is  swallowed  up  in  the  glory 
that  is  to  come.  And  I  will  venture, 
indeed,  to  express  the  behef,  that  the 
highest  art  will  never  produce  a  result 
that  is  entirely  disgusting  or  revolting. 
In  a  well-proportioned,  well-balanced 
mind,  this  is  never  the  view  of  anything  ; 
but  over  all,  on  the  contrary,  it  spreads 
the  relief  of  its  own  beautiful  nature. 
Even  in  viewing  the  group  of  the  Lao- 
coon,  —  scene  of  horror  as  it  is,  —  the 
mind  is  filled  with  a  strange  and  thrilling 
pleasure.  And  never  in  nature  nor  in 
man  is  there  anything  so  dark  and  dis- 
tressful but  there  is  something  to  relieve 
it.  But  that  something  will  not  be  per- 
ceived unless  it  is  by  a  mind  that  is 
large  and  comprehensive,  —  schooled  in 
religion,  schooled  in  philosophy  and 
faith,  and  touched  with  the  beautiful- 
ness  of  a  nature  divine  and  hopeful  and 
triumphant. 

III.  Let  me  detain  you,  gentlemen, 
a  few  moments  longer,  with  one  or  two 
remarks,  appropriate  I  think  not  merely 


to  this  occasion,  but  the  particular 
object  of  your  Association.  And  let 
me  add,  that  these  remarks  will  still 
fall  in  with  the  general  tenor  of  this 
lecture. 

For,  if  I  have  rightly  set  forth  the 
essential  identity  of  all  the  fine  arts,  it 
will  follow  that  the  arts  of  design 
demand  to  be  fostered  for  as  good 
reason  as  literature,  poetry,  or  music. 
They  have  their  place  in  the  same  great 
work  of  cultivating  the  public  mind, 
refining  its  taste,  elevating  its  moral 
feeling,  and  promoting  its  highest  hap- 
piness. Painting  is  the  poetry  of  visi- 
ble form,  color,  and  expression.  The 
graver  can  set  forth  a  high  moral  lesson 
as  well  as  the  pen  ;  I  need  only  point 
you  for  proof  to  the  wonderful  creations 
of  Retsch.  That  leering  Devil  in  the 
"  Game  of  Life  :  "  that  poor  youth,  so 
beautiful,  so  anxious,  so  sad,  so  irreso- 
lute, so  fated,  —  ah  !  many  a  youth 
might  have  sat  for  that  picture ;  and 
many  a  wily  and  treacherous  demon  has 
been  near,  and  played  the  game,  and 
won  it ! 

This  Association,  too,  is  formed  to 
foster  native  art.  1  hope  you  do  not 
say  patronize  it  ;  for  I  must  confess  that 
/  do  not  like  to  be  patronized,  and  I  do 
not  believe  that  anybody  else  does. 
But  the  design  is  to  benefit  ourselves, 
by  spreading  among  us  the  works  of  our 
own  artists.  Well  do  they  deserve  it  ; 
and  I  hope  the  time  will  come  wlien  our 
church  walls  will  be  opened  to  them. 
So  well  do  they  deserve  it  that  I  will 
not  dishonor  them  by  comparing  their 
claims  with  those  of  the  refuse  stuff  that 
comes  over  in  shiploads  from  Europe  ; 
though  there  be,  as  we  are  told  in  the 
advertisements,  real  original  Raphaels, 
Titians,  Guidos,  and  Salvator  Rosas,  in 
every  one  of  these  wonderful  collections. 

But  grant,  it  may  be  said,  that  painting 
should  be  fostered  as  well  as  literature, 
as  well  as  poetry  and  song,  —  why  not  let 
it  take  its  chance  with  the  rest?  Why 
form  an  association  to  further  its  objects.' 
This  objection  overlooks  one  material 
difference.     The  book,  when  it  is  written, 


THE   IDENTITY    OF   ALL   ART. 


317 


is  printed.  That  work  of  art  is  multi- 
plied into  thousands  of  copies,  which 
easily  come  within  the  reach  of  all  who 
choose  to  read.  It  is  not  so  with  the 
painting.  It  is  too  expensive  for  the 
most  of  us  to  buy.  What  tlien  so  proper 
as  a  joint-stock  company  like  this,  to 
trade  for  pictures,  something  better  than 
furs  from  the  Northwest  coast,  or  pearls 
from  Ceylon  :  a  lottery,  the  only  good  one 
that  I  ever  heard  of,  where  for  five  dol- 
lars one  may  draw  a  prize  worth  five  hun- 
dred, —  worth  far  more  in  the  pleasure  it 
will  give.  Five  hundred  are  often  spent 
for  a  dinner,  a  supper,  an  entertainment, 
whose  pleasure  passes  and  perishes  in  a 
night  ;  while  a  picture  may,  in  a  far 
higher  way,  please  us,  and  our  children 
after  us,  hundreds  of  years.  Nor  in  any 
other  way  can  pictures  be  distributed 
among  the  mass  of  the  people.  But  for 
this  they  must  be  locked  up  from  the 
public  in  the  dwellings  of  the  opulent. 
A  similar  institution  in  Edinburgh  is 
spreading  fine  paintings  all  over  Scot- 
land. One  such  painting  in  a  country 
village  is  a  blessing  to  all  its  inhabitants. 
It  is  more  a  curiosity  there:  it  is  more 
looked  at  and  studied.  A  few  such  teach- 
ers in  a  village  would  spread  an  influence 
all  around  them.  They  would  speak 
from  the  silent  walls  to  passing  genera- 
tions. It  may  be  thouglit  extravagant  to 
say  it;  but  I  certainly  sliould  look  for  a 
higher  taste  and  refinement  in  such  a 
place. 

And  of  what  especially  would  paint- 
ings be  teachers  ?  I  answer,  of  what  in 
this  country  we  most  especially  need. 
They  would  be  teachers  of  the  beau  ideal^ 
the  beautiful,  the  sublime.  This  is  the 
special  province  of  the  arts  of  design. 
Although  they  labor  under  some  diflficul- 
ties  and  defects  compared  with  writing, 
yet  they  certainly  can  portray  a  beauty, 
a  sublimity,  which  the  pen  cannot  ;  or,  at 
any  rate,  they  appeal  more  directly,  and 
by  means  more  appropriate,  to  the  sense 
of  beauty  and  grandeur.  Now,  this  ap- 
peal, I  repeat,  is  precisely  what  our  coun- 
try wants,  both  as  a  new  and  as  a  republi- . 
can  country.     In  the  one  character,  it  has 


no  time-honored  structures,  no  old  ruins, 
and  fewer  venerable  associations,  to  ad- 
dress the  eye  and  the  heart ;  in  the 
other,  it  has  parted  with  many  titles  to 
respect  and  reverence,  be  they  right  or 
wrong, — monarchy,  a  court,  a  nobility. 
By  all  means  are  enthusiasm  and  vener- 
ation to  be  cultivated  here.  We  want 
them  to  meet  the  all-surrounding,  every- 
wiiere-penetrating  tendencies  to  the  prac- 
tical and  the  palpable,  which,  like  our 
railroads,  are  binding  the  country  in 
chains  of  iron ;  we  want  such  aid  to 
lighten  the  painstaking  of  gain,  and  to 
assuage  the  anxieties  of  ambition. 

I  do  not  set  myself  against  the  practi- 
cal spirit  of  the  country,  nor  its  gainful 
industry;  it  is  all  very  well  in  its  place  ; 
I  only  say  that  it  needs  to  be  modified 
by  the  infusion  of  other  principles,  and 
that  it  is  by  such  united  influences  only 
that  we  can  expect  to  lay  the  foundation 
and  build  the  superstructure  of  a  deep 
and  solid,  a  fair  and  beautiful,  national 
character.  Let  religion,  let  preaching, 
let  literature,  come  with  its  help  to  this 
work  ;  and  let  art,  too,  come,  with  its 
wonder-working  and  wonder-inspiring 
hand.  Let  the  sense  of  beauty  be  en- 
shrined in  the  heart  of  the  people.  I 
would  rather  that  one  silent,  calm  pic- 
ture of  martyr-like  heroism,  or  of  saintly 
beauty,  sunk  into  the  public  heart  here, 
than  to  know  of  some  great  and  agitating 
speculation  which  had  put  a  million  of 
gold  into  the  public  coflfer. 

The  artist  has  in  this  country,  — which 
so  much  needs  him,  —  I  believe,  a  glo- 
rious field.  He  has  not  princes,  indeed, 
for  his  patrons  ;  but  he  has  a  public 
of  educated,  intelligent,  and  increasing 
millions.  Let  him  not  distrust  it  ;  let 
him  not  be  wanting,  and  I  promise  him, 
that  we  will  not  be  wanting.  The  hu- 
man heart  is  forever  the  same  ;  the  same 
now  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  Vinci 
and  Raphael.  Let  him  not  think  that 
it  is  turned  to  stone.  Or,  if  he  thinks 
so,  let  him  try  it  once  ;  let  him  strike 
it  with  the  rod  of  genius,  and  if  it  is 
not  dead, — and  it  is  not  dead,  —  the 
waters  will  flow,  and  they  will  fertilize 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND    OCCASIONAL. 


and  beautify  the  land  in  which  he  lives 
and  in  which  he  shall  die  ;  die,  and  yet 
die  not  :  for  no  noble  deed  shall  be 
planted  in  the  quickened  and  springing 
life  of  this  youthful  country,  but  green 
bays  and  bright  flowers  shall  rise  from 
it,  and  flourish  around  it,  in  perpetual 
and  everlastine  memorial. 


XVIL 


ON   THE  MORAL    CHARACTER 
OF   GOVERNMENT. 

Romans  xiii.  4 :  "  For  it  is  the  minister  of  God  to 
thee  for  good." 

This  is  said  of  poHtical  Government. 
And  I  wish  to  invite  your  meditations 
this  evening,  my  brethren,  to  the  moral 
character  of  this  great  function  of  Gov- 
ernment. I  have  long  thought  that  this 
subject  demands  the  attention  of  the 
pulpit,  and  especially  of  the  American 
pulpit. 

Of  the  pulpit,  I  say,  in  the  first  place, 
and  of  the  pulpit  everywhere  ;  for  what 
is  the  office  of  the  preacher,  if  it  is  not 
to  speak  of  everything  that  touches  the 
national  conscience,  tlie  national  moral- 
ity ;  to  speak,  among  other  things,  of 
that  regard  to  the  commonweal  which 
should  come  as  the  sanctity  and  bond 
of  religion  to  a  people  ?  I  do  not  ad- 
vocate a  partisan  pulpit.  1  think  that 
the  line  should  be  distinctly  drawn 
between  party  questions  and  the  gen- 
eral moral  questions ;  and  that  with 
the  former  the  pulpit  has  nothing  to 
do.  The  preacher,  indeed,  has  a  right 
to  his  opinion  upon  these  questions, 
and  he  has  a  right  to  express  it  in 
proper  places  and  at  proper  times.  But 
the  season  of  public  worship  is  not  the 
time,  and  the  pulpit  is  not  the  place  ; 
for  this  plain  reason,  that  all  poHtical 
parties  meet  here  on  ground  that  is 
understood  to  be  common,  and  all  have 
built  up  the  pulpit  for  their  common 
edification,  and  not  as  a  post  for  attack 
upon   any  ;  and  I   must  think   that  he 


very  ill  understands  his  place  who  em- 
ploys it  to  drive  away  eithe;-  portion 
of  his  hearers,  indignant  and  angry, 
from  the  sanctuary.  But  with  regard 
to  the  moral  function  of  Government, 
with  regard  to  its  fidelity  to  the  people 
and  its  duty  to  God,  the  case  is  diflfer- 
ent.  And  if  rehgious  instruction,  —  so 
to  define  the  province  of  the  pulpit.  — 
if  religion,  in  other  words,  has  anything 
to  do  with  right  and  wrong,  the  case  is 
plain.  For  what  power  in  the  world  can 
do  right  or  can  do  wrong  upon  a  scale 
so  vast  and  stupendous  as  the  Govern- 
ment r  Wiiere  is  there  such  an  accu- 
mulation of  moral  actions  and  respon- 
sibilities as  in  the  Government  .''  What 
hand  upon  earth  so  holds  in  its  grasp  the 
weal  or  woe  of  millions  living  and  of  mill- 
ions unborn  as  the  Government .'' 

And  to  consider  ail  this,  I  say,  in  the 
next  place,  is  especially  the  duty  of  the 
American  pulpit.  Because  the  whole 
people  here  to  whom  the  pulpit  speaks, 
acts,  morally  or  immorally,  through  the 
Government.  I  do  not  loosely  say  that 
the  people  is  the  Government,  or  that 
"  the  people  7/iakes  the  Government."' 
We  are  born  under  a  certain  political 
Constitution.  We  are  born  members  of 
a  State  ;  that  was  not  for  us  to  choose 
or  to  make  ;  and  we  are  bound  to  be 
in  subjection  to  the  powers  that  be,  I 
conceive,  by  considerations  far  superior 
to  our  mere  will.  Our  form  of  Govern- 
ment is  a  fabric  of  power  framed  by 
the  wisdom,  and  cemented  in  the  blood, 
of  our  fathers  ;  it  spreads  its  protecting 
shadow  over  millions  of  people  ;  and 
unless  some  flagrant  cause  is  shown  for 
its  subversion,  unless  some  "right  of 
revolution  "  can  be  made  out,  obedience 
to  it,  I  hold  to  be  a  religious  duty,  —  a 
duty  to  the  God  of  nations,  to  the  Gov- 
ernor of  the  world.  But  this  state  of 
things  being  establislied,  we  have  yet 
something  to  do  with  it.  To  the  admin- 
istration of  this  power,  we,  the  people, 
the  whole  people,  do  directly  contrib- 
ute :  to  the  right  or  wrong,  then,  which 
the  Government  does,  to  the  good  or 
the  evil  which  it  brings  upon  us  and  will 


THE  MORAL  CHARACTER  OF  G0VERNM1?NT. 


319 


bring  upon  our  posterit}',  we  contrib- 
ute. We  hold  this  great  trust,  and 
must  discharge  it.  The  burden  is  upon 
us,  and  we  cannot  escape  it.  We  do 
and  must  put  forth  this  tremendous 
power.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  faithfully 
or  unfaithfully,  carelessly  or  solemnly, 
we  do  this  thing.  And  it  is  the  bound- 
en  duty  of  the  pulpit  to  bring  down 
this  awful  responsibility  upon  the  con- 
science of  the  whole  people.  1  cannot 
sufficiently  express  my  amazement  or 
my  regret  that  the  pulpit  should  have 
been  so  long,  so  completely,  so  almost 
universally,  wanting  to  this  duty. 

The  subject  of  political  morality  is 
not  only  one  which  it  belongs  to  us, 
but  one  which  it  deeply  behoves  us, 
to  consider ;  and  to  consider,  I  am 
afraid  we  must  say,  with  some  anxiety. 
The  question  about  the  national  moral- 
ity, in  every  branch  of  it,  is  one,  in 
every  view,  of  profound  concern.  An 
immense  interest  for  ourselves,  an  im- 
mense interest  for  the  world,  is  em- 
barked upon  the  experiment  we  are 
making  at  self-government.  But  self- 
government  ?  The  very  word  directs 
us  to  morality,  to  moral  restraint,  to 
conscience  as  the  basis  without  which 
everything  must  sink  to  ruins.  We 
may  point  to  what  material  results  in 
this  country  we  will,  to  what  rising 
cities,  to  what  increasing  commerce,  to 
what  improving  and  extending  manu- 
factures, and  vast  tillage  and  stupen- 
dous growth  of  the  national  wealth  ; 
but,  if  we  are  declining  in  morals  ;  if 
we  are  becoming  less  virtuous  and  re- 
ligious people  ;  if  corruption  is  silently 
stealing  into  the  midst  of  our  prosperity, 
—  we  know  that  a  canker  is  at  the  root, 
which  must  erelong  bring  down  all  our 
flourishing  honors  to  the  dust.  Nay, 
our  very  flourishing,  could  it  continue 
without  moral  culture,  were  but  a  misery 
and  a  shame.  Nations  must  be  nurse- 
ries of  7nen ;  national  growth  must  pro- 
duce noble  men,  and  ever  nobler  men, 
or  the  grand  purpose  of  national  exist- 
ence is  frustrated.  Now,  I  do  not  look 
with  discouragement  upon   our   people 


in  this  view.  I  see  evils  and  dangers  ; 
but  I  do  not  see  a  general  tendency 
downward.  A  deep  sense  of  these 
evils  and  dangers,  a  habit  common  to 
all  ages  of  disparaging  the  present  in 
comparison  with  the  past,  and  a  certain 
zeal  in  some  for  rapid  and  sweeping  re- 
forms, are  uniting  with  foreign  criticism 
and  censure  to  decry  this  country  ;  but 
I  cannot  agree  with  the  one  or  the  other. 
I  stand  up  firmly  for  my  country,  be- 
cause 1  can  do  it  conscientiously.  I 
have  personally  compared  it  with  other 
countries,  and  1  am  satisfied  that  in 
general  virtue  it  is,  to  say  the  least, 
inferior  to  none.  I  sincerel}'  believe, 
too,  that  the  moral  sentiment  of  this 
country  is  improving.  It  is  manifest 
that  several  prominent  vices  —  intem- 
perance, gaming,  profaneness  —  are  not 
gainingground  but  are  decreasing  among 
us,  and  have  been  for  a  number  of  years. 
We  must  not  look,  in  this  matter,  at  cer- 
tain masses  of  foreign  pauper  popula- 
tion in  our  cities,  nor  in  general  at  the 
cities  alone,  but  at  the  whole  country. 
And  yet,  after  all,  I  must  say,  there  is 
a  doubt,  and  more  than  a  doubt,  in  my 
mind,  on  one  point ;  and  that  is  about 
our  political  morality.  Not,  however, 
that  I  believe  even  on  this  point  the 
body  of  the  people  to  be  less  pure. 
Certainly  their  party  animosities  are  not 
so  bitter  as  they  were  twenty  and  thirty 
years  ago :  they  do  not  divide  families 
and  neighborhoods  as  they  did  then. 
And  this  is  some  advance  in  reflection, 
in  liberality,  in  good  temper,  — some  ele- 
vation of  the  public  mind.  It  is  into 
the  action  of  the  Government,  I  con- 
ceive, that  corruption  has  entered.  And 
it  has  entered  in  no  doubtful  or  equivo- 
cal form.  Tliis  is  the  terrible  principle 
that  has  come  to  be  recognized  in  the 
results  of  every  election :  that  the  suc- 
cessful party  is  to  take  all  the  offices; 
that  "  to  the  victors  " —  thus  grossly  to 
state,  by  a  common  phrase,  the  most 
corrupting,  the  most  fatal,  the  most  de- 
testable principle  that  ever  entered  into 
politics — that  ''to  the  victors  belong 
the  spoils  ! ''     Spoils  !     The  high  func- 


320 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


tion  of  public  duty  ;  the  solemn  respon- 
sibility of  administering  the  Law  ;  the 
sacred  investiture  with  the  powers  and 
attributes  of  sovereignty,  —  consecrated 
by  pledges  to  men,  and  oaths  to  Heaven, 
—  these  are  denominated  "  spoils  "  ! 
To  whom  belongs  the  "bad  eminence" 
of  introducing  this  principle  is  not  ma- 
terial ;  for  it  seems  to  have  become  the 
practice  of  the  Government.  But  stand- 
ing as  I  do  in  the  pulpit,  in  what  ought 
to  be  one  of  the  moral  heights  of  the 
world,  I  cannot  do  otherwise  than  pro- 
claim the  hatefulness  and  turpitude  and 
terrible  effects  of  the  principle.  It 
strikes  at  the  moral  independence  of 
the  people.  It  turns  our  elections  into 
mere  scrambles  for  office.  Our  repre- 
sentative system,  so  far  as  this  principle 
acts,  ceases  to  be  the  representation 
either  of  minds,  or  even  of  material  in- 
terests ;  personal  ambition,  personal 
needs,  desperate  fortunes,  only  are  rep- 
resented. It  mingles  in  the  necessary 
and  otherwise  wholesome  division  of 
parties  the  basest  elements  of  interest. 
It  creates  an  obligation,  a  bondage,  to 
party  support  and  to  party  dictation  un- 
known before.  "  I  have  labored  in  the 
election  ;  I  have  the  reward  ;  it  is  a 
bargain  ;  and  I  am  bound  hand  and 
foot,"  —  this  is  the  appropriate  language 
of  the  principle.  It  tends  to  make  the 
whole  political  action  of  the  country 
"  mesmeric,"  as  I  lately  heard  it  char- 
acterized by  a  distinguished  statesman  ; 
for  it  divests  individual  minds  of  their 
proper,  personal  freedom,  and  subjects 
them  to  the  mesmerizer, — the  caucus, 
the  party.  He  might  have  added,  that 
the  caucus  is  the  galvanic  battery,  and 
nominations  are  the  wires  that  convey 
the  influence,  which  is  to  strike  the  suc- 
cessful candidates  with  palsy,  or  to  ani- 
mate them  to  an  irresponsible,  galvanic 
action.  I  would  speak  with  no  inde- 
corum of  men  in  office.  I  know  that 
this  tendency  may  be  controlled  by  in- 
dividual honor  and  virtue,  and  is  so  ; 
but  I  say  that  this  is  the  tendency. 

I  repeat,  that  I  would  use  no  indeco- 
rum, no  improper  lightness  of  speech, 


with  regard  to  men  in  office  ;  for  this,  1 
conceive,  is  one  of  the  immoral,  the 
demoralizing  and  desecrating,  liberties 
of  our  Republican  politics.  Under  mo- 
narchical systems  the  people  are  accus- 
tomed to  look  up  with  respect,  with  loyal 
reverence,  to  the  Government.  The  sen- 
timent may  have  gone  too  far;  but  it  is 
a  right  sentiment,  when  rightly  directed. 
And  the  just  ground  for  it  is  not  taken 
away  by  our  Republican  forms.  On  the 
contrary,  no  Government  can  be  so  much 
entitled  to  respectful  treatment  as  that 
which  has  been  raised  up  by  free,  popu- 
lar suffrage.  To  browbeat,  to  smite 
upon  the  face,  the  image  of  power  which 
they  have  erected,  is  suicidal  madness. 
This  plainly  is  the  true  theory  ;  and  woe 
be  to  the  people  who  find  the  fair  theory 
overthrown  by  fact ;  who  believe  that 
no  affection,  no  consideration,  no  rever- 
ence is  due  to  the  power  that  rules  among 
them  !  Even  then  I  would  treat  public 
office,  and  those  who  hold  it,  with  a  cer- 
tain respect. 

This  levity,  in  fact,  helps  not  a  little 
to  blind  the  national  conscience  to  the 
moral  character  of  the  great  function  of 
Government.  Its  proper  moral  agency 
few  men  fairly  recognize  ;  and  therefore 
the  control  of  a  just  moral  criticism  is 
seldom  applied  to  it.  It  is  a  sort  of 
blind  force,  or  a  conjurer's  wand,  or  an 
impersonal  function,  or  a  curiously  de- 
vised or  recklessly  working  mechanism  ; 
and  the  actors  in  it  are  scarcely  regarded 
as  men.  It  is  some  prinitim  mobile  in 
the  terrestrial  system ;  and  as  certain 
visionary  thinkers  have  imagined  the 
heavenly  bodies  to  be  moved  by  super- 
nal agency,  angelic  or  demoniac,  so  it  is 
that  many  seem  to  think  of  the  earthly 
system.  They  scarcely  recognize  a  hu- 
man intervention  in  it;  the  proper  agen- 
cy of  human  minds  and  hearts  and  con- 
sciences. It  is  far  of6  from  them,  far 
above  them  ;  and  they  see  at  work  demi- 
gods or  demons  ;  and  would  be  surprised, 
if  they  came  nearer,  to  see,  instead,  a  com- 
pany of  toiling,  hard-working,  often  per- 
plexed, troubled,  and  anxious  men.  And 
in  so  far  as  the  real  human  agency  is 


THE  MORAL  CHARACTER  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


321 


seen,  yet  party  spirit  distorts  the  vision 
and  the  object.  Flattery  raises  the  fa- 
vorite administration  above  the  level  of 
moral  discrimination  ;  reviling  sinks  the 
detested  administration  below  it.  Talk 
of  conscience  in  the  Coiiernmeni ;  say 
that  a  reverence  for  God  ought  to  pre- 
side over  the  Cabinet  and  the  Congress  ; 
demand  that  the  administration  shall  feel 
and  act  as  a  Christian  administration, — 
men  smile  at  the  very  idea  of  it.  They 
have  ceased  to  demand  any  such  thing. 
Government,  in  fact,  has  ceased  in  their 
view  to  be  a  moral  organism.  What  a 
tremendous  default  of  the  just  and  right 
view !  What  a  terrible  omen  for  the 
future  ! 

Under  all  these  influences,  it  is  not 
strange  that  political  morality  should  go 
down  ;  that  it  should  sink  below  all  other 
morality  in  the  country.  It  is  separated 
from  all  other  morality.  The  morals  of 
politics,  like  the  morals  of  war,  are  cut 
off  from  the  great  code  of  right  and 
wrong.  Political  honor  is  severed  from 
private  worth.  Honor,  reputation,  char- 
acter, are  taken  into  partisan  keeping. 
The  party  favorite,  perhaps,  is  a  bad 
man.  Well,  many  men,  many  presses, 
say  so.  WMiat  of  that  .^  It  is  the  talk 
of  the  hostile  party  ;  nothing  else  can  be 
expected  of  it  ;  it  does  really  vilify  good 
men.  Meanwhile  his  own  friends  praise 
him,  and  that  is  enough.  They  gather 
around  him  and  shield  hiin,  — as  they  do 
no  other  man,  no  clergyman,  lawyer,  or 
merchant, — shield  him,  if  possible,  from 
his  own  reproach.  And  this  separation 
of  the  morals  of  party  from  general  mo- 
rality leads  even  good  men  to  do  that 
in  politics  which  they  would  do  in  no 
other  relation.  It  is  a  state  of  social 
war,  and  the  ordinary  maxims  of  recti- 
tude do  not  apply  to  it.  Fraud  must  be 
circumvented  by  cunning.  The  political 
point  must  be  gained  at  whatever  strain 
upon  the  moral  point.  Not  only  "the 
country  right  or  wrong,"  but  "  the  party 
right  or  wrong,"  —  this  is  the  law.  The 
latter,  in  fact,  is  ordinarily  what  the  for- 
mer means.  For  no  great  country  can 
be  honored  by  successful  injustice  ;  the 

21 


country  wrong  is  a  country  dishonored. 
But  the  party  is  such  a  thing  that  it  may 
in  its  own  view,  often  gain  honor  simj^ly 
by  winning  ;  since,  as  things  are  ordi- 
narily construed,  its  whole  aim,  end.  life, 
and  very  being  is  success.  Into  such  a 
system  bribery,  corruption,  selfishness, 
easily  enter  to  build  up  the  Government ; 
and  that  which  should  stand  as  the  great 
and  majestic  image  of  Right,  before  the 
people,  becomes  too  often,  instead,  like 
one  of  those  idols  of  savage  worship  which 
is  honored  and  caressed,  indeed,  if  it  is 
favorable,  but,  if  not,  is  beaten  with  in- 
sane fury,  and  trampled  into  dishonor 
and  ignominy. 

I  tremble  when  I  use  such  language  as 
this.  I  hasten  to  say  tiiat  this  is  no  just 
idea  of  a  Government.  If  I  could  strip 
off  this  distorting  mask  from  the  great 
image  of  power;  if  I  could  show  that 
Government  is  a  moral  being  ;  if  I  could 
make  it  appear,  that,  whether  acting 
rightly  or  wrongly,  it  is  an  intensely 
moral  function,  —  I  should  feel  that  I 
had  not  spoken  in  vain. 

What,  then,  is  the  Government .'' 
What  ought  it  to  think  of  its  function, 
and  of  the  place  it  holds  in  human 
affairs  }     What  does  it  do  ? 

In  answering  these  questions  let  me 
plainly  detach  myself  from  that  great 
bond  and  chain  of  conventional  usage 
which  is  forever  binding  us  down  to 
base  acquiescence  in  existing  evils,  and 
which  prevents  us  from  seeing  the  nobler 
and  better  way.  I  dismiss  fromrny  mind, 
then,  all  respects  of  custom,  all  sugges- 
tions of  low  and  temporary  expediency, 
all  pleadings  of  party  interest  ;  and  I 
ask  what,  in  the  light  of  reason  and  con- 
science, —  what  as  before  the  just  God 
and  before  all  wise  men,  —  is  a  Govern- 
ment, and  what  should  it  be?  Say,  if 
you  please,  that  I  am  visionary  ;  say 
that  it  is  idle  to  lift  up  any  high  ideal  of 
this  dread  attribute  of  sovereignty, —  I 
do  not  think  it  is  idle  ;  but  at  any  rate 
let  me  pursue  out  my  own  thought,  and 
it  shall  be  for  those  who  hear  me  to 
say  whether  it  engages  their  assent. 
Government,   then,  is  a    trust.     Let 


322 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND    OCCASIONAL. 


me  endeavor  to  accumulate  upon  that 
word  its  whole  meaning.  Government  is 
a  trust.  Whether  by  hereditary  descent 
as  from  God,  — for  I  leave  out  of  the 
question  the  case  of  the  military  usurper, 

—  whether  by  election  as  from  the  people, 

—  Government  is  a  trust.  It  is  this  es- 
pecially, emphatically,  supremely;  above 
all  things  else  that  it  is,  it  is  this.  All  its 
public  domain  and  property,  its  finances, 
its  army  and  navy,  its  legislative,  judicial, 
and  executive  functions,  all  its  power 
in  every  form,  is  a  trust,  and  nothing  but 
a  trust.  No  man  can  say,  "  it  is  a  prop- 
erty, it  is  a  prerogative  oi  mine,  derived 
from  nature  or  from  my  own  will  to  gov- 
ern millions  of  people."  Whether  he 
be  king  or  president,  whether  it  be  Con- 
gress or  Parliament,  it  is  the  consent 
of  the  people  that  places  them  in  their 
seats  and  holds  them  there. 

Nor  is  it  any  less  a  trust  because  it 
springs  from  the  very  nature  and  neces- 
sity of  things, —  springs.  I  may  say,  from 
the  will  of  God.  When  God  ordained 
that  a  country,  or  tract  of  country, 
should  be  occupied  by  a  multitude  of 
people,  he  as  certainly  ordained,  as  a 
thing  necessary  to  its  safety  and  well- 
being,  tliat  the  regulation  and  care  of  its 
interests  should  be  committed  to  a  few. 
That  is  to  say.  Government  of  some 
kind  is  as  much  an  ordinance  as  nation- 
ality. For  all  the  people  of  a  country 
cannot  come  together  to  make  laws,  ar- 
range public  measures,  and  confer  with 
foreign  nations ;  and  they  must,  there- 
fore, have  a  head.  All  the  people  of  a 
district  cannot  exercise  such  public  func- 
tions ;  they  must,  therefore,  choose  a 
representative.  The  head,  the  repre- 
sentative, has  committed  to  him  the  gen- 
eral interest  simply  in  trust. 

But  what  is  a  trust  ?  What  does  it 
imply  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  What  is 
the  essence  of  it.-"  In  its  very  essence 
■it  is  moral.  It  implies  a  duty ;  it  appeals 
■to  a  conscience  ;  it  must  answer  to  a 
•God  above  !  It  is  holden  of  God  and 
man  for  the  public  weal.  If  a  trust- 
company  is  responsible  for  the  faithful 
discharge  of  its  duties,  so  is  a  trust- 


Government  responsible.  It  is  a  trustee, 
as  much  as  if  the  taking  and  accounting 
for  money  were  its  sole  office.  And  for 
what  is  it  a  trustee  ?  For  the  welfare 
of  millions;  for  all  that  which  touches, 
in  its  action,  their  joys  or  their  sorrows, 
their  business  or  pleasure,  their  wealth 
or  poverty,  their  weal  or  woe.  What 
private  interest  or  party  dictation  can 
break  this  bond  of  duty  to  the  whole 
people  ?  Though  a  party  succeed  in 
seating  itself  in  the  place  of  power,  yet 
from  that  moment  it  should  cease  to  be 
a  party,  and  should  act  for  the  whole 
nation.  The  representative  system  rec- 
ognizes parties,  indeed  ;  but  it  does  not 
recognize  a  party  Government.  No  sane 
people,  in  its  political  compact,  ever 
meant  that  such  a  monstrous  thing 
should  exist.  If  any  measure  presents 
itself  of  which  the  acting  Government 
is  obliged  to  say,  "This  would  help 
the  party  that  placed  us  in  power,  but 
would  be  bad  for  the  country,"  it  is 
bound  by  its  position,  as  intrusted  with 
the  common  welfare,  to  reject  that  meas- 
ure. If  this  is  not  the  actnai  political 
morality,  it  is  nevertheless  the  //'t/^  po- 
litical morality. 

But  a  trust,  a  moral  trust,  I  still  say, 
what  is  it  ?  And  I  answer  more  em- 
phatically, it  is  a  bond  upon  the  con- 
science. It  is  a  bond  to  fidelity  stronger 
than  any  other.  I  may  not  do  what  I 
will  with  my  own  unrestrained  by  con- 
science ;  but  surely,  and  doubly  true  is 
it,  that  I  may  not  do  what  I  will  with 
another's.  T  may  refuse  to  take  such 
trust ;  but  if  I  accept,  I  must  discharge 
it.  From  the  moment  I  take  it,  I  am 
bound  to  those  from  whom  I  receive  it, 
and  I  am  bound  to  Heaven.  The  Gov- 
ernment of  a  nation,  the  greatest  trustee- 
ship in  the  world,  is  bound  by  solem- 
nities of  office  and  of  oath  to  the  God  of 
nations.  And  he  who,  invested  with 
such  a  function,  has  not  arrived  at  this 
view  of  it,  has  yet  to  learn  what  are 
the  first  principles  of  the  doctrine  of 
Government. 

My  brethren,  this  is  not  a  small  mat- 
ter, nor  a  matter  improper  for  our  con- 


THE   MORAL   CHARACTER   OF   GOVERNMENT. 


Z^l 


sideration  in  the  house  of  God,  nor  a 
matter  impertinent  to  us.  We  elect 
men  to  oftice.  W'e  influence  them  by 
our  very  idea  of  what  they  should  be. 
A  high  ideal  must  always  go  before 
high  action.  Every  man  and  woman 
may  thus  make  a  lofty  contribution  to 
lofty  ends.  Let  me  create  in  this  whole 
people  a  high  and  sacred  sentiment  and 
sense  of  what  a  Government  ought  to 
be,  and  I  will  lift  up  a  power  which  no 
Government  can  resist.  The  world,  I 
trust,  is  beginning  to  look  into  this  mat- 
ter as  it  never  did  before.  And  it  is  high 
time  ;  for  it  has  precious  interests  at 
stake,  and  the  duty  has  been  too  long 
neglected.  This  idea  of  Government, 
which  history  itself  has  too  much  coun- 
tenanced,—  that  it  is  a  high  game  of 
ambition  to  be  played  out  for  the  pleas- 
ure or  interest  of  a  few, —  that  its  seat 
is  a  lofty  stage  for  men  to  play  such 
tricks  upon  before  high  heaven  as  make 
the  angels  weep,  and  men  beneath  to 
groan  in  bitterness  and  sorrow, —  and 
that  this  is  all  that  can  be  expected  of  a 
Government,  —  could  there  be  anything 
more  monstrous  to  the  eye  of  truth  and 
reason,  more  offensive  to  Heaven,  more 
demoralizing  to  the  world  than  this  ?  De- 
moralizing, I  say;  for  the  highest  visible 
power  in  the  world,  like  a  lofty  tower, 
is  seen  and  marked  of  all  men,  and  is 
surrounded  with  splendor.  And  an  evil 
example  from  that  height  will  fall  with 
tenfold  crushing  weight  upon  the  people. 
In  sovereignty  there  is  a  kindof  sanc- 
titude ;  there  is  a  divinity  that  doth  hedge 
about  even  a  bad  king;  and  when  the 
throne  of  power,  or  the  highest  seat  of 
magistracy,  is  regarded  but  as  a  place 
for  the  intrigues  of  ambition  or  interest, 
it  is  a  desecration  such  as  if  the  pulpit 
were  turned  into  a  huckster's  booth,  or 
the  sacred  ermine  of  justice  were  dragged 
in  the  mire  like  a  beggar's  rags. 

No,  my  brethren,  we  must  not  be 
silent.  We  must  take  up  this  matter. 
We  must  think  of  it.  We  have  all  an 
interest  in  holding  up  high  the  idea  of 
Government,  in  demanding  of  it  fidelity 
to  its  trust,  in  demanding  of  it  justice  ; 


and  should  I  not  say,  the  nobleness,  the 
grandest  embodiment  of  justice.  It  is 
not  a  mere  mercantile  justice  that  is 
high  enougli  for  a  state.  It  is  not  to  be 
just  as  a  trader,  who  will  not  repudiate 
his  debts  if  he  can  pay  them  ;  though 
this  is  a  kind  of  justice  that  is  to  be 
urged,  and,  thank  God,  /las  been  suc- 
cessfully urged,  upon  more  than  one  of 
our  own  States  ;  but  the  sovereignty  of 
a  great  people  should  be  noble,  magna- 
nimous, beneficent ;  it  should  be  tem- 
perate, dispassionate,  grave  ;  it  should 
be  too  great  for  resentment,  too  high  for 
selfishness,  too  majestic  to  do  wrong  ; 
it  should  respect  the  rights  and  inter- 
ests, not  of  its  own  subjects  only,  but 
also  of  other  nations,  and  especially  of 
weaker  nations.  A  single  man  may 
find  it  hard  to  be  just  to  rivals  and 
enemies;  but  the  collective  power  of  a 
great  people  should  not  find  it  hard. 
It  should  take  the  noble  part  among  the 
nations.  The  petty  passions  of  men 
have  no  place  in  it.  The  brow  of  maj- 
esty should  be  calm  ;  and  its  hands 
should  be  stretched  out  to  the  widest 
comprehension  of  the  great  interests  of 
humanity.  And  as  the  migiity  heart 
of  the  system,  it  should  beat  to  the 
noblest  emotions  that  the  collective  jus- 
tice, honor,  and  conscience  of  humanity, 
and  all  mankind,  can  pour  into  it. 

But  all  this  which  I  have  been  saying 
is  enforced  by  another  and,  if  possible, 
still  stronger  reason.  For  what  does  a 
Government  do?  Is  it  to  the  people  a 
negative  and  indifferent  function  1  Is 
it  a  piece  of  mechanism  away  up  in 
the  sky,  with  which  people  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  gaze  at  it  ?  No  ;  it  is  not. 
It  is  here  ;  it  is  among  us.  It  is  a 
power  that  is  felt  in  our  daily  life.  It 
gives  us  business,  it  gives  us  bread, 
or  withholds  them  ;  it  is  a  mechanism 
that  touches  the  fortunes  of  every  family, 
of  every  individual.  Every  turn  of 
every  wheel  in  it  is  as  a  wheel  of  the 
rack  inflicting  pain,  or  as  the  revolving 
orbs  of  heaven  shedding  light  and 
blessing  upon  the  world. 

What  is  a   tariff  ?     If   a   hand  were 


324 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


every  day  put  forth  to  take  sometl-.ing 
from  the  granary  and  the  cellar,  from 
tlie  kneading-trough  and  the  daily  board, 
that  would  be  what  a  tariff  is.  Even 
with  the  most  careful  and  gradual  ad- 
justment, it  affects  the  comfort  of  ten 
thousands  of  families.  With  violent 
changes,  it  builds  up  or  plucks  down,  it 
settles  or  scatters,  unnumbered  house- 
holds. It  is  justice  or  injustice,  to  the 
capitalist  and  the  laborer,  to  the  buyer 
and  seller,  to  the  producer  and  con- 
sumer. It  is  justice  or  injustice  to 
everybody. 

What  is  legislation  ?  What  is  a  stat- 
ute but  the  very  law  under  which  the 
whole  people  must  walk  ?  The  law 
professes  to  enact  that  which  is  just 
and  right,  and  to  punish  that  which  is 
unjust  and  wrong.  It  professes  to  be 
the  definite  exposition  of  that  rectitude 
which  the  law  of  God  demands.  The 
statute-book  is  the  very  Bible  of  civil 
life,  and  in  many  respects  of  moral  life. 
The  Government  stands  before  us,  and 
says,  "  Thou  shalt  do  thus  and  thus  ;  or 
if  thou  wilt  not,  thou  shalt  be  visited 
with  pains  and  penalties."  Is  obedi- 
ence to  it  an  indifterent  thing  .'' 

But  the  Government  does  more.  It 
makes  treaties.  And  all  who  sail  upon 
the  sea  or  walk  upon  the  land,  are 
bound  by  those  conventions.  Yet  more  : 
it  makes  peace  or  war.  Are  these 
things  indifferent  ?  Are  they  morally 
indifferent?  I  know  not  what  on  earth 
is  more  awful  than  is  sometimes  the 
incipient  step  that  leads  to  a  long  and 
bloody  war.  The  Government  gives 
a  direction  ;  it  is,  as  it  were,  but  to 
lift  a  finger  and  point  ;  it  is  but  three 
lines  perhaps,  written  in  a  moment, 
by  a  mortal  hand,  —  and  what  follows  ? 
Oh  !  who  can  sum  up  the  horrors  and 
woes  that  are  accumulated  in  a  single 
war!  Let. us  not  cover  them  over  with 
blinding  military  phrases.  War  comes 
with  its  bloody  hand  into  our  very 
dwellings.  It  takes  from  thousands 
and  ten  thousands  of  homes  those  who 
were  abiding  there  in  peace  and  comfort, 
around  whom    were  thrown  the  tender 


ties  of  family  and  kindred.  It  carries 
them  away  to  die  of  exposure  and  fever, 
untended.  in  infectious  climes,  or  to 
stand  up  in  the  fierce  fight,  —  to  be 
hacked  and  mangled  and  torn  in  pieces  ; 
to  sink  on  the  gory  field  from  which 
they  shall  rise  no  more,  or  to  be  borne 
away,  writhing  with  agony,  to  noisome 
and  infectious  hospitals.  Nor  is  this 
all.  The  groans  of  the  battle-field  are 
echoed  in  sighs  of  bereavement  from 
thousands  of  desolated  hearths.  Or  if 
the  soldier  returns,  perhaps  he  brings 
worse  sorrow  to  his  home  by  the  infec- 
tion, which  he  has  caught,  of  camp 
vices.  The  country  is  demoralized. 
The  whole  national  mind  perhaps  is 
brought  down  from  the  noble  inter- 
change of  kind  offices  with  another 
people,  to  wrath  and  revenge,  and  base 
pride,  and  the  habit  of  measuring  brute 
strength  with  brute  strength,  —  for  that 
is  mainly  what  a  battle  is.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  victorious  country  is,  "  We 
have  beat  them  ;  we  have  whipped 
them,"  —  the  very  language  of  a  bully. 
The  wasted  treasure,  as  well  as  wasted 
morals,  is  not  indifferent.  Enough  is 
often  expended  in  a  war  to  build  ten 
thousand  churches,  hospitals,  universi- 
ties, or  to  construct  railroads  across  a 
continent,  or  to  dry  up  the  tears  of  a 
nation's  sorrow,  like  Ireland's.  If  this 
treasure  were  only  sunk  in  the  sea,  it 
were  a  great  calamity ;  but  it  is  ex- 
pended in  cutting  into  the  veins  and 
arteries  of  human  life,  till  they  deluge 
the  earth  with  a  sea  of  blood. 

And  all  this,  I  repeat,  is  done  by 
Governments  ;  by  the  pointed  finger  of 
that  awful  power  ;  by  three  lines  written 
witii  its  hand.  Should  not  all  those 
who  take  such  a  tremendous  responsi- 
bility, and  all  those  who  vote  supplies, 
fall  upon  their  knees  before  God  and 
ask  for  light  and  guidance  ?  Should 
not  the  conscience  of  the  whole  people, 
and  the  cries  of  suffering  humanity,  and 
the  tears  of  widows  and  orphans,  rise 
up  and  call  upon  all  rulers,  and  legisla- 
tors to  cast  away  all  passion  and  pride, 
and  to  address  themselves  to  the  most 


THE  MORAL  CHARACTER  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


3^5 


solemn   and  religious  thought   of   their 
duties  and  responsibilities  ?     May  not  a 
suffering  and  sorrowing  world  point  them 
to  the  great  audit,  —  the  answer  to  God  ? 
And  ought   not  this  dread    ministry    of 
Government  to  stand  before  us  in  a  new 
and  more  solemn   light  ?     Ought  it  not 
to  weigh  upon  the  heart  with  tiie  Imrden 
of  an  empire's  welfare,  and  bow  down  the 
head  with  awe  before  the  God  of  nations? 
When  the  death  of  Louis  XV.  was  an- 
nounced   in  the    Court  of  France,    the 
young  dauphin  and  his  wife,  Louis  XV  L 
and    Marie    Antoinette,   amidst   all-sur- 
rounding agitation,  and  while  congratu- 
lations   were  ready   to   be    poured   out 
upon  them,  burst  into  tears,    fell  upon 
their    knees    and    exclaimed, "  O    God, 
aid  us,  protect  us  ;  we  reign  too  soon  ! " 
Fit    investiture    with    the   awfulness  of 
sovereignty  !     Fit  modesty  !     Yes,  they 
reigned  too  soon.     The  awful  days  that 
came,  and  to  which  they  were  unequal, 
their  own  mournful  end,  proclaimed  that 
they  reigned  too  soon.     Why  shall  men 
grasp   after  power  ?     Why,   as  in   pure 
and  pristine  ages,  shall  they  not  shrink 
from  it  with  awe,  or  enter  upon  it  with 
modesty  and  prayer  ?     It  is,  I  fear,  be- 
cause sanctity  has  gone  out  from  power, 
and  it  is    regarded   as    a    mere  worldly 
instrument   for    worldly  ends.     It   is,    I 
fear,  because  it  has  lost  its  moral  ven- 
erableness.     I  dread  lest  it  be  found  true 
that  the  people  have  taken  it  in   hand 
only   to   handle    it   too     familiarly,    too 
rudely  ;    only  to  divest  its  lofty  seats  of 
their   sacredness,  and  its   solemn   halls 
of  debate  of  their  dignity.     If  it  be  so  or 
if  there  be    any  tendency   of  this  kind 
amidst  the  freedom   and  the   swaying  to 
and  fro  of  public  opinion,  then  must  all 
the  conscience  that  is  left  in  the  world 
come  to  the  rescue;  then  must  the  pul- 
pit come  to  the  rescue  ;   and  well  may 
the  priests,   the  ministers  of  the  Lord, 
weep  between  the  porch  and  the   altar, 
and  say,    "  Spare  thy  people,  O   Lord, 
and  give  not  thine  heritage  to  reproach." 
We  have  swept  away  the  throne  and  the 
sceptre  and  the  crown  :   those  prescrip- 


tive tiJes  to  the  homage  of  mankind  are 
gone  from  among  us.  Then  must  we 
set  up  the  throne  of  justice  here,  and. 
the  sceptre  of  our  power  must  be  right' 
eousness,  and  tlie  crown  of  our  Republi- 
can majesty  must  be  the  lowly  fear  of 
God! 

It  is  a  stupendous,  it  is  an  awful, 
movement  in  human  affairs,  —  this  ten- 
dency of  the  age  to  popular  forms  of 
government.  This  tide  in  the  affairs  of 
men,  —  it  is  evident  that  the  civilized 
world  is  embarked  upon  it ;  and  it  is  roll- 
ing on  to  the  dark  and  unknown  future. 
What  is  to  be  the  end  of  these  things  we 
know  not  ;  though  for  myself  I  am  one 
of  those  who  hope  well  of  the  result. 
But  one  thing  is  certain.  As  surely  as 
there  is  a  just  God  who  governs  the 
world,  as  surely  as  all  history  gives  true 
augury,  so  sure  it  is  that  injustice  and 
corruption  shall  not,  shall  never  thrive 
in  human  affairs.  If  popular  govern- 
ments cannot  be  made  pure  ;  if  the  ma- 
jestic dominion  of  the  people  that  is  now 
rising  in  the  world,  is  only  to  spread  it- 
self over  disorder  and  licentiousness  like 
that  before  the  flood,  then  shall  another 
flood  come,  and  with  other  tokens  ; 
then  shall  the  great  deep  of  society  be 
broken  up,  and  the  windows  of  heaven's 
displeasure  shall  be  opened  ;  and  a  base 
and  irreverent  and  corrupt  world  shall 
be  swept  away,  to  prepare  for  some  new 
creation. 

My  brethren,  bear  with  me  one  mo- 
ment longer.  We  must  think  of  these 
things  !  The  whole  people  must  think 
of  them  !  We,  the  people,  contribute 
to  make  the  Government  what  it  is. 
We  are  not  the  Government ;  we  do  not 
wield  that  power :  but  we  give  it  its 
moral  character ;  we  impart  to  it  its 
wisdom  or  folly,  its  violence  or  modera- 
tion, its  spirit  of  justice  and  patriotism, 
or  o\  injustice  and  party  animosity.  We 
elect  the  men  who  shall  administer  the 
Government  ;  and  the  spirit  m  which 
we  choose  them  is  the  spirit  in  which 
they  will  govern.  And  I  do  earnetly 
say,  again  and  again,  we  must  think,  we 


326 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


the  people  must  think,  of  all  this.  We 
must  reform  our  careless  ways  of  think- 
ing on  this  subject.  We  must  take  up 
a  new  idea  of  the  solemn-  and  majestic 
function  of  Government.  We  must  take 
up  a  new  idea  of  our  duties.  Grave  and 
thoughtful  must  be  the  steps  that  lead  us 
to  the  ballot.  We  must  remember  that 
we  are  putting  forth  a  hand  there  that 
is  to  touch  the  weal  or  woe  of  millions 
of  people,  and  of  the  future  generations. 
If  we  choose  for  office  bad  men,  be  their 
politics  what  they  may  ;  if  we  choose 
reckless,  headstrong,  violent,  unprin- 
cipled men  ;  if  we  choose  for  a  nation's 
guidance  men  whom  we  would  not  trust 
with  our  private  affairs,  —  men  to  hold 
the  reins  of  the  supreme  rule  whom  we 
would  not  trust  to  hold  the  strings  of 
our  private  purse,  —  what  can  we  expect 
but  the  displeasure  of  the  just  God, 
and  the  reproach  of  all  just  men  1  Who 
shall  care  for  our  fate,  if  we  thus  sport 
with  it  ?  Who  will  pity  us  in  the  day 
of  our  calamity  ?  Nobody.  We  shall 
be  the  world's  wonder  and  the  world's 
scorn  for  our  folly  and  guilt. 

No,  PEOPLE  of  America  !  the  burden 
is  upon  you.  The  burden  of  the  future 
is  upon  you.  If  you  fail,  heaven  and 
earth  will  make  inquisition  for  your 
negligence  and  recklessness,  —  for  never 
was  people  so  favored.  Favored  and 
fortunate  thus  far  ;  but  if  ever  the  dark 
days  shall  come,  —  which  Keaven  for- 
bid ! — if  ever  disunion  and  anarchy  shall 
overspread  this  land  ;  if  ever  its  fair 
borders  shall  "shine  o'er  with  civil 
swords,"  and  be  covered  with  blood 
and  carnage,  —  then  shall  its  desolated 
dwellings  make  inquisition  of  you,  of 
your  pulpits,  of  your  people.  Then 
will  God  demand  of  you,  and  say,  "  Ah, 
sinful  nation  !  a  seed  of  evil-doers  ! 
children  that  are  corrupters  !  ye  have 
forsaken  the  Lord,  ye  have  provoked  the 
Holy  One  to  anger  ;  your  country  is  des- 
olate ;  your  cities  are  burned  with  fire  ; 
your  land,  strangers  devour  it  in  your 
presence ;  and  it  is  desolate  as  over- 
thrown by  strangers  !  " 


XVIIL 
THE   SLAVERY    QUESTION. 

Hebrews  xiii.  3  :"  Remember  them  that  are  in 
bonds." 

I  PROPOSE  to  offer  some  remarks, 
this  evening,  on  the  Slavery  question. 
It  is  a  question  of  humanity,  and  by 
that  claim  they  that  are  in  bonds  are 
always  to  be  remembered  It  is  one  of 
the  great  moral  questions  of  the  day, 
and  proper  at  all  times  to  be  discussed. 
But  I  think  it  must  have  been  pressed 
upon  our  attention  in  an  especial  man- 
ner during  the  past  winter,  by  the  de- 
bates upon  it  that  have  agitated  the 
National  Legislature.  It  has  really  been, 
next  to  the  Mexican  War,  the  great 
question  of  the  session,  and,  in  point 
of  actual  interest,  greater  than  that. 
It  is  a  matter  of  great  moral  interest 
to  us,  and  to  every  one  of  us  ;  because 
we  have,  or  shall  have,  duties  to  dis- 
charge in  regard  to  it  of  the  highest 
possible  moment. 

For  it  has  become  apparent,  I  think, 
that  the  whole  North  will  take  a  stand 
in  regard  to  the  extension  of  slavery, 
that  must  give  to  the  question  a  new 
and  very  solemn  importance.  The  sla- 
very question  is  fast  becoming  the  great 
trial  question  in  this  country  ;  the  ques- 
tion on  which  its  politics,  its  peace, 
perhaps  its  union,  depends.  For  myself, 
I  cannot  look  without  apprehension  to 
the  discussion  and  the  legislative  action 
to  which  I  see  that  this  question  is  to 
be  subjected.  I  cannot  altogether  sym- 
pathize with  the  tone  of  nonchalance 
with  which  some  of  our  Northern  and 
Western  men  say  to  the  South,  "You 
cannot,  and  you  dare  not,  break  off 
from  us."  When  I  have  listened  to 
the  men  of  the  South  on  this  subject ; 
when  I  have  heard  them  on  the  floor 
of  Congress  pledge  conscience,  honor, 
and  life  to  withstand  the  evidently  and 
equally  fixed  purpose  of  the  North,  I 
have  seen  passion  indeed,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  a  passion  of  the  deepest  sin- 
cerity  and   determination.     It   is  said, 


THE   SLAVERY   QUESTION. 


327 


I  know,  that  interest,  palpable  and 
pressing  interest,  must  keep  us  together. 
I  answer  that  the  bonds  of  interest 
have  been  a  thousand  times  broken 
by  the  force  of  passion  ;  that  it  is  in- 
temperate passion  which  we  have  to  fear; 
and  that  there  seems  to  be  enough  of 
this  in  the  case  to  awaken  the  serious 
concern  of  all  thoughtful  men.  I  would 
do  no  injustice  to  the  men  of  the  South. 
It  is  not  passion  alone,  I  know,  that 
animates  them ;  but  it  is  apparently 
t.ie  deepest  sense  of  wrong  meditated 
against  them,  as  they  conceive,  in  the 
fixed  determination  of  the  North  to 
forbid  all  further  extension  of  their 
system. 

During  the  last  winter  I  have  en- 
tered a  little  within  the  borders  of  the 
slave-system  ;  I  have  conversed  with 
some  of  the  ablest  and  wisest  men  of 
the  South  on  the  subject ;  and  I  have 
come  to  entertain  the  conviction,  that 
we  of  the  North  ought  to  know  them 
and  their  system  better  than  we  do,  to 
render  full  justice  to  either.  When  Mr. 
Quinet,  the  celebrated  Parisian  profes- 
sor, proposed  to  write  a  book  on  Ultra- 
Montanism,  —  i.  e.  the  highest  Roman 
Catholic  pretensions,  —  he  determined, 
as  he  tells  us,  though  living  in  a  Cath- 
olic country,  to  go  to  Spain,  where  that 
system  exists  in  its  fullest  vigor,  and 
to  study  it  there.  And  so  do  I  conceive 
that  he  who  would  write  upon  the  slave- 
system  should  go  to  the  very  field  on 
which  its  character  is  fully  displayed. 
He  cannot  know  either  the  good  or  tlie 
evil  of  it,  —  either  the  qualified  good  or 
the  positive  evil,  —  without  seeing  it. 
I  do  not  say  that  it  is  necessary  to  take 
a  journey  to  South  Carolina  or  Louisi- 
ana to  decide  that  slavery  is  abstractly 
wrong, —  that  it  was  wrong  originally 
to  bring  men  into  that  condition.  Few 
question  this,  whether  at  the  North  or 
South.  But  to  determine  what  can  be 
done,  what  ought  to  be  done,  what  is 
best  to  be  done,  —  this  requires  a  care- 
ful eye-witnessing  study  of  the  system, 
in  its  actual  condition  and  complicated 
relations.     The  Southern  men  complain 


that  we  of  the  North  are  dealing  with 
abstractions  ;  that  we  do  not  understand 
the  case  ;  that  we  are  mistaking  names 
for  things,  and  pictures  of  the  imagina- 
tion for  realities  I  admit  that  some- 
thing of  this  is  likel}'  enough  to  be  true. 
I  have  long  since  come  to  be  convinced 
that  we  thoroughly  know  nothing  but 
what  we  experience  and  see.  I  admit 
the  force  of  all  this  ;  but  I  might  re- 
mind our  brethren  of  the  South  that  it 
has  a  double  application.  For,  I  must 
say,  neither  do  they  seem  to  understand 
lis.  They  seem  to  think  it  is  all  pas- 
sion and  fanaticism  with  us  at  the 
North.  I  have  thought  it  very  remark- 
able that  they  do  not  appear  to  know, , 
to  recognize,  the  moral  difficulties  which 
we  have  with  the  subject  ;  the  diffi- 
culties not  of  fanatics,  not  of  men  who 
are  bestirring  themselves  in  this  matter 
because  they  can't  keep  still  about  any- 
thing ;  but  of  sober  and  thoughtful  men, 
who  sit  apart  and  meditate  the  question 
by  themselves.  For  what  other,  I  ask, 
than  a  moral  interest  can  we  have  in 
the  question  ?  We  have  no  immediate 
concern  with  it.  What  is  it,  in  the 
name  of  reason  ?  what  can  it  be,  but  a 
feeling  for  the  right  and  for  humanity 
that  is  leading  the  whole  North,  and  the 
whole  world,  in  fact,  to  take  the  attitude 
which  it  is  assuming  on  this  subject  ? 

It  is  true,  then,  that  neither  party  is 
likely  very  well  to  understand  the  other  ; 
and  in  the  little  that  I  have  now  to  say 
upon  the  subject,  I  will  speak  with  all 
the  care  and  candor  of  which  I  am 
capable.  I  will  first  state  the  case  as  I 
have  received  it  from  the  lips  of  South- 
ern men  ;  and,  next,  I  will  offer  what 
seems  to  me  proper  to  be  said  by  way 
of  reply.  In  setting  forth  their  plea, 
it  shall  be  they  who  speak.  It  shall  be 
their  fairest,  most  honorable,  and  con- 
scientious plea.  I  know  that  base  in- 
terest has  its  voice  there.  But  there 
are  thoughtful  and  Christian  men  in  the 
Southern  States,  and  many  such  ;  and, 
although  I  think  they  are  mistaken,  I 
am  willing,  fairly  and  calmly,  to  hear 
what  they  say. 


328 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


Thus,  then,  they  argue :  "  We  do 
not  defend  the  original  taking  of  these 
people  from  Africa.  The  horrors  of  the 
slave-trade  we  give  up  to  universal  exe- 
cration. The  sin  does  not  lie  at  our 
^oor.  But  here  these  people  are  among 
us.  We  found  them  here  when  we 
came  into  life.  We  were  born  into  the 
possession  and  care  of  them.  What  is 
our  duty  to  them  ?  —  We  are  wiUing," 
say  the  Christian  and  conscientious  men 
among  our  brethren  there,  "  to  take  the 
highest  sense  of  duty  for  our  guidance. 
What  ought  we  to  do  ?  We  are  willing 
to  listen  to  calm  reasoning  upon  this 
point.  We  ask  for  light.  We  would 
not  offend  against  God,  nor  against  the 
Christian  law.  What  ought  we  to  do  ? 
What  does  justice  demand  .-'  If  any- 
thing can  be  pointed  out  in  our  relation 
to  these  people  or  our  treatment  of 
them  that  is  intrinsically  wrong,  we 
will  not  defend  it.  Wrongs  will  be  com- 
viitted  in  all  human  relations.  Are 
there  no  parents  among  yourselves  who 
are  harsh  and  cruel  to  their  children  ? 
Do  you  not  sometimes  hear,  as  you  pass 
by  a  dwelling,  the  cries  of  a  child  that  is 
cruelly  whipped  ?  The  same  thing  may 
be  witnessed  as  you  pass  by  our  plan- 
tations, though  we  deny  that  it  is  co?n- 
mon.  But  we  do  not  defend  it.  You 
ought  not  to  speak  of  exceptions,  spring- 
ing from  human  infirmity  and  passion, 
but  of  the  essential  relation.  And  we 
say  in  the  very  outset  that  you  mistake 
the  relation.  You  call  it  cruel  bondage. 
We  say  it  is  a  relation  of  dependence, 
of  subjection,  necessary  in  the  circum- 
stances to  the  good  of  both  parties. 
You  say  it  is  the  buying  and  selling  of 
men  ;  the  bartering  of  immortal  souls; 
the  bidding  off  at  auction,  and  under  the 
hammer,  of  that  which  is  a  spark  of  the 
Divinity,  the  image  of  God.  But  we 
say,  that  there  is  in  this  language  much 
that  is  figurative.  Thoughts,  affections, 
the  immortal  spark,  cannot  be  bought 
nor  sold.  We  buy  the  services  of  these 
men  for  life.  That  is  all  we  can  buy,— 
the  use  of  bone  and  sinew.  Do  you 
not  buy  the  same  when  you  hire  a  man 


for  a  year  or  a  month  .'*  It  is  true  there 
is  a  difference.  The  party  with  us  does 
not  consent.  He  does  not  sell  his  ser- 
vices. His  will  is  bowed  down  to  our 
will.  It  is  true,  too,  that  we  buy  the 
service  of  these  men  and  of  their  cJiil- 
dren.  And  there  is  compulsion  in  the 
case.  Abstractl}',  it  seems  a  hard  meas- 
ure ;  inconsistent  with  the  natural  rigiits 
of  a  man.  We  admit  it.  It  is  a  trying 
view  of  the  case,  we  admit.  Humane 
men  among  us  do  not  sell  their  slaves, 
if  they  can  help  it.  It  is  an  evil  inci- 
dent to  the  system  ;  we  grant  it  is  an 
evil ;  it  is  an  unwelcome  and  painful  re- 
sort. Sell  my  slaves  !  "  I  have  heard 
a  Southern  man  exclaim  :  "  I  should 
almost  as  soon  think  of  selling  my 
children." 

"  Still,  however,  in  any  view,  here  is 
compulsion;  and  now  we  say,"  —  thus 
proceeds  the  argument,  —  "  this  com- 
pulsion is  necessary,  necessary  for  the 
welfare  of  both  parties.  It  is  not  only 
true  that  our  fields,  in  many  quarters, 
cannot  be  cultivated  by  any  labor  but 
that  of  the  African  man,  that  no  other 
constitutions  can  bear  it  ;  but  is  it  not 
equally  true  that  it  is  best  for  the  Afri- 
can man  that  he  should  labor.''  Is  not 
industry  better  for  /um  than  idleness  } 
Yet  it  is  perfectly  certain  that  he  will 
not  labor  but  under  compulsion.  We 
do  not  say —  but  under  the  whip.  That 
is  seldom  used  ;  it  is  seldom  necessary. 
But  we  say  that  he  must  feel  himself 
laid  under  necessity  to  work,  or  he  will 
not  work." 

Give  your  patience  to  this  plea,  my 
brethren  :  it  is  meet  that  we  should 
hear  what  our  Southern  people  say. 

"  We  say  "  —  is  their  language  — 
"  that  the  African  man  is  naturally 
indolent,  reckless,  without  foresight, 
incorrigibly  disposed  to  idling  and 
amusement;  unconscious  of  those  stim- 
ul:\nts  of  ambition  and  care  for  the 
future  that  animite  the  white  race.  If 
left  free  to  follow  his  bent,  he  will  not 
work.  He  is  not  fit,  in  this  respect, 
to  take  care  of  himself.  We  say  that 
the  condition,  for  ages,  of  the  Africans 


THE   SLAVERY    QUESTION. 


329 


at  liome,  proves  it  ;  that  the  experi- 
ment in  Haiti  proves  it ;  and  we  be- 
Heve  that  the  same  thing  is  beginning 
to  appear  among  the  emancipated  slaves 
in  the  West  Indies.  These  people  want 
masters,  guides,  protectors,  providers. 
They  need  them  as  much  as  little  chil- 
dren need  them.  If  they  were  left  to 
themselves,  to  act  their  pleasure,  our 
whole  Southern  country  would  be  over- 
spread with  idleness,  disorder,  vice,  and 
ruin.  It  would  be  absolutely  unin- 
habitable. 

"  Then,  as  to  the  results  of  the  re- 
lation, we  say  they  are  happy,  —  happier 
for  them  than  for  us.  Of  the  affection 
subsisting  between  us  and  them  you 
seem  to  have  no  idea  whatever.  You 
seem  to  suppose  that  all  is  severity  on 
one  side  and  suffering  on  the  other.  It 
is  a  total  mistake.  We  are  attached 
to  our  people,  and  they  are  attached  to 
us.  We  take  care  of  them  in  sickness. 
We  care  for  their  children,  and  the 
aged  and  helpless  of  their  females. 
Provided  with  food  and  clothing,  and 
feeling  no  anxiety  for  the  future,  they 
enjoy  life  ;  their  spirits  are  elastic  and 
free  ;  the  song  and  the  dance  are  more 
frequent  with  them  than  with  any  other 
people  ;  they  are  happier  and  better  off 
than  multitudes  of  the  laborers  of  Eng- 
land or  the  peasants  of  France. 

"In  short,"  say  they,  whose  plea  I 
am  setting  forth,  •'  we  hold  that  this  is  a 
good  relation :  the  best,  at  any  rate,  that 
the  case  admits.  We  hold,"  say  sotne 
among  them,  "  that  it  is  especially  good 
and  desirable  in  a  Republic,  where  uni- 
versal competition  is  elsewhere  breeding 
universal  discontent,  vexation,  and  pain  ; 
that  it  is  a  relation  between  races  essen- 
tially distinct,  and  of  which  the  6ne  is 
essentially  inferior,  and  will  be  so  for- 
ever ;  and  therefore  we  look  upon  the 
relation  as  one  that  ought  to  be  perma- 
nent ;  that  is  destined,  if  undisturbed  by 
fanatical  interference,  to  last  as  long  as 
the  country  lasts." 

Now,  in  reply,  it  seems  to  me,  —  I  may 
be  thought  to  use  strong  language,  —  but 
it  does  seem  to  me  that,  in  all  this,  one 


element  is  left  out  of  the  account  that  is 
enough  to  split  this  argument  into  a  thou- 
sand helpless  fragments  ;  and  that  is  the 
great  clement  of  luunan  nature.  I  can- 
not help  looking  upon  those  who  make 
these  pleas  as  I  should  upon  children 
unconsciously  playing  with  toys  "tilled 
with  gunpowder,  which  is  certain  yet 
to  explode,  and  to  spread  havoc  and 
destruction  all  around. 

Are  these  people  men  .?  That  is  the 
question.  If  they  are  /nen,  it  will  nut 
do  to  make  them  instruments  for  mere 
convenience,  —  for  the  mere  tillage  of  the 
soil.  If  they  are  t/ie/t,  it  is  not  enough 
to  say  that  they  have  a  sort  of  animal 
freedom  from  care,  and  joyance  of  spirits. 
If  they  are  f/ien,  they  are  to  be  cultivated  ; 
their  faculties  are  to  be  regarded  as  pre- 
cious ;  they  are  to  be  improved.  But  all 
this  would  be  fatal  to  the  argument  ;  fa- 
tal to  their  happiness  in  bondage  ;  fatal 
to  the  security  of  their  masters.  It  is 
felt,  I  believe,  universally  at  the  South, 
that  it  will  not  do  to  educate  them  be- 
yond a  certain,  and  that  a  very  low, 
point ;  that  it  will  not  do  to  give  them 
refinement,  elevation  of  soul,  generous 
and  high  impulses.  They  smile,  I  sup- 
pose, at  the  very  idea  of  it.  Refined, 
elevated,  high-minded  slaves/  It  is  a 
solecism,  a  contradiction  in  terms.  But, 
I  ask,  is  this  ground  to  be  tolerated  ? 
Suppose  that  a  child  —  any  child  —  were 
put  into  my  care;  there  he  is  on  the 
ground  before  me,  engaged  in  happy  and 
merry  sports !  I  know  that  he  is  capa- 
ble of  growing  up  towards  my  own  intel- 
lectual stature.  Well,  I  sustain  him;  I 
keep  him  ;  I  care  for  his  wants  ;  I  tend 
him  in  sickness  ;  I  am  attached  to  hiin, 
suppose,  and  he  to  me  :  but  for  certain 
purposes  connected  with  my  convenience 
and  safety  I  deprive  him  of  the  means 
of  intellectual  development  ;  I  make  laws 
for  all  my  household,  forbidding  them 
to  educate  him  ;  and  he  comes  up  into 
life  an  ignorant,  brutish,  half-idiotic, 
overgrown  abortion  of  a  man  !  Would 
not  all  the  world  cry  out  against  me  as 
a  monster.''  And  grant  that  the  African 
man  of   the  present  generation   cannot 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND    OCCASIONAL. 


be  raised  to  our  stature  ;  yet  if  in  tlie 
course  of  ages  he  may  be,  and  if  it  is  our 
policy  systematically  to  arrest  or  to  re- 
tard his  growth,  does  the  case  materially 
differ  from  what  I  have  supposed  ?  And, 
I  repeat,  is  it  a  thing  to  be  tolerated  ? 
Why;  if  I  could  raise  trees  in  my  grove, 
or  flowers  in  my  garden,  or  cattle  in  my 
pasture,  ten  times  fairer  and  better  than 
I  have,  I  should  be  thought  to  have  for- 
feited all  claims  to  good  taste  and  good 
husbandly,  if  I  would  not  do  it.  But  a 
man!  a  being  capable  of  indefinite  ex- 
pansion and  immortal  progress  !  is  he  to 
want  the  benefit  of  an  equal  considera- 
tion,—  ay,  and  a  far  higher  ?  The  tree, 
the  flower,  the  ox,  or  the  horse,  feels  no 
claim.  But  an  intelligent  creature,  a  fel- 
low-being, a  brother-man  :  dare  we  keep 
him  ignorant,  dwarfed,  degraded  for  our 
convenience  "i  But  once  more  :  if  he  is 
a  man,  then  he  is  not  only  improvable 
and  ought  to  be  improved,  but  he  itnll 
improve,  in  spite  of  all  that  we  can  do. 
The  African  man  has  improved  in  this 
country,  under  all  his  disadvantages. 
And  he  is  to  improve  yet  more  and  yet 
faster.  Light  is  breaking  in  upon  him ; 
sympathy  is  visiting  him,  from  far  and 
near,  from  this  country  and  from  the 
whole  civiHzed  world  beyond  the  sea. 
And  he  knows  it.  He  has  heard  of  Ab- 
olition people  !  And  I  do  not  know  but 
ultra- Abolitionism,  amidst  all  its  violence 
and  rancor,  and  all  the  evil  it  has  done 
in  other  ways,  has  done  good  in  this,  — 
that  it  has  lifted  up  a  glaring  standard, 
a  flaming  banner,  before  the  eyes  of  the 
slave.  And  I  plainly  say,  I  am  glad  he 
knows  that  there  are  men  in  the  world 
who  wish  and  pray  for  his  elevation  to 
the  rights  and  dignities  of  manhood.  I 
say  this  in  no  unkindness  to  our  breth- 
ren of  the  South.  Nor  yet  do  I  ask  them 
to  pardon  me.  I  can  ask  pardon  of  no- 
body for  espousing  the  cause  of  human- 
ity, instead  of  that  which  would  dwarf  it 
and  keep  it  down.  Pardon  us  rather, 
thou  poor,  crushed  and  suffering  human 
nature,  wherever  thou  art,  that  we  feel 
for  thee  so  little  !  But  we  do,  neverthe- 
less, feel  for  it,  and  must  express  that 


feeling.  Wherever  power  and  right 
come  into  conflict,  our  part  is  already 
chosen.  Has  that  golden  sentence  of  old 
to  which  once  a  Roman  theatre  rose  up 
to  do  honor,  —  "I  am  a  man,  and  noth- 
ing belonging  to  man  is  foreign  to  me, "  — 
has  it,  in  these  modern  days,  lost  all  its 
beauty  and  grandeur  ?     God  forbid  ! 

But  if  this  feeling  is  rising  in  the 
world,  and  not  dying  out ;  if  it  is  to  pene- 
trate into  the  mind  and  mass  of  slaver}', 
with  its  influence,  —  can  any  one  doubt 
what  the  effect  will  be  ?  The  slave- 
iitan  will  improve.  He  will  become 
more  and  more  conscious  that  he  is  a 
man  ;  and  that  as  a  man  he  has  rights 
which  God  and  nature  accord  to  him. 
And  how  is  all  this  to  consist  with  the 
plan  of  perpetual  bondage  "i  with  the 
plan  of  indefinite  and  permanent  exten- 
sion .?  If  the  African  man  be  indeed  a 
man,  it  never  can  succeed.  No  :  you 
cannot  hold  down  the  tremendous  ele- 
ment which  you  propose  to  chain  and 
bind  forever.  Though  the  powers  and 
pledges  of  an  empire  were  engaged  to 
make  all  fast  and  sure  ;  though  this 
broad  land,  stretching  from  sea  to  sea, 
were  the  bond,  and  the  Alleghanies  and 
the  Rocky  Mountains  .were  the  seals 
upon  the  bond,  to  hold  all  fast,  —  there  is 
an  expansive  force  in  human  nature, 
that  to  be  free,  will  rend  a  continent  in 
pieces,  and  shake  the  mountains  in  its 
might.  Freedom  is  one  of  the  elemen- 
tal forces  of  the  moral  universe.  It  is 
the  undying  aspiration  which  no  mortal 
power  can  keep  down. 

All  this,  I  say,  follows,  if  the  African 
is  a  man.  But  now  I  hear  it  said  in 
reply,  "  He  is  not  a  man  in  the  sense 
which  you  suppose."  It  is  maintained 
that '  he  is  inferior  ;  of  an  inferior  race  ; 
and  one  destined  forever  to  remain  so." 
Wliat  is  meant,  I  pray,  by  this  constant- 
ly reiterated  charge  of  inferiority  ?  If 
only  that  he  is  uncivilized,  uncultivated, 
undevelojjed,  that  is  all  very  intelligible 
and  very  true.  If  it  be  only  alleged  that 
there  are  some  peculiar  marks  of  mental 
deficiency  upon  this  people  ;  that  the 
higher  faculties  in  them  seem  to  be  sin- 


THE   SLAVERY   QUESTION. 


331 


giilarly,  almost  strangely  slow  to  come 
fortli  under  any  circumstances  ;  that 
philosophy,  poetry,  habits  of  mental 
abstraction  have  appeared  but  rarely 
among  them,  and  in  but  a  low  degree,  — 
all  this  may  be  admitted.  Their  chance 
certainly  has  been  poor  enough.  Yet 
that  not  one  Zeno  or  Epictetus  should 
have  arisen  among  them,  nor  anything 
like  it,  is  doubtless  something  strange. 
But  surely  it  is  not  meant  to  be  denied 
that  their  faculties  are  human  faculties. 
That  is  to  say,  reason  and  imagination 
and  affection  ^and  conscience  in  them 
are  essentially  the  same  as  in  us.  Now, 
what  is  the  nature  and  tendency  of  these 
faculties  ?  If  there  is  any  one  thing 
about  them  which  I  know,  — of  which 
I  am  perfectly  sure,  —  it  is  this,  that 
their  nature  is  to  improve,  to  expand,  to 
grow  larger  and  larger  forever.  These 
intellectual  and  moral  powers  are  not  like 
the  instincts  of  animals,  destined  to  come 
to  a  certain  point,  and  there  to  find  an  im- 
passable barrier.  Does  not  the  stoutest 
asserter  of  their  inferiority,  the  strongest 
advocate  of  their  perpetual  depression 
on  earth,  believe  that  they  are  to  rise  to 
heaven,  and  there  to  expand  in  immor- 
tal vigor  '^  Why  else  does  he  preach 
Christianity  to  them  ?  Is  it  all  a  farce  ? 
Surely  not.  But  if  this  very  soul  is  to 
rise  to  heaven  ;  nay,  if  the  loftiest,  the 
Christian,  means  of  development  are 
applied  to  it,  —  does  any  one  believe  it 
is  the  will  of  God  that  through  ages  the 
clog  and  the  weight  and  the  chain  should 
rest  upon  it  here  ?  It  is  absurd.  Those 
who  believe  in  the  doomed  and  perpet- 
ual degradation  of  the  African  should 
build  for  him  no  churches.  Churches 
are  not  guard-houses  to  keep  people  in 
check,  but  schools  of  education.  The 
ministers  of  God  are  not  jailers,  but 
teachers.  And  if  teaching  does  not 
mean  improvement,  if  Christian  teach- 
ing does  not  mean  indefinite  expansion, 
it  means  nothing.  No,  this  nature,  like 
all  human  nature,  is  destined  to  grow  on 
earth.  The  world  exists  but  for  this. 
The  ages  are  the  courses  of  human  im- 
provement.    They  are   lengthened    out 


but  to  lead  the  tribes  of  men  farther 
and  farther,  higher  and  higher,  on  the 
scale  of  progress.  And  this  African 
nature,  if  it  is  not  an  exception,  if  it  is 
not  to  stand  as  a  strange  and  terril^le 
solecism  amidst  the  rational  works  of 
God,  is  to  grow.  And  if  it  is  to  grow 
it  is  with  equal  certainty  destined  sooner 
or  later  to  burst  the  chains  of  servi- 
tude. 

I  have  thus  attempted,  though  very 
briefly,  to  set  forth  the  plea  for  slavery, 
and  the  answer  to  it :  that  is,  the  moral 
answer,  for  I  confine  myself  to  that,  that 
the  North  and  the  South  should  under- 
stand one  another  on  this  subject  ;  that 
we  should  end  our  recriminations  ;  that 
we  should  cease  to  accuse  one  another  of 
fanaticism  and  bad  passion  and  of  mutual 
hatred,  which  the  best  men  among  us 
do  not  feel  ;  that  we  should  really  come 
to  understand  the  ground  which  honest 
and  conscientious  men  are  taking  on 
eitlier  side  :  this  seems  to  me  of  such 
importance  that  I  can  see  no  other 
chance  of  any  but  a  fearful  and  fatal  solu- 
tion of  this  terrible  question.  Mutual 
recrimination  will  not  settle  it  :  calm  rea- 
son, candor,  mutual  respect  and  broth- 
erly kindness,  must  come  into  this  con- 
troversy, or  it  bodes  a  woful  issue. 

At  this  moment  the  Northern  States 
of  this  Union  are  taking  a  decided  stand 
against  the  further  extension  of  the  slave 
system.  We  say  that  we  cannot  consent 
to  spread  the  shield  of  our  general  Gov- 
ernment over  any  new  slave-territory. 
The  Texas  annexation  sticks  in  our 
throats,  and  we  can  swallow  no  more. 
This  obstinate  determination  is  very 
provoking  to  the  people  of  the  South. 
They  say.  it  is  an  enormous  injustice  to 
them  to  forbid  the  carrying  of  the  slave- 
system  into  California.  We  say,  in 
reply,  then  let  California  alone  ;  we  do 
not  want  it :  but  if  you  will  have  it ;  if 
you  will  raise  the  question,  —  then  in  con- 
science we  can  make  but  one  decision. 
We  cannot,  as  morally  honest  men,  true 
to  our  convictions,  sanction  the  spread 
of  this  system.  We  cannot  consent  to 
legalize  it  anew.     Our  fathers    compro- 


332 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND    OCCASIONAL. 


mised  with  yours  to  let  it  stand  within  a 
certain  domain.  We  will  not  violate 
that  compromise.  We  will  hold  to  the 
very  letter  of  it;  but  surely  not  one 
letter  of  it  looked  to  the  indefinite  and 
perpetual  extension  of  slavery  over  new 
domains.  We  cannot  agree  to  that. 
It  may  be  right  for  you  with  your  views  ; 
but  for  us  with  our  views  it  cannot  be 
right.  If  you  alone  could  do  this,  it 
would  be  morally  nothing  to  us>.  But  if 
you  ask  us  to  be  parties  with  you  in  this 
transaction,  if  our  hands  must  be  put  to 
the  bond,  then  we  must  draw  back.  We 
would  speak  in  no  lottier  manner  to  you 
than  the  occasion  demands.  We  be- 
seech you  rather  as  brethren  fairly  to 
consider  our  scruple.  It  is  not  chiefly 
political  ;  it  is  not  economical ;  it  is 
moral,  and  thus  insurmountable.  Sup- 
pose that  South  Carolina  should  legalize 
polygamy  or  abolish  marriage.  We  could 
not  help  it,  that  I  see.  Suppose  that 
the  whole  South  should  do  this  ;  or  that 
it  had  originally  come  into  the  Union  on 
compromise,  without  any  law  of  marriage. 
Well,  we  are  bound  by  the  compromise, 
let  it  be  supposed.  But  are  we  bound  by 
it  to  unite  with  our  neighbors  in  extend- 
ing their  system  1  Can  we  agree  to  join 
them  in  conquering  or  buying  new  terri- 
tories on- which  the  system  of  pol3gamy 
or  of  no  marriage  should  be  established  ; 
established  by  our  laws,  supported  by 
our  arms,  and  sanctioned  by  our  coun- 
tenance ?  But  in  the  view  of  the  people 
of  the  North,  I  suppose  that  slavery  is, 
in  principle,  a  clearer  moral  wrong  than 
polygamy  or  no  marriage  would  be. 
What  then  I  would  seriously  ask  the 
people  of  the  South,  are  we  to  do  with 
these  convictions  ?  Would  they  have  us 
tread  them  underfoot  1  It  is  as  if  they 
asked  us  to  falsify  our  conscience  or  our 
word.  We  cannot  do  it.  TVi?  people  can 
be  so  false  to  itself.  A  Government  may 
belie  the  sentiment  of  the  people  ;  but 
no  people  can  be  so  false  to  itself. 

In  fine,  if  I  could  speak  to  the  people 
of  the  South,  I  would  say  to  them  :  I 
have  faithfully  endeavored  to  under- 
stand your  view  of  this  great  question  ; 


for  thirty  years  I  have  availed  myself  of 
all  proper  opportunities  for  conversing 
with  those  of  you  with  whom  I  have 
been  acquainted  ;  I  have  listened  to 
them  wiih  all  possible  consideration, 
and  may  1  say,  candor  .?  and  I  entertain 
now  none  of  that  rancor  against  you  for 
which  you  are  accustomed  to  look  at 
the  North.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
body  of  you  sincerely  believe  that,  for 
the  present,  and  indeed  for  the  future, 
while  the  African  man  continues  to  be 
what  he  is  now,  the  relation  of  servitude 
is  the  best  both  for  you  and  him.  You 
believe,  whether  rigiitly  or  wrongly,  that 
he  is  better  off  and  is  happier  as  he  is, 
than  he  would  be  if  he  were  immedi- 
ately set  free.  You  profess  kindness 
for  him.  You  say,  that  among  you 
cruelty  to  him  is  held  in  the  worst  re- 
pute. You  say  that  the  condition  of 
things  among  you  generally  is  not  that 
of  grinding  tyranny  on  the  one  hand 
and  of  reluctant  and  weeping  submission 
on  the  other.  You  say  that  the  African 
is  a  weak  and  childish  being,  unfit  to 
take  care  of  himself,  and  that  you  must 
hold  him,  and  ought  to  hold  him,  in 
your  care  and  keeping. 

Then  I  say,  in  the  first  place,  for 
Heaven's  sake  and  for  humanity's  sake, 
treat  him  as  a  child.  Pity  his  degrada- 
tion ;  that  noble  sentiment  can  do  you 
no  harm.  Raise  him  from  his  degrada- 
tion as  you  would  any  poor  and  ignorant 
creature  ;  do  not,  that  is  to  say,  crush 
and  keep  him  down,  or  neglect  him  and 
leave  him  prostrate,  because  he  is  a 
slave.  How  can  any  one  live,  how  can 
he  pass  his  whole  life,  in  the  presence 
of  one  or  two  hundred  beings,  capable  of 
the  noblest  elevation,  capable  at  least 
of  something  far  better  than  they  ever 
reach,  and  yet  leave  them  in  perpetual 
ignorance,  and  almost  brutish  stupidity  .'' 
If  the  very  dog  at  our  feet  could  be 
raised  to  the  bliss  of  humanity,  what 
noble  mind  would  not  be  filled  with 
enthusiasm  to  achieve  it?  Is  it  said, 
that  would  not  be  safe  ?  then,  I  reply, 
tliere  must  be  sovietliing  wrong  in  the 
relation.     It  cannot  possibly  be  right  so 


THE   SLAVERY   QUESTION. 


333 


to  hold  down  and  bind  to  the  earth  the 
faculties  of  an  immortal  creature  !  * 

In  the  next  place,  1  would  earnestly 
ask  those  who  sustain  this  relation,  if 
they  have  well  and  duly  considered 
what  a  tremendous  element  they  hold 
in  their  charge.  The  awfuiness  of  this 
human  nature  !  —  the  whole  world  has 
yet  to  wake  up  to  it.  But  is  there  not  a 
sentiment  of  contempt  towards  the  slave 
man  that  fearfully  overlooks  what  he  is. 
Amidst  all  the  professions  of  kindness 
and  protection  towards  him  I  think  I 
see  that  in  a  very  marked  degree.  The 
great  human  claim  which  we  assert  for 
him  is  met  with  a  smile  of  incredulity 
and  indifference,  if  not  of  contempt. 

This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  dividing 
point  in  the  whole  controversy.  In  the 
Southern  mind,  as  far  as  I  have  stud- 
ied it,  there  appears  to  be  no  proper  rec- 
ognition of  the  common  humanity  in 
the  African  man.  That  the  slave  man 
is  a  man,  with  a  man's  feelings,  with  a 
man's  rights,  with  a  man's  capabilities, 
—  this  is  precisely  what  is  not  felt.  I 
would  solicit  the  attention  of  my  South- 
ern brethren  to  this  point.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  long  habit  of  using  these 
beings  as  mere  cattle,  and  disposing  of 
them  as  mere  chattels,  has  worn  off 
from  them,  in  the  eyes  of  their  masters, 
the  venerable  and  solemn  impress  of 
humanity  itself.  I  once  put  the  ques- 
tion in  conversation  :  "  Suppose  that 
this  were  a  race  of  apes  or  ourang-ou- 
tangs  which  you  held  in  bondage,  but 
that  you  believed,  according  to  some 
modern  theories,  that  they  were  capable 

*  It  was  about  twenty  years  ago,  that  an  aged  gen- 
tleman was  living  in  the  city  of  London,  in  wealth 
and  luxury  derived  from  the  produce  of  his  estates  in 
the  Island  of  Barbadoes.  Some  facts  came  to  his 
knowledge  that  led  him  to  suspect  that  his  slaves 
were  cruelly  treated.  At  the  age  of  eighty  he  left 
his  luxurious  home,  and  crossed  the  ocean,  to  examine 
for  himself.  He  dwelt  among  his  people  for  ten  years. 
He  took  a  fatherly  care  of  them  ;  he  improved  their 
condition  and  character  ;  he  prepared  them  for  free- 
dom, and  dying  at  the  age  of  ninety,  he  left  them  with 
a  copyhold  of  his  estates.  Well  might  the"  Edin- 
burgh Review  "  say,  "  We  take  sliame  to  ourselves  that 
while  we  have  been  occupied  with  the  deeds  of  kings 
and  conquerors,  we  have  never  heard  till  now  the  name 
of  Joshua  Steele." 


of  being  cultivated  up  to  humanity, 
would  you  not  feel  a  greater  moral  inter- 
est in  sucli  a  race  than  you  now  do  in 
the  slave-race  ?  Would  you  not  be  in- 
spired with  the  most  enthusiastic  desire 
to  bring  about  such  a  consummation  "? 
And  is  it  not  some  strange  habit  of 
mind  that  prevents  an  equal  interest 
about  the  improvements  of  human  be- 
ings ? 

The  comparison  may  be  repelled  ;  but 
is  not  the  allegation  mainly  true?  Is 
the  human  claiin  of  this  unhappy  race 
felt  .''  They  say,  at  the  South,  that  we 
do  not  understand  the  case,  —  how  in- 
ferior these  people  are  ;  we  reply,  "  Do 
you  understand  the  case  .''  how  human 
they  are.  You  say  that  you  feel  kindly 
towards  them.  So  you  do  towards  your 
dog  or  your  horse.  Is  that  enough  .' 
Does  that  satisfy  the  sacred  relation  of 
man  with  man  ?  /r,  we  repeat  the  aw- 
*  fulness  of  the  human  claim  regarded? 
And  will  the  God  who  has  made  man  in 
his  own  image  permit  that  sacred  claim 
to  be  so  disregarded  ? 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  invoke  his  dis- 
pleasure ;  but  I  say,  in  the  third  place, 
that  there  is  peril  in  that  dread  element 
which  we  have  taken  into  our  charge. 
The  times  of  ignorance  God  winked  at ; 
but  these  later  Christian  ages  cannot 
pass  over  a  race  oppressed,  dwarfed, 
kept  down,  and  chained  to  the  earth, 
without  making  terrible  inquisition  for 
it.  Heaven  demands,  "  Where  is  thy 
brother?"  and  earth  echoes,  "Where 
is  he  ? "  It  is  in  vain  to  resist  that  uni- 
versal sentiment  that  is  rising  all  over 
the  world  in  behalf  of  this  oppressed 
race.  That  universal  sentiment  will 
educate  the  slave  ;  and  it  will  educate 
him  to  wrath  and  resistance,  if  we  do 
not  educate  him  to  intelligence,  love 
and  freedom. 

If  I  were  to  propose  a  plan  to  meet 
the  duties  and  perils  of  this  tremendous 
emergency  that  presses  upon  us,  I  would 
engage  the  whole  power  of  this  nation, 
the  willing  co-operation  of  the  North 
and  the  South,  if  it  were  possible,  to 
prepare  this  people    for  freedom  ;    and 


334 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


then  I  would  give  them  a  country  be- 
yond the  mountains,  —  say  the  Cahfor- 
nias, —  where  they  might  be  a  nation  by 
themselves.  Ah  !  if  the  millions  upon 
millions  spent  upon  a  Mexican  war 
could  be  devoted  to  this  purpose, —  if 
all  the  energies  of  this  country  could 
be  employed  for  such  an  end,  —  what  a 
noble  spectacle  were  it  for  all  the  world 
to  behold,  of  help  and  redemption  to  an 
enslaved  people  !  —  what  a  purifying  and 
ennobling  ministration  for  ourselves  ! 


XIX. 

PUBLIC   CALAMITIES* 

Psalm  cxix.  75  :  "I  know,  O  Lord,  that  thy  judg- 
ments are  right,  and  that  thou  in  faithfulness  hast 
afflicted  me." 

An  event  has  occurred  in  our  waters,, 
within  the  last  week,  that  has  so  occu- 
pied my  mind  that  I  could  not  well  have 
prepared  to  speak  to  you  this  morning 
on  any  other  subject.  I  feel,  too,  that 
I  shall  probably  best  consult  the  state 
oi your  minds,  by  making  it  the  subject 
of  your  reflections  ;  in  a  place,  too,  where 
such  reflections  most  naturally  come  for 
guidance  and  relief, —  the  house  of  God. 
The  house  of  God  also  mourns  with  many 
private  dwellings  of  the  land  ;  the  groan 
that  arises  by  their  desolate  hearths  is 
echoed  from  the  altar.  The  Church  of 
God  mourns  the  loss  of  one  of  its  holi- 
est, dearest,  and  most  devoted  servants. 
Dr.  FoUen  —  alas  !  that  I  must  say  it, 
and  dismiss  all  further  hope  —  is  among 
the  victims  of  that  dreadful  catastrophe. 
That  name  whose  utterance  now  fills  us 
with  grief —  I  know  not  how  it  was  — 
strangely  almost  it  seemed,  stranger  as 
he  was  —  had  mingled  itself  with  the 
/lome  sympathies  of  many  hearts,  and 
of  many  of  the  best  minds  among  us. 
Yet  why  should  I  say  that  I  know  not 
how  it  was, —  when  the  beauty  and  purity 
of  his  life,  the  unfeigned  sincerity  and 

*  A  Discourse  delivered  on  the  occasion  of  the  loss 
of  the  steamer  "  Lexington  "  in  Long  Island  Sound, 
Jan.  13,  1840. 


affectionateness  of  his  disposition,  the 
enlarged  and  liberal  views  of  his  mind, 
and  his  martyr-like  devotion  to  truth 
and  duty,  had  naturally  made  him  a 
home  in  that  love  which  knows  no 
boundaries  of  country  or  clime.?  God 
pity  that  nearer  home  where  that  name 
is  no  longer  the  familiar  utterance  and 
bond  of  affection,  where  it  is  only  a 
broken  echo,  from  a  living  grave  !  God 
knows  that  our  sympathy  and  prayers 
have  hovered  over  it  in  agony  ;  to 
bring,  if  it  were  possible  to  bring,  relief 
and  comfort. 

But  I  must  not  dwell  upon  this ;  it  is 
too  painful.  Many  other  names,  dear 
in  their  circles  o  home  and  friendship, 
are  placed,  in  God's  dread  providence, 
upon  this  mournful  record.  The  groan 
that  rises  from  this  catastrophe  will 
spread  itself  over  the  world,  —  to  kin- 
dred in  England  and  Germany,  and  to 
friends  in  France  and  Italy.  I  have 
spoken  of  the  only  one  I  knew  in  that 
fated  company,  and  of  him  you  will  feel 
that  it  was  proper  that  I  should  speak; 
though  this  is  not  the  time  to  speak 
calmly  and  at  length  of  the  eminent 
traits  of  his  ever  to  be  valued  and 
venerated  character. 

I  could  have  wished;  indeed,  that  I 
might  have  been  excused  from  speaking 
of  this  event  at  all.  I  feel  that  it  does 
itself  utter  a  stronger  language  than 
any  I  can  use  ;  that  your  own  impres- 
sions are  likely  to  be  too  vivid  to  need 
any  excitement  from  public  discourse; 
and  that  the  event  of  itself,  perhaps, 
teacheth  more  wisdom  than  any  I  shall 
take  occasion  to  teach  from  it.  Be- 
sides, it  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  a 
kind  of  sacrilege  toward  such  an  awful 
calamity  to  take  possession  of  it  at 
once,  ere  the  immediate  horror  is  well 
over,  as  a  ground  even  for  spiritual  im- 
provement. But  my  original  reflection 
recurs  to  me  :  that  this  event  does  oc- 
cupy the  public  mind  to  that  degree 
that  it  can  scarcely  be  excluded  even 
from  the  sanctuary ;  and,  therefore,  I 
have  thought  it  best  to  let  it  be  the 
theme  of  our  meditation,  even  though  I 


PUBLIC   CALAMITIES. 


'>  -^  r 

Jo5 


should  only  express  thoughts  wliich  are 
better  conceived  in  your  own  minds. 

Perhaps  I  may,  without  impropriety, 
enlarge  the  ground  of  this  meditation. 
This  event  is  but  the  consummation  of 
a  series  of  calamities  which  has  made 
the  present  winter  the  most  disastrous, 
perhaps,  that  we  have  ever  known. 
Never,  within  my  memory,  certainly, 
have  so  many  lives  been  lost  by  ship- 
wreck on  our  coast.  In  our  cities,  too, 
the  pressure  of  commercial  difficulties, 
the  frequent  instances  of  infidelity  to 
mercantile  and  pubhc  trusts,  the  torch 
of  the  incendiary,  lighting  flames  by  day 
and  by  night,  throughout  the  whole  line 
of  our  seaboard,  have  united  to  spread 
distress  and  distrust  far  and  wide  in  the 
pubhc  mind.  We  are  apt  to  feel  as  if 
never  men  fell  upon  such  evil  times  as 
we  have  fallen  upon.  We  are  tempted 
to  ask,  Where  is  the  good  Providence  ^ 
where  is  the  security  of  life,  and  of  its 
possessions  ?  and,  taking  political  consid- 
erations into  view,  where  is  the  security 
of  nations? 

In    this    season    of   public    calamity, 
when   "  men's   hearts    are   failing  them   j 
for  fear,"   I   deem   it    the   duty   of    the  | 
pulpit  to  offer  what  it  can,  of  guidance, 
comfort,  and  admonition.     This  in  my 
place  I  shall  humbly  attempt. 

I.  In  the  first  place,  let  us  not  be 
driven  by  these  calamities  from  the  con- 
viction that  God  reigns.  I  am  not 
about  to  oflFer  any  argument  to  prove 
this  truth.  If  there  be  a  God,  we  may 
say,  indeed,  that  it  is  an  obvious  infer- 
ence that  he  must  reign.  If  there  be  a 
God,  he  made  all  things  ;  he  made  this 
world  ;  he  made  all  its  elements  and 
established  all  its  laws  ;  and  this  implies 
his  dominion  over  it.  But  not  to  argue 
for  this  truth,  I  say  that  calamity  is  the 
*  last  thing  that  should  be  permitted  to 
drive  us  from  it.  For  in  calamity,  it  is 
especially  that  we  cannot  do  without  it. 
The  fact  being  so,  is,  indeed,  no  weak 
argument  for  the  truth.  If  man  is  so 
made  that  to  consider  himself  the  victim 
of  chance  is  to  be  whelmed  in  utter  and 
hopeless  misery ;  if  the  atmosphere  of 


chance  is  one  in  which  his  mind  cannot 
live, —  then,  as  true  as  there  is  a  God 
who  made  him,  is  there  a  providence 
for  him  to  rely  on.  And  the  fact  in  his 
mind  is  so.  He  has  no  resource  but 
trust  in  God.  Suppose  that  demons 
had  wrought  that  awful  catastrophe  in 
yonder  waters,^  had  maliciously  plunged 
helpless  men  and  women  into  the  cold 
waves  to  die  ;  or  suppose  that  human 
error,  uncontrolled  and  uncared  for,  had 
involved  us  in  the  calamities  on  land 
which  we  are  enduring,  what  could  men 
do  but  gnash  their  teeth  in  unavailing 
rage  and  despair  ? 

But  no :  there  is  a  Providence  over 
all  things.  There  is  wisdom  in  events, 
though  we  cannot  fathom  it.  Divine 
Goodness  does  not  forsake  the  scene  of 
uttermost  calamity.  I  doubt  not  there 
were  hearts  there,  where  our  thoughts 
are  now  most  turned,  which  felt  that  it 
was  so, —  felt  that  God  was  near  them 
in  that  scene  of  awful  confusion, —  hearts 
that  in  their  religious  calmness  and  con- 
fidence would  rebuke  our  despondency 
and  murmuring.  We  are  apt  to  do  in- 
justice to  the  feelings  ot  good  men  in 
such  circumstances.  Our  imagination 
overspreads  all  with  the  apparent  dis- 
order. But  I  doubt  not  there  were 
Christian  hearts  in  that  dread  hour  when 
death  became  inevitable  that  said,  "It 
is  come  !  —  it  is  come  !  —  Father,  thy 
will  be  done!  Father,  receive  us  !  "  And 
in  that  feeling  there  was  a  divine  seren- 
ity, and  the  uplifted  eye  of  triumphant 
faith  that  looked  beyond  the  surround- 
ing darkness  and  struggle  to  the  calm 
heaven, —  to  the  presence  of  God  above. 

"Why,"  do  you  say,  "did  not  Al- 
mighty Goodness  interpose  for  them. 
Had  it  been  best,  truly  best  in  the  whole 
view  of  things,  can  we  doubt  that  it 
would  have  interposed  ?  Then  it  was 
not  best.  Then  all  was  well,  though  in 
some  order  of  things  which  we  cannot 
scan.  But  j'ou  say,  perhaps,  "  This 
was  not  the  work  of  Providence,  but 
the  fruit  of  error."  Let  us  consider  it. 
Error  is  every  year  exacting  of  the 
human  race  thousands  of  lives.     Error, 


53^ 


MISCELLANEOUS   AND   OCCASIONAL. 


perhaps,  has  exacted  these.  But  error 
is  not  a  wild  and  ungoverned  power 
that  has  broken  into  the  domain  of  Pro- 
vidence. It  is  a  part  of  our  nature,  a 
part  of  our  discipline,  a  part  of  our  prog- 
ress and  improvement.  We  are  not 
made  perfect.  We  are  not  trained  to 
exactitude  in  our  medical  systems,  in 
our  mechanic  inventions,  in  our  influ- 
ence upon  one  another,  in  our  processes, 
mental  or  moral,  in  anything  that  apper- 
tains to  us.  We  take  our  part  with 
weakness  and  imperfection;  we  struggle 
with  them;  we  are  their  victims.  Of 
almost  every  human  being  that  dies,  we 
may  say  that  he  would  have  lived  longer 
had  he  been  wiser,  or  had  others  been 
wiser.  The  agonies  that  surround  every 
death-bed  might  make  the  same  com- 
plaint that  rises  over  the  most  awful 
catastrophe  brought  about  by  human 
imperfection.  So  is  our  lot  bound  up 
with  others,  and  bound  up  with  infirmity 
and  error.  If  the  soul  perished  in  this 
alliance,  there  were  no  comfort;  but  the 
soul  it  is  that  is  trained  up  by  it  to  vir- 
tue, to  fortitude,  to  sanctity,  to  heaven  ! 
When  we  look  at  the  martyrs  soul, 
and  see  how  by  persecution,  by  sorrow, 
and  by  the  last  dire  extremity,  it  is  borne 
up  to  the  noblest  heroism  and  triumph  ; 
how  by  the  flame  which  consumes  the 
body  the  soul  is  borne  to  heaven  !  there 
is  something  in  this  contemplation  which 
supports  us.  And  yet  the  martyr  is  sac- 
rificed to  the  most  enormous  error  of 
which  the  world  can  be  guilty.  But  he 
dies,wesay,for  aprinciple ;  hediesforhu- 
man  progress.  But  so  does  every  man  who 
falls  a  victim  to  human  imperfection  — 
mechan,ical,  medical,  or  political  —  die  for 
human  progress.  Thousands  of  lives  are 
annually  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  human 
improvement,  —  a  fact  which  shows  that 
life  itself  in  this  world  is  not  an  end 
but  a  means.  The  Providence  that  is  car- 
rying every  thing  forward,  as  it  marches 
in  the  greatness  of  its  might,  crushes 
millions  with  its  step,  mows  down  gen- 
erations with  the  scythe  of  war,  dashes 
in  pieces  the  time-founded  structures 
and  empires  of  the  world,  and  sweeps 


all  earthly  weal  and  woe  from  its  awful 
path. 

The  dispensation,  indeed,  is  awful ; 
butit  is  so  in  part,  let  me  further  observe, 
because  we  look  at  it  too  much  as  a  gen- 
eral picture.  It  is,  after  all,  but  the 
picture  of  individual  life,  —  of  your  life 
and  mine.  It  is,  more  or  less,  the  lot  of 
us  all ;  and  it  is  not  hurled  upon  us  as 
a  mountain  to  crush  us,  but  it  flows  in 
separate  sands  througii  the  glass  of  time 
to  measure  out  to  us  the  hours  of  disci- 
pline, the  hours  of  improvement.  I  must 
repeat  it,  that  every  thing  is  individ- 
ualized in  human  experience.  It  is  this 
in  part  which  enables  us  to  look,  with  a 
feeling  that  supports  us,  at  the  sufferings 
of  the  martyr.  He  stands  alone.  He  is 
a  single  object  of  contemplation.  We 
can  see  the  workings  of  his  mind  ;  they 
are  not  whelmed  in  a  mass  of  horrors. 
We  do  not  feel  as  if  a  hundred  deaths 
were  involved  and  concentrated  in  his 
death.  But  this  is  what  we  are  apt  to 
feel  when  we  contemplate  an  event 
which  has  involved  a  hundred  lives. 
And  yet  this  generalizing  does  not  pre- 
sent to  us  the  true  view.  Every  man  in 
such  a  scene  dies  for  himself  alone,  as 
truly  as  have  the  hundreds,  in  diff'erent 
parts  of  the  world,  who  have  gone  hence 
while  I  have  now  been  speaking  to  you. 
Every  man,  it  may  be  emphatically  said, 
is  alone  when  he  comes  to  die.  He  is 
alone  with  his  thoughts,  with  his  prayers, 
with  his  affections  to  those  dearest  to 
him  :  he  is  alone  with  his  God.  Some 
time  he  must  die  ;  and  his  time  is  then  ; 
and  to  him  it  is  his  time,  and  not  anoth- 
er's. If  he  had  escaped  that  danger,  he 
might  have  died  the  next  month  from  the 
ignorance  of  his  physician,  or  he  might 
have  fallen  the  solitary  victim  of  some 
violent  death.  Hundreds  die  thus  every 
year,  and  they  are  no  more  truly  alone 
than  he  who  perishes  with  a  thousand. 
And  this  annual  aggregate  of  ills,  save 
to  the  imagination,  is  as  truly  solemn 
as  any  life-destroying  catastrophe.  Both 
present  the  same  case  under  the  reign 
of  Providence. 

Did  I  at  present  address  any  one  of 


PUBLIC   CALAMITIES. 


337 


those  to  whom  this  affliction  has  come 
near,  I  would  pray  them  to  consider  this  : 
to  see  that  their  case  is  not  to  be  taken 
from  beneath  the  general  law  of  Provi- 
dence. It  is  only  as  if  their  friend  liad 
died  singly  by  an  accident,  or  had  fallen 
dead  in  the  street  struck  with  apoplexy 
or  paralysis  —  or.  may  I  not  say  ?  as  if 
he  had  died  in  his  bed  ;  for  how  often  is 
the  privilege  and  comfort  of  ministering 
love  purchased  by  the  agonies  of  the 
sufferer  !  I  know  that  it  is  common  to 
deprecate  sudden  death,  —  to  pray  against 
it  ;  but  for  myself  I  cannot  join  in  that 
prayer.  To  me  it  appears  that  it  would 
be  a  privilege  —  life's  work  done,  the 
hour  come  —  to  drop  suddenly  from  the 
course ;  no  agonized  partings,  — as  full  of 
agon)',  perhaps,  as  to  feel  that  the  tie  is 
broken.  Nay.  how  often  does  the  sur- 
vivor say,  when  the  long  and  bitter 
struggle  is  ended,  "  Thank  God  it  is 
over!  "  I  do  not  wonder  at  that  desire 
of  the  celebrated  James  Otis,  so  signally 
fulfilled,  "that  he  might  die  by  light- 
ning." I  have  stood  on  the  very  threshold 
where  the  bolt,  from  the  black  retiring 
storm,  descended  upon  him  ;  and  I  con- 
fess, it  seemed  to  me  as  I  stood  there 
and  thought  of  it,  that  that  lightning- flash 
was  not  the  bolt  of  wrath,  but  the  bright 
angel  of  release.  The  lingering  pains 
that  are  usually  appointed  to  man  as  the 
termination  of  his  life,  I  believe  are  less 
for  his  own  sake  than  for  what  he  may 
do  for  the  good  of  others  ;  it  is  his 
trial  hour,  their  hour  of  improvement. 
But  for  the  sanie  reason,  death  is  occa- 
sionally sudden,  and  seems  disastrous. 
That  very  character  of  disaster  arouses 
men's  minds,  and  puts  them  upon  devis- 
ing guards  and  defences  against  danger. 
This  very  event,  the  most  dreadful  that 
ever  brought  horror  and  heartache  into 
our  bosoms,  maybe  commissioned  event- 
ually to  save  more  lives  than  are  lost  by 
it.  Let  me  not  seem,  in  saying  all  this,  to 
be  a  cold  philosopher  :  God  is  my  wit- 
ness how  far  I  am  from  it.  I  know  that 
in  many  a  family  this  event  is  the  sudden 
and  awful  wrenching  of  a  thousand  quiv- 
ering ties  twined  all  in  one.     But  agon- 


ized sympathy  seeks  some  relief.  And 
I  can  find  none  but  in  the  great  provi- 
dence of  God, — but  in  seeing  that  this 
event  is  not  a  chance  blow,  a  random 
accident,  set  apart  from  its  beneficent 
dominion.  I  know  no  other  comfort  for 
the  mourner;  and,  hard  as  it  may  be  for 
him  to  turn  there,  — hard  as  it  may  be  to 
turn  away  from  seeing  tliis  event  as  a 
frightful  catastrophe,  and  to  look  at  it 
as  a  sacred  and  solemn  dispensation  ot 
Heaven,  — this  I  would  pray  each  one  to 
do,  —  to  lean  upon  the  bosom  of  the  all- 
wise  Providence,  —  and  to  say,  even  as 
the  Great  Sufferer  said  in  the  dread  hour, 
when  all  earthly  evils  and  sorrows  were 
leagued  against  him,  ■•'  Father  !  thy  will 
be  done  !  " 

Shall  this  event  shake  our  faith  in 
that  Providence  1  The  principle  that 
would  allow  it  to  do  so  would  drive  all 
faith  in  Providence  from  the  world. 
Can  we  give  up  that  faith  ?  It  is  our 
only  refuge  from  the  overwhelming  ills 
of  life.  We  must  cling  to  it.  Suffering, 
struggling,  bereaved,  broken-hearted,  we 
must  cling  to  it,  for  it  is  our  only  refuge. 
And  for  my  own  part,  as  clearly  do  I 
see  it,  and  as  truly  do  I  believe 
in  that  wise  Providence  reigning  over 
life,  as  I  see  and  believe  that  I 
live  at  all.  And  could  one  of  those 
who  have  passed,  through  that  dread 
dispensation  which  we  deplore,  to  a 
better  life,  speak  to  us.  I  doubt  not  he 
would  say  to  his  agonized  friends  : 
"  Be  comforted,  —  as  far  as  mortal  trial 
can  be  comforted.  Ail  is  well.  I  see 
that  in  which  you  strugfjle  to  believe. 
For  me  it  was  better  to  depart :  for  you 
it  is  sorrow;  but  that  sorrow  shall  be 
yet  turned  info  joy.  Tlie  l^reath  of  a 
momentary  life  passed  away,  and  we 
shall  meet  again.  I  have  died  for  the 
world's  improvement,  —  for  your  virtue  ; 
and  beneath  the  great  and  loving  Prov- 
idence of  God  I  see  that  all  is  well. 
Oh  !  then  be  comforted  !  The  serene 
heaven  which  spreads  over  you  is  but 
an  image  of  the  all-enfolding  love  of 
God,  in  which  we  shall  yet  rejoice  for- 


35^ 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  OCCASIONAL. 


But  3'ou  say,  "  It  is  such  a  sad  thing  ; 
it  is  such  a  horrible  thing  !  "  and  I  feel 
what  you  say.  "  That  they  should  have 
gone  forth,  so  thoughtless  of  what  that 
very  day  was  to  bring  forth  !  "  is  your  re- 
flection, —  "gone  from  the  social  board, 
—  perhaps  from  the  table  of  feasting, — 
gone  with  a  smile,  perhaps,  siying, 
"  such  a  day  I  shall  return,"  — or  gone 
after  a  long  voyage  at  sea,  feeling  as  if 
they  were  already  at  home  !  and  then 
that,  four  or  five  hours  after  they  set  foot 
on  that  deck,  they  should  have  been 
dead  !  That  it  should  all  have  been 
so  sudden,  —  in  a  moment,  —  one  mo- 
ment sitting  and  conversing  with  a 
friend,  and  the  next  moment  meeting 
death  face  to  face  ;  and,  above  all,  to 
think,  if  we  must  think,  that  a  little 
calmness,  a  little  deliberation,  might 
have  saved  them  ;  that  such  valuable, 
such  precious  lives  should  have  been 
sacrificed,  if  there  were  any  possibility 
of  their  being  saved,  —  is  it  not  dread- 
ful ?  "  I  know  it,  I  feel  all  this  ; 
but  still  I  cannot  rest  here.  I  must 
reflect  upon  it.  I  must  meet  the  darkest 
mystery  in  Providence,  —  the  problem 
of  human  error  I  must  see  that  error 
is  inevitable,  and  that  it  is  one  of  the 
elements  of  human  improvement.  If 
Providence  interposed  to  save  us  from 
the  results  of  every  mistake,  the  human 
race  would  be  held  in  perpetual  child- 
hood. In  the  way  of  life,  the  foot  slips, 
and  plunges  us  into  distress,  into  ca- 
lamity, into  the  jaws  of  untimely  death. 
Was  the  foot  to  blame  .''  or  its  construc- 
tion ?  Its  very  power  to  move,  its  very 
flexibility,  the  very  formation  that  fitted 
it  for  its  purpose,  made  it  liable  to 
slip.  Mis-steps  are  its  teachers  ;  pain 
is  its  teacher.  And  thus  all  evils  are 
the  mind's  teachers.  Death,  which 
cannot  on  earth  benefit  the  individual 
subject,  is  yet  the  world's  teacher. 
Untimely  death  teaches  it  prudence, 
and  all  death  teaches  it  virtue.  This  is 
the  great  doctrine  of  a  Providence; 
and  all  experience,  the  world's  experi- 
ence vindicates  it. 

This  great  doctrine,  my  friends,  must 


be  our  repose.  But  I  offer  it  to  your 
contemplation  not  merely  as  such, — 
not  merely  as  necessary  to  be  believed 
in,  —  not  merely  as  urged  upon  your 
piety,  but  as  commended  to  your  reflec- 
tion. I  pray  you  to  see  that  it  is  true  ; 
to  see  that  all  things  —  great  or  small, 
common  or  strange  —  the  most  indiffer- 
ent and  the  most  awful  alike  —  come 
under  the  same  great,  wise,  and  benevo- 
lent order  of  things.  Let  us  submit  to 
God's  wisdom.  Let  the  hand  that  is 
involuntarily  stretched  out  to  snatch 
our  friend  from  peril,  —  let  that  hand, 
when  it  is  too  late,  be  lifted  up  to 
heaven,  with  the  prayer,  "  Thy  will  be 
done  !  "  And  may  every  one  who  is 
stricken  and  smitten  to  the  dust  by  this 
heavy  visitation  find  strength  and  sup- 
port in  that  humble  trust ! 

II.  I  have  dwelt  longer  than  I  in- 
tended upon  this  consideration  of  the 
Divine  Providence.  I  have  been  led 
on  almost  without  regard  to  any  order 
of  thought,  —  which  I  find  it,  indeed, 
difficult  to  preserve  amid  the  agitations 
of  a  time  like  this.  Let  me  now  lead 
you  to  a  different  point  of  view,  from 
which  we  may  take  a  wider  survey  of 
the  general  calamities  that  press  upon 
us  ;  for  I  would  willingly  take  refuge, 
for  a  few  moments,  even  in  the  con- 
templation of  \\  idespread  evils,  from 
the  immediate  disaster  that  fills  us  with 
distress  and  horror. 

1  have  said  that  the  present  is  alto- 
gether a  season  of  unprecedented  calarri- 
ity.  But  I  must  pray  you  not  to  yield 
to  a  view  of  these  evils  wliich  shall 
overrate  their  magnitude  or  overlook 
their  uses.  We  have  lived  so  long  in 
this  country  in  a  state  of  peace  and 
plenty,  that  we  have  almost  forgotten 
through  what  sorrows  and  conflicts  the 
human  race  has  passed  to  reach  its  pres- 
ent condition.  We  have  been  raised  to 
a  high  level,  like  some  of  those  which 
are  found  upon  the  mountains  of  this 
new  world,  till  we  have  lost  sight  of  the 
great  plain  of  the  world  where  the 
fortunes  of  men  are  wrought  out  with 
bitter    toil    and     sorrow,    where    their 


PUBLIC    CALAMITIES. 


339 


.•ivers  have  run  blood,  and  their  fields 
have  been  fattened  with  slaughter.  The 
exiles  who  flock  to  us,  from  many  a 
country  and  clime,  might  well  be  tempted 
to  say,  "  The  ways  of  Providence  are 
not  equaL"  They  have  come  from 
lands  where  liberty  has  been  crushed 
down  in  the  blood  of  their  children,  or 
where  the  dungeon  has  been  exchanged 
only  for  exile;  where  famine  has  stalked 
tlirough  the  dwellings  of  thousands, 
and  the  faces  of  men  have  grown  pale, 
and  their  limbs  have  tottered  beneath 
the  awful  scourge.  Within  the  period 
of  our  existence  as  a  nation,  what  wars 
have  desolated  the  fields  of  Europe ; 
what  bloody  battles  have  been  the 
epochs  of  her  history  ;  what  groaning 
hospitals  have  tracked  the  step  of  her 
armies ;  what  shrieks  of  widowhood 
and  orphanage  have  risen  upon  the  air, 
laden  with  the  accumulation  of  her  ca- 
lamities !  Compared  with  this,  let  us 
not  forget  that  our  condition,  with  all 
its  trials,  is  one  of  high  prosperity.  I 
would  not  speak  lightly  of  these  trials. 
I  know  that  they  are  great.  I  know 
that  they  eat  deeply  into  the  heart  of 
domestic  happiness  ;  that  there  is  more 
suffering  among  us,  and  that,  not  alone 
in  the  hovels  of  indigence,  than  most 
men  are  aware  of.  But  one  week  of 
famine  in  the  land,  one  wide  sweep  of 
the  wings  of  pestilence  over  us,  one 
cannonade  from  a  single  ship  in  yonder 
harbor,  pouring  its  storm  of  hail-shot 
and  fire  upon  the  city,  would  make  us 
feel,  that  to  step  from  that  into  the 
midst  of  all  our  present  trials  were  a 
blessed  exchange. 

I  say  that  our  condition  has  been, 
and  is,  comparatively  a  favored  one. 
But  I  cannot  yield  to  the  common 
readiness  and  easiness  of  inference  by 
which  this  sense  of  our  happy  fortunes 
is  made  to  extend  to  our  national  char- 
acter. We  are  in  our  condition,  I  be- 
lieve, the  most  favored  people  on  earth  — 
i.  e.  as  a  people  —  as  a  mass ;  but  I 
am  far  from  saying  that  we  are  the  wis- 
est and  most  virtuous  people  in  the 
world.     We  have  heard  but  too  much  of 


this  boasting.  We  have  talked  about 
the  slaves  of  despotism  till  we  have 
apparently  forgotten  that  there  may  be 
a  worse  bondage,  —  to  private  ambition, 
to  wearing  anxiety,  to  envy  and  self-will. 
And  therefore  that  distrust  which  has 
entered  in  among  us,  —  distrust  about 
the  securities  of  property,  —  distrust 
about  the  tendencies  of  the  national 
character, —  though  it  be  one  of  the  most 
painful  trials  of  the  time,  is  not,  I  think, 
without  its  uses.  It  may  do  us  good.  It 
may  impart  a  sobriety  to  our  thoughts  of 
the  public  welfare.  It  may  turn  our 
thoughts  from  our  private  interests  to 
the  commonweal,  —  a  direction  of  mind 
greatly  needed  among  us.  It  may  put 
a  salutary  fear  in  the  place  of  our  rash 
confidence.  It  may  put  us  upon  think- 
ing more  deeply  upon  those  deepest 
foundations  of  our  welfare,  —  virtue, 
simplicity,  soberness  of  mind,  and  a  rev- 
erent and  humble  piety. 

No  blessings  are  to  be  kept,  and 
least  of  all  those  that  are  enjoyed  in 
the  midst  of  freedom  and  abundance, 
but  by  a  jealous  fear  and  vigilance. 
Was  not  this  truth  in  a  measure  forgot- 
ten in  our  prosperity  ?  Did  it  not  seem 
as  if  life,  in  this  New  World,  was  to 
take  on  quite  a  new  character  ?  For 
myself,  I  confess  that  I  was  deceived 
by  the  aspect  of  things  around  me. 
When  I  had  looked  upon  the  humble 
tr.iders,  and  the  hard  and  unrequited 
toilers  of  the  Old  World,  and  then  saw 
many  of  the  same  classes  here  rising 
rapidly  to  wealth  and  splendor,  I  felt  as 
if  a  new  age  had  come,  as  if  a  new 
world  here  were  indeed  opening  its 
portals  to  crowding  and  happier  gener- 
ations. And  I  hope  now  that  it  is  not 
altogether  untrue.  But  I  confess  that 
I  have  been  brought  to  soberer  thoughts 
of  our  condition,  and  of  the  very  condi- 
tion of  humanity.  I  see  that  life  is  not 
to  be,  to  any  people  —  that  it  must  not 
be  —  a  dispensation  of  ease  and  indepen- 
dence. I  see  a  sublimer  law  revealed 
than  that  of  prosperity,  —  the  law  of 
wisdom  ;  a  higher  end  proposed  by 
the  Providence  of  heaven  than  success, 


340 


MISCELLANEOUS    AND   OCCASIONAL. 


—  even  virtue.  I  see  that  the  old,  the 
eternal,  the  Christian  law  still  presses 
upon  us  :  that  through  much  tribulation 
we  must  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ; 
that  we  must  learn  and  not  forget  that 
we  are  pilgrims  and  strangers  on  earth, 
having  here  no  continuing  city  nor 
abiding  place. 

Public  calamities,  then,  amidst  all 
their  severity,  are  yet  teachers  of  wis- 
dom. I  speak  not  of  individual  instan- 
ces. I  say  not,  it  is  best  that  those 
calamities  should  have  fallen  here  or 
there.  I  am  not  obliged  to  say  that  it 
is  best  that  they  should  have  fallen  any- 
where. But  since  they  have  come,  they 
may  be  turned  to  some  wise  account. 
He  who  can  "  cause  the  wrath  of  man 
to  praise  him "  can  cause  even  these 
things  to  praise  him,  in  our  growing 
wisdom.  May  he  cause  us  to  praise 
him,  and  be  thankful.  You  speak,  my 
friend,  of  the  disasters  that  have  be- 
fallen you.  You  did  7iot  set  your  foot 
on  that  fated  deck  !  Who  of  you  now 
would  not  have  given  millions,  if  you  had 
them,  rather  than  have  been  there  ?  How 
many  survivors  would  give  all  that  is 
left  them,  if  they  could  buy  back  that 
irrevocable  step.  You  did  not  take  it. 
You  were  not  there.  Your  husband, 
your  brother,  was  not  there.  He  might 
have  been.     Some  of  you  thought  of  it 

—  intended  it,  and  were  saved  from  it 
as  by  a  miracle.  Life  is  still  yours  ; 
the  warm  fireside,  the  happy  home,  is 
still  yours.  What  then  can  you  feel, 
amidst  your  blessings  —  what  can  you 
be,  but  thankful  ?  No  murmurer,  me- 
thinks,  is  here  to  day.  But  if  there  be, 
I  say  to  him,  —  Yoti  did  not  set  your  foot 
on  that  fated  deck  /  And  as  your  shud- 
dering thought  draws  back  from  that 
fearful  idea,  let  it  retreat  forever  into 
the  sanctuary  of  thanksgiving. 

III.  Again,  my  brethren,  am  I  brought 
back  to  this  mournful  theme.  Let  me 
say  a  word  or  two  more  to  you,  and 
I  shall  have  discharged  the  sad  duty 
•which  I  thought  it  called  for  at  my 
hands. 

Life  is  dear,  and  it  is  justly  of  great 


account  with  us  ;  but  can  it  be  of 
that  supreme  account  which  we  make 
it .''  When  we  see  it  the  sport  of  every 
event,  of  every  inadvertence  ;  when  we 
see  it  extinguished  by  a  mote  in  the 
air,  or  a  ray  of  the  sun  ;  when  we  see 
that  it  depends  upon  a  step  more  or 
less  ;  when  multitudes  sink  to  an  un- 
timely death  ;  when  the  life  of  a  whole 
breathing  generation  is  swept  away 
before  us  like  a  cloud  from  the  earth,  — 
can  such  a  life  be  the  thing  on  which 
it  was  intended  that  man  should  set  his 
whole  heart  ?  Can  it  be  anything  in 
the  divine  economy  but  a  means  to 
something  beyond  ?  The  animal  dies 
for  the  advantage  of  a  superior  being  ; 
or  for  his  own  advantage,  by  the  decay 
that  has  ended  the  enjoyment  of  his 
life,  or  by  the  violence  from  his  kind 
that  saves  him  from  that  decay,  neglect- 
ed, untended.  Does  man  die  for  noth- 
ing,—  neither  for  his  own,  nor  for  others' 
advantage  ?  But  if  he  does  die  for 
some  ulterior  purpose,  then  his  life  is 
instrumental;  and  whether  he  continues 
for  a  term  longer  or  shorter  is  not  the 
ultimate,  the  main  thing.  We  say  this 
of  animal  life  ;  is  it  not  just  as  true  of 
human  life  ?  But  the  ulterior  end  for 
man,  —  what  and  where  can  it  be,  but 
in  a  future  life  ?  Yet  if  man's  essential 
life  be  thus  continuous,  can  it  be  so  ma- 
terial as  we  make  it  when  the  life  of 
this  form  changes  ?  Is  it  not  like  pass- 
ing from  infancy  to  youth,  or  from 
youth  to  manhood  "i  Is  it  not  being 
unclothed  of  one  form  to  be  clothed 
upon  with  another  ?  The  form  changes  ; 
the  being  lives. 

"  What  shadows  we  are,  and  what 
shadows  we  pursue,"  I  feel,  as  in  imag- 
ination I  stand  and  behold,  beneath  the 
veil  of  night,  a  hundred  fellow-beings 
perish  before  my  eyes  and  pass  away 
like  a  dream.  I  cannot  help  saying, 
when  I  see  so  many  valued  lives  cast 
away  like  an  evening  vapor  upon  the 
waters,  —  how  little  can  it  matter,  after 
all,  i-n  the  great  account,  when  we  die  ; 
this  year  or  next  year ;  to-day  or  to- 
morrow !     I    cannot  help  saying,   as    I 


PUBLIC   CALAMITIES. 


341 


look  around  me,  "  My  companions,  my 
friejids,  are  but  shadows  ;  we  all  are 
but  shadows ;  like  shadows  we  alight 
upon  the  shore  of  time,  and  the  breath 
of  that  shore  will  soon  sweep  us  away 
into  the  habitations  of  eternity."  Truly 
is  it  written,  "  Thou  carriest  them  away 
as  with%  flood  ;  they  are  as  a  sleep." 

One  word  more  I  must  say,  lest  I 
fail  to  interpret  the  most  solemn  lan- 
guage of  this  solemn  event;  and  that 
is  upon  the  duty  of  being  ever  prepared 
for  death.  There  are  characteristics  of 
that  event  which  show  that  this  is  no 
mere  matter  of  professional  admonition, 
proper  for  the  preacher  to  insist  upon, 
but  for  no  one  to  take  home  as  a  living 
admonition  to  his  own  heart.  The 
event  took  place  near  us, —  on  the  great 
highway  of  our  constant  travel,  —  and 
in  a  mode  of  conveyance  to  which  we 
are    continually    resorting.       And    the 


frenzy  that  seizes  men's  minds  at  such 
a  moment  must  show  the  most  thought- 
less and  irreligious  among  us  that, 
whatever  we  may  think  now  of  being 
prepared  for  death,  we  shall  feel  no 
indifference  when  the  hour  comes.  We 
know  that  the  same  fate  may,  in  any 
month,  overtake  us;  and  we  see  as  in 
a  glass  what  we  shall  then  feel. 

Pardon  me,  my  friends,  but  I  cannot 
pursue  the  theme.  I  cannot  utter  com- 
monplace warnings  in  the  presence  of 
that  awful  Admonisher.  Alas !  that  all 
that  I  can  do  is  to  speak,  —  when  others 
have  died  I  Alas  !  that  I  can  only  medi- 
tate here, —  when  the  hearts  of  many 
are  rent  with  agony  !  Oh  !  poor  and 
unavailing  it  seems,  only  to  take  part, 
in  weak  sympathy,  with  their  bitter  sor- 
row. But  human  help  cannot  avail,  and 
we  can  only  say,  in  our  impotence  and 
grief,  may  God  comfort  them  ! 


DISCOURSES   AND    REVIEWS 


UPON 


QUESTIONS    IN   CONTROVERSIAL   THEOLOGY 


AND 


PRACTICAL    RELIGION. 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


I  SHALL  undertake  to  state  in  this 
article  what  I  understand  to  be  the  pre- 
vaihng  belief  of  Unitarian  Christians. 
Our  position  as  a  religious  body  seems 
still  to  require  statements  of  this  na- 
ture. It  is  a  position,  that  is  to  say, 
entirely  misunderstood.  Misconstruc- 
tions once  in  vogue,  seem  to  have  a 
strange  power  of  perpetuating  them- 
selves ;  or,  at  any  rate,  they  are  helped 
on  by  powers  that  seem  to  us  very 
strange.  In  the  face  of  a  thousand  de- 
nials, and  in  spite  of  the  self-contra- 
dicting absurdity  of  the  charge,  it  is 
still  said,  and,  by  multitudes,  seems  to 
be  thought,  that  our  creed  consists  of 
negations  ;  that  we  beheve  in  almost 
nothing.  It  seems  to  be  received  as 
if  it  were  a  matter  of  common  consent 
that  we  do  not  hold  to  the  doctrines  of 
the  Bible,  and  that  we  scarcely  pretend 
to  hold  to  the  Bible  itself.  It  is  ap- 
parently supposed  by  many  that  we 
stand  upon  peculiar  ground  in  this  re- 
spect ;  that  we  hold  some  strange  posi- 
tion in  the  Christian  world,  different 
from  all  other  Christian  denominations. 

We  must,  therefore,  if  our  patience 
fail  not,  explain  ourselves  again  and 
again.  We  must,  again  and  again, 
implore  others  to  make  distinctions  very 


obvious  indeed,  but  which  they  are 
strangely  slow  to  see  ;  to  distinguish, 
that  is  to  say,  or  at  least  to  remember 
that  we  distinguish,  between  the  Bible 
and  fallible  interpretations,  between 
Scripture  doctrines  and  the  explana- 
tion of  those  doctrines.  The  former 
we  receive ;  the  latter  only  do  we  reject. 
Our  position  in  the  Christian  world 
is  not  a  singular  one.  We  profess  to 
stand  upon  the  same  ground  as  all  other 
Christians,  —  the  Bible.  Our  position, 
considered  as  dissent ;  our  position,  as 
assailed  on  all  sides,  —  is  by  no  means 
a  novel  one.  The  Protestants  were  and 
are  charged  by  the  Romish  Church  with 
rejecting  Christianity.  Every  sect  in 
succession  that  has  broken  off  from  the 
body  of  Christians  —  the  Lutherans  and 
English  Episcopalians  first,  then  the 
Scotch  Presbyterians,  then  the  Bap- 
tists, the  Methodists,  the  Quakers,  the 
Puritans,  the  Independents  of  every 
name  —  has  been  obliged  to  reply  to 
the  same  charge  of  holding  no  valid  nor 
authorized  belief.  And  what  has  been 
the  answer  of  them  all  .?  It  has  been 
the  answer  of  Paul  before  Felix :  that 
they  did  believe;  that  they  "believed 
all  things  that  are  written  "  in  the  holy 
volume. 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


343 


This  same  defence,  namely,  Paul's 
defence  to  the  Jews,  Luther's  and  Wick- 
liff's  to  the  Romish  Church  ;  the  de- 
fence of  Knox,  of  Robinson,  of  P'ox,  of 
Wesley,  and  Whittield,  and  of  our  own 
Mayhew  and  Mathers  to  the  English 
Church, —  this  same  defence  it  has  fallen 
to  our  lot  to  plead  as  Unitarian  Chris- 
tians. We  bear  a  new  name ;  but  we 
take  an  old  stand,  —  a  stand  old  as 
Christianity.  We  bear  a  new  name, 
but  we  make  an  old  defence ;  we  think 
as  every  other  class  of  Christians  have 
thought,  that  we  approach  the  nearest 
to  the  old  primitive  Christianity.  We 
bear  a  hard  name,  the  name  of  heretics  ; 
but  it  is  the  very  name  which  Episco- 
palians, Presbyterians,  Arminians,  Cal- 
vinists,  have  once  borne  ;  which  all 
Protestant  Orthodoxy  has  once  borne  ; 
which  Paul  himself  bore,  when  he 
said,  "After  the  way  which  they  call 
heresy,  so  worship  I  the  God  of  my 
fathers."  We  bear  a  new  name  ;  and 
a  new  name  draws  suspicion  upon  it, 
as  every  Christian  sect  has  had  occasion 
full  well  to  know  ;  and  we  think,  there- 
fore, that  our  position  and  our  plea  de- 
mand some  consideration  and  sympathy 
from  the  body  of  Christians.  We  think 
that  they  ought  to  listen  to  us,  when  we 
make  the  plea,  once  their  own,  that  we 
believe,  according  to  our  honest  under- 
standing of  their  claim  upon  our  faith, 
all  things  that  are  written  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures. 

There  is  one  circumstance  which 
makes  the  statement  of  this  defence 
peculiarly  pertinent  and  proper  for  us ; 
and  that  is,  the  delicacy  which  has  been 
felt  by  our  writers  and  preachers  about 
the  use  of  terms.  When  we  found,  for 
instance,  that  the  phrase,  "  Father,  Son, 
and  Holy  Ghost,"  and  that  the  words, 
atonement,  regeneration,  election,  with 
some  others,  were  appropriated  by  the 
popular  creeds,  and  stood  in  prevailing 
usage,  for  orthodox  doctrines,  we  hesi- 
tated about  the  free  use  of  them.  It 
was  not  because  we  hesitated  about  the 
meaning  which  Scripture  gave  to  them, 
but  about  the  meaning:  whicli  common 


usage  had  fixed  upon  them.  We  be- 
lieved in  the  things  tliemselves  ;  we 
believed  in  the  words  as  they  stood  in 
the  Bible,  but .  not  as  they  stood  in 
other  books.  But  finding  that,  when- 
ever we  used  these  terms,  we  were 
charged,  as  even  our  great  Master  him- 
self was,  with  "  deceiving  the  people," 
and  not  anxious  to  dispute  about  words, 
we  gave  up  the  familiar  use  of  a  portion 
of  the  Scriptural  phraseology.  Whether 
we  ought,  in  justice  to  ourselves,  so  to 
have  done,  is  not  now  the  question. 
We  did  so  ;  and  the  consequence  has 
been,  that  the  body  of  the  people,  not 
often  hearing  from  our  pulpits  the  con- 
tested words  and  phrases  ;  not  often 
hearing  the  words,  p7'opitialioti,  sacri- 
fice, the  natural  man,  tJie  new  birth, 
and  the  Spirit  of  God, —  hold  themselves 
doubly  warranted  in  ciiarging  us  with  a 
defection  from  the  faith  of  Scripture. 
It  is  this  state  of  things  which  makes 
it  especially  pertinent  and  proper  for 
us,  as  we  have  said,  distinctly  to  de- 
clare not  only  our  belief  in  the  Scrip- 
tures generally,  but  our  belief  in  what 
the  Scriptures  teach  on  the  points  in 
controversy ;  our  belief,  we  repeat,  in 
what  the  Scriptures  mean  by  the  phrase, 
"  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,"  and 
by  the  words,  atonement,  conversion, 
election,  and  others  that  stand  for  dis- 
puted doctrines. 

To  some  statements  of  this  nature, 
then,  we  now  invite  attention  ;  only 
premising  further,  that  it  is  no  part  of 
our  purpose,  within  the  brief  limits  of 
this  exposition,  to  set  forth  anything 
of  that  abundant  argument  for  our 
views  of  Christianity  which  so  power- 
fully convinces  us  that  they  are  true. 
Our  object  at  present  is  limited  to 
statement  and  explanation.  We  would 
present  the  Unitarian  creed  according 
to  our  own  understanding  of  it. 

With  this  object  in  view,  we  say,  in 
general,  that  we  believe  in  the  Scrip- 
tures. 

On  a  point  which  is  so  plain,  and 
ought  to  be  so  well  understood  as  this, 
it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell,  unless  it  be 


344 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


for  the  purpose  of  discrimination.  If 
any  one  thinks  it  necessary  to  a  recep- 
tion of  the  Bible  as  a  revelation  from 
God,  that  the  inspired,  penmen  should 
have  written  by  immediate  dictation; 
if  he  thinks  that  the  writers  were  mere 
amanuenses,  and  that  word  after  word 
was  put  down  by  instant  suggestion 
from  above  ;  that  the  very  style  is 
divine  and  not  human  ;  that  the  style, 
we  say,  and  the  matters  of  style,  the 
figures,  the  metaphors,  the  illustrations, 
came  from  the  Divine  mind,  and  not 
from  human  minds, —  we  say,  at  once  and 
plainly,  that  we  do  not  regard  the  Scrip- 
tures as  setting  forth  any  claims  to  such 
supernatural  perfection  or  accuracy  of 
style.  It  is  not  a  kind  of  distinction 
that  would  add  anything  to  the  author- 
ity, much  less  to  the  dignity,  of  a  com- 
munication from  Heaven.  Nay,  it  would 
detract  from  its  power,  to  deprive  it,  by 
any  hypothesis,  of  those  touches  of  na- 
ture, of  that  natural  pathos,  simplicity, 
and  imagination,  and  of  that  solemn 
grandeur  of  thought,  disregarding  style, 
of  which  the  Bible  is  full.  Enough  is 
it  for  us  that  the  matter  is  divine,  the 
doctrines  true,  the  history  authentic, 
the  miracles  real,  the  promises  glori- 
ous, the  threatenings  fearful ;  enough, 
that  all  is  gloriously  and  fearfully  true, 
—  true  to  the  Divine  will,  true  to  human 
nature,  true  to  its  wants,  anxieties, 
sorrows,  sins,  and  solemn  destinies  ; 
enough,  that  the  seal  of  a  divine  and 
miraculous  communication  is  set  upon 
that  Holy  Book. 

So  we  receive  it.  So  we  believe  in  it. 
And  there  is  many  a  record  on  those 
inspired  pages  which  he  who  believes 
therein  would  not  exchange  ;  no,  he 
would  not  exchange  it,  a  simple  sentence 
though  it  be,  for  the  wealth  of  worlds. 

That  God  Almighty,  the  Infinite 
Creator  and  Father,  hath  spoken  to  the 
world  ;  that  He  who  speaks,  indeed,  in 
all  the  voices  of  nature  and  life,  but 
speaks  there  generally  and  leaves  all  to 
inference  ;  that  he  hath  spoken  to  man 
distinctly,  and  as  it  were  individually, 
—  spoken  with  a  voice  of  interpretation 


for  life's  mysteries,  and  of  guidance 
amidst  its  errors,  and  of  comfort  for  its 
sorrows,  and  of  pardon  for  its  sins, 
and  of  hope,  undying  hope  beyond 
the  grave  ;  this  is  a  fact,  compared 
with  which  all  other  facts  are  not 
worth  believing  in  ;  this  is  an  event  so 
interesting,  so  transcendent,  transport- 
ing, sublime,  as  to  leave  to  all  other 
events  the  character  only  of  things  or- 
dinary and  indifferent. 

But  let  us  pass  from  the  general  truth 
of  this  record  to  some  of  its  particular 
doctrines.  Our  attention  here  will  be 
confined  to  the  New  Testament. 

I.  And  we  say,  in  the  first  place,  that 
we  believe  "in  the  Father,  and  in  the 
Son,  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost."  This 
was  the  simple  primitive  creed  of  the 
Christians  ;  and  it  were  well  if  men 
had  been  content  to  receive  it  in  its 
simplicity.  As  a  creed,  it  was  di- 
rected to  be  introduced  into  the  form 
of  baptism.  The  rite  of  baptism  was 
appropriated  to  the  profession  of  Chris- 
tianity. The  converts  were  to  be  bap- 
tized into  the  acknowledgment  of  the 
Christian  religion  ;  baptized  into  the 
name,  that  is,  into  the  acknowledgment, 
of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost. 

This  creed  consist  of  three  parts.  It 
contains  no  proof,  nor  hint,  of  the  doc- 
trine of  a  Trinity.  We  might  as  well 
say  that  any  other  three  points  of  be- 
lief are  one  point  The  creed  consists 
of  three  parts ;  and  these  parts  embrace 
the  grand  peculiarities  of  the  Christian 
religion  ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason,  as  we 
conceive,  and  for  no  other,  that  they  are 
introduced  into  the  primitive  form  of  a 
profession  of  Christianity. 

The  first  tenet  is,  that  God  is  a  pater- 
nal Being;  that  he  has  an  interest  in 
his  creatures,  such  as  is  expressed  in 
the  title  Father ;  an  interest  unknown 
to  all  the  systems  of  Paganism,  untaught 
in  all  the  theories  of  philosophy  ;  an  in- 
terest not  only  in  the  glorious  beings  of 
other  spheres,  the  sons  of  light,  the 
dwellers  in  heavenly  worlds,  but  in  us, 
poor,  ignorant,  and  unworthy  as  we  are  ; 


THE    UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


345 


that  he  has  pity  for  the  erring,  pardon 
for  the  guihy,  love  for  the  pure,  kind- 
ness for  the  humble,  and  promises  of  im- 
mortal and  blessed  life  for  those  who 
trust  and  obey  him.  God,  yes,  the  God 
of  boundless  worlds  and  infinite  systems, 
is  our  Father.  How  many  in  Christian 
lands  have  not  yet  learned  this  first 
truth  of  the  Christian  faith  ! 

The  second  article  in  the  Christian's 
creed  is,  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Son 
of  God,  "the  brightness  of  his  glory, 
and  the  express  image  of  his  person  ;  " 
not  God  himself,  but  his  image,  his 
brightest  manifestation  ;  the  teacher  of 
his  truth,  the  messenger  of  his  will;  the 
mediator  between  God  and  men;  the 
sacrifice  for  sin,  and  the  Saviour  from  it ; 
the  conqueror  of  death,  the  forerunner 
into  eternity,  where  he  evermore  liveth 
to  make  intercession  for  us.  We  are 
not  about  to  argue  ;  but  we  cannot  help 
remarking,  as  we  pass,  how  obvious  it 
is,  that  in  none  of  these  offices  can 
Jesus  be  regarded  as  God.  If  he  t's 
God  in  his  nature,  yet  as  Mediator  be- 
tween God  and  man,  we  say  he  cannot 
be  regarded  as  God. 

The  third  object  of  our  belief,  intro- 
duced into  the  primitive  creed,  is  the 
Holy  Ghost;  -in  other  words,  that  power 
of  God,  that  divine  influence,  by  which 
Christianity  was  established  through  mi- 
raculous aids,  and  by  which  its  spirit  is 
still  shed  abroad  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
This  tenet,  as  we  understand  it,  requires 
our  belief  in  miracles,  and  in  gracious  in- 
terpositions of  God,  for  the  support  and 
triumph  of  Christian  faith  and  virtue. 

Let  us  add,  that  these  three,  with  the. 
addition  of  the  doctrine  of  a  future  life, 
are  the  grand  points  of  faith  which  are 
set  forth  in  the  earliest  uninspired  creed 
on  record,  commonly  called  "  The 
Apostles'  creed"  Its  language  is,  "  I 
believe  in  God  the  Father  Almighty ; 
and  in  Jesus  Christ,  his  only-begotten 
Son,  our  Lord  ;  who  was  born  of  the 
Holy  Ghost  and  Virgin  Mary;  and  was 
crucified  under  Pontius  Pilate,  and  was 
buried;  and,  the  third  day,  rose  again 
from  the  dead,  ascended  into  heaven,  sit- 


teth  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Father ; 
whence  he  shall  come  to  judge  tlie  quick 
and  the  dead  ;  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost ;  the 
Holy  Church  ;  the  remission  of  sins  ;  and 
the  resurrection  of  the  flesh."  Not  a  word 
is  here  of  "  co-equal  Son,"  as  in  the  Ni- 
cene  Creed  ;  not  a  word  of  "  Trinity,"  as 
in  the  Athanasian.  Things  approach 
nearer,  it  should  seem,  to  the  simplicity 
of  the  gospel,  as  they  approach  nearer 
to  its  date.  To  that  simplicity  of  faith, 
then,  we  hold  fast.  On  that  primitive 
and  beautiful  record  of  doctrine  we  put 
our  hand  and  place  our  reliance.  We 
believe  "in  the  Father,  and  in  the  Son, 
and  in  the  Holy  Ghost."  May  the 
Father  Almighty  have  mercy  upon  us ! 
May  the  Son  of  God  redeem  us  from 
guilt,  from  misery,  and  from  hell  !  May 
the  Holy  Ghost  sanctify  and  save  us! 

From  this  general  creed,  let  us  now 
proceed  to  particular  doctrines. 

II.  We  believe  in  the  atonement. 
That  is  to  say,  we  believe  in  what  that 
word  and  similar  words  mean  in  the 
New  Testament.  We  take  not  the  re- 
sponsibility of  supporting  the  popular 
interpretations.  They  are  various,  and 
are  constantly  varying,  and  are  without 
authority,  as  much  as  they  are  without 
uniformity  and  consistency.  What  the 
divine  record  says,  we  beheve  according 
to  the  best  understanding  we  can  form 
of  its  import.  We  believe  that  Jesus 
Christ "  died  for  our  sins  ;  "  that  he  '•  died, 
the  just  for  the  unjust ;"  that  "he  gave 
his  hfe  a  ransom  for  many;"  that  "he 
is  the  Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away 
the  sins  of  the  world  ; "  that  "  we  have 
redemption  through  his  blood;"  that 
we  "  have  access  to  God,  and  enter 
into  the  holiest  [that  is,  the  nearest  com- 
munion with  God]  by  the  blood  of  Jesus." 
We  have  no  objection  to  the  phrase 
"  atoning  blood,"  though  it  is  not  Scrip- 
tural, provided  it  is  taken  in  a  sense  , 
which  the  Scripture  authorizes. 

But  what  now  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this  phraseology,  and  of  much  more 
that  is  like  it  ?  Certainly  it  is  that  there 
is  some  connection  between  tiie  suffer- 
ings of  Christ  and  our  forgiveness,  our  re- 


346 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


demption  from  sin  and  misery.  This  we 
all  believe.  But  what  is  this  connection  .'' 
Here  is  all  the  difficulty;  here  is  all  the 
difference  of  opinion.  We  all  believe, 
all  Christians  beheve,  that  the  death  of 
Christ  is  a  means  of  our  salvation.  But 
how  is  it  a  means  ?  Was  it,  some  one 
will  say,  perhaps,  as  if  he  were  putting 
us  to  the  test;  was  it  an  atonement,  a 
sacrifice,  a  propitiation  ?  We  answer, 
that  it  was  an  atonement,  a  sacrifice,  a 
propitiation.  But  now  the  question  is, 
what  is  an  atonement,  a  sacrifice,  a  propi- 
tiation ?  And  this  is  the  difficult  question  ; 
a  question  to  the  propersolution  of  which 
much  thought,  much  cautious  discrimi- 
nation, much  criticism,  much  knowledge, 
and  especially  of  the  ancient  Hebrew 
sacrifices,  is  necessary.  Can  we  not 
"receive  the  atonement,"  without  this 
knowledge,  this  criticism,  this  deep  phi- 
losophy ?  What  then  is  to  become  of 
the  mass  of  mankind,  of  the  body  of 
Christians  ?  Can  we  not  savingly  "  re- 
ceive the  atonement  "  unless  we  adopt 
some  particular  explanation,  some  pe- 
culiar creed,  concerning  it  ?  Who  will 
dare  to  answer  this  question  in  the  neg- 
ative, when  he  knows  that  the  Christian 
world,  the  Orthodox  Christian  world,  is 
filled  with  differences  of  opinion  con- 
cerning it .''  The  Presbyterian  Church 
of  America  is,  at  this  moment,  rent 
asunder  on  this  question.  Christians 
are,  everywhere,  divided  on  the  ques- 
tions, whether  the  redemption  is  partic- 
ular or  general ;  whether  the  sufferings 
of  Christ  were  a  literal  endurance  of  the 
punishment  due  to  sin,  or  only  a  moral 
equivalent ;  and  whether  this  equiva- 
lency, supposing  this  to  be  the  true  ex- 
planation, consists  in  the  endurance  of 
God's  displeasure  against  sin,  or  only 
in  a  simple  manifestation  of  it. 

The  atonement  is  one  thing  ;  the  gra- 
cious interposition  of  Christ  in  our  be- 
half; the  doing  of  all  that  was  necessary 
to  be  done,  to  provide  the  means  and 
the  way  for  our  salvation,  —  this  is  one 
thing  ;  in  this  we  all  believe.  The  phi- 
losophy, the  theory,  the  theology  of  the 
atonement,  is  another  thing.    About  this 


Orthodox  Christians  are  differing  with 
one  another  about  as  much  as  they  are 
differing  from  us.  Nay  more,  they  are 
saying  as  hard  things  of  one  another  as 
they  ever  said  of  us.  Is  it  not  time  to 
learn  wisdom  ?  Is  there  not  good  rea- 
son for  taking  the  ground  we  do  ;  the 
ground,  that  is  to  say,  of  general  belief 
and  trust,  without  insisting  upon  partic- 
ular and  peculiar  explanations  ? 

We  believe  in  Christ ;  and  well  were 
it  if  we  all  believed  in  him  too  fervently 
and  tenderly  to  be  engaged  much  in  theo. 
logical  disputes  and  denunciations.  We 
believe  in  Christ.  We  pray  to  God 
through  him.  We  ask  God  to  bless  us 
for  his  sake ;  for  we  feel  that  Christ 
makes  intercession,  and  has  obtained  the 
privilege  to  be  heard,  through  his  own 
meritorious  sufferings.  Christ's  sacri- 
fice is  the  grandest,  the  most  powerful 
means  of  salvation.  It  was  a  transcen- 
dent and  most  affecting  example  of  meek- 
ness, patience  and  forgiveness  of  inju- 
ries. It  was  a  most  striking  exhibition 
of  God's  gracious  interest  and  concern 
for  us,  of  his  view  of  the  evil  and  curse  of 
sin,  and  of  his  compassion  for  the  guilty, 
and  of  his  readiness  to  forgive  the 
penitent.  It  was  an  atonement  ;  that  is 
to  say,  a  means  of  reconciliation,  —  rec- 
onciliation not  of  God  to  us,  but  of  us 
to  God.  The  blood  of  that  sacrifice  was 
atoning  blood  ;  that  is,  it  was  blood  on 
which  whoever  looks  rightly,  is  touched 
with  gratitude  and  humility  and  sorrow 
for  liis  sins,  and  thus  is  reconciled  to  God 
by  the  death  of  his  Son. 

Now  it  is  possible  that  we  do  not 
understand  and  receive  all  that  is  meant 
by  the  Scriptures  on  this  subject.  We 
admit  it,  as  what  imperfection  ought  al- 
ways to  admit ;  but  we  admit  it,  too,  for 
the  sake  of  saying,  that,  so  long  as  we 
receive  all  that  we  can  understand  from 
the  language  in  question  ;  so  long  as  we 
receive  and  believe  every  word  that  is 
written, — no  man  has  a  right  to  say  to 
us,  without  qualification,  "  You  do  not 
believe  in  the  atonement.  "  He  may  say, 
"You  do  not  believe  in  the  atonement, 
according  to  my  explanation,"  or  accord- 


THE   UNITARIAN    BELIEF. 


347 


ing  to  Calvin's  explanation  ;  but  he  has 
no  right  to  say,  without  qualification, 
"You  do  not  believe  in  the  doctrine,  you 
do  not  believe  in  the  propitiation,  in  the 
reconciliation,  in  the  sacrifice  of  Jesus  ;" 
no  more  right  than  we  have  to  address 
the  same  language  to  him.* 

We  believe,  then,  in  the  atonement. 
We  believe  in  other  views  of  this  great 
subject  than  those  wliich  are  expressed 
by  the  word  atciiciiic7it.  But  this  word 
spreads  before  our  minds  a  truth  of  in- 
expressible interest.  The  reconciliation 
by  Jesus  Clirist,  his  interposition  to 
bring  us  nigh  to  God,  is  to  us  his  grand- 
est office.  To  our  minds  there  is  no 
sentence  of  the  holy  volume  more    in- 

*  In  an  Introductory  Essay  to  Butler's  An- 
alogy, published  by  a  leading  defender  of  what 
is  called  the  New  Divinity  in  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  the  author  says,  "  We  maintain  that  the 
System  of  Unitarians,  which  denies  all  such  sub- 
stitution,"—  meaning  the  removal  of  calamities 
from  us,  in  ordinary  life,  by  the  interposition  and 
suffering  of  another,  —  "is  a  violation  of  all  the 
modes  in  which  God  has  yet  dispensed  his  bless- 
ings to  man."  We  may  just  observe  in  passing, 
that  the  respectable  author  would  not  say,  on  reflec- 
tion, "of  a// the  modes  ;"  for  many  of  the  most 
momentous  blessings  are  dispensed  to  us  through 
our  own  agency.  But  this  is  what  he  would  say, 
tliat  the  Unitarian  belief,  with  regard  to  the  atone- 
ment, violates,  as  he  conceives,  one  great  principle 
of  the  Divine  beneficinca.  And  that  is  the  princi- 
ple, that  blessings  are  often  conferred  on  us,  in 
the  course  of  providence,  through  the  instrumen-  ■ 
tality  of  others,  —  of  parents,  friends,  fellow-be- 
ings, &c.  "  It  is  by  years  of  patient  toil  in  others," 
says  Mr.  Barnes,  in  his  Essay,  "  that  we  possess 
the  elements  of  science,  the  principles  of  morals, 
the  endowments  of  religion."  "  Over  a  helpless 
babe,  ushered  into  the  world,  naked,  feeble, 
speechless,  there  impend  hunger,  cold,  sickness, 
sudden  death,  —  a  mother's  watchfulness  averts 
these  evils.  Over  a  nation  impend  revolutions, 
sword,  famine,  and  the  pestilence.  The  blood  of 
the  patriot  averts  these,  and  the  nation  smiles 
in  peace."  It  is  true  that  the  author  does  "  not 
affirm  that  this  is  all  that  is  meant  by  an  atone- 
ment, "  and  herein  we  entirely  agree  with  him.  But 
he  certainly  is  mistaken  wlien  he  says,  that  Unita- 
rians deny  all  such  substitution.  We  deny  the  Cal- 
vinistic  explanation  of  atonement  or  substitution. 
We  might  reject  the  author's  hypothesis,  too,  if 
we  knew  what  it  was.  But  does  it  follow,  that 
we  deny  all  substitution  ?  On  the  contrary,  we 
especially  hold  to  such  substitution. 

If  all  reputed  belief  in  the  atonement  is  to  de- 


teresting,  more  weighty,  more  precious, 
than  that  passage  in  the  sublime  Epistle 
to  the  Ephesians,  '•  Ye  were  strangers 
from  the  covenants  of  promise,  having 
no  hope,  and  without  God  in  the  world  : 
but  now  in  Christ  Jesus,  ye,  who  some- 
time were  far  off,  are  brouglit  nigh  by 
the  blood  of  Christ.  "  It  is  tliis  which 
the  world  needed  ;  it  is  this  which 
every  mind  now  needs,  beyond  all 
things,  —  to  be  brought  nigh  to  God.  By 
error,  by  superstition  and  sin,  by  slav- 
ish fears  and  guilty  passions  and  wicked 
ways,  we  were  separated  from  him.  By 
a  gracious  mission  from  the  Father,  b}' 
simple  and  clear  instructions,  by  en- 
couraging representations  of   God's  pa- 

pend  on  receiving  one  particular  explanation  of 
it,  where  is  this  to  end?  The  party  in  the  Pres- 
byterian Church  which  strictly  adheres  to  their 
standards,  that  is,  to  the  genuine  old  Calvinistic 
theology,  charges  Mr.  Barnes  and  his  friends,  and 
the  body  of  New  England  divines,  with  holding 
"  another  gospel."  These  again  charge  Dr.  Tay- 
lor and  the  New  Haven  School  with  holding  "an- 
other gospel."  Meanwhile,  each  of  these  bodies 
very  stoutly  defends  its  position,  insists  upon  its 
adherence  to  Christianity,  and  protests  against  the 
sentence  of  excision.  Has  either  of  these  parties 
obtained  a  monopoly  in  protestation  and  profes- 
sion t  Are  liberality  and  candor  to  stop  with  each 
party  just  where  its  convenience  may  dictate  ? 
Have  they  needed  charity  so  much  that  they  have 
used  it  all  up  ?  Is  the  last  chance  of  a  candid  and 
kind  construction  gone  by  ?  and  is  nobody  ever 
to  be  permitted  any  more  to  say,  "  We  believe  in 
the  gospel,  though  not  according  to  your  expla- 
nation .'' ' ' 

There  are,  perhaps,  no  more  accredited  defend- 
ers of  the  popular  doctrine  of  the  atonement  than 
Andrew  Fuller  and  Bishop  Magee.  Fuller,  as 
quoted  by  Evans  in  his  "Sketch,"  says,  "  If  we 
say,  a  way  was  opened  by  the  death  of  Christ  for 
the  free  and  consistent  exercise  of  mercy  in  all  the 
methods  which  sovereign  wisdom  saw  fit  to  adopt, 
perhaps  we  shall  include  every  material  idea  which 
the  Scriptures  give  us  of  that  important  event." 
—  Evaits,  p.  1 20,  14th  edition. 

To  the  question,  "In  what  way  can  the  death 
of  Christ  be  conceived  to  operate  to  the  remission 
of  sins  ?  "  Magee  says,  "  The  answer  of  the  Chris- 
tian is,  I  know  not,  nor  does  it  concern  me  to 
know,  !7i  u>hat  manner  the  sacrifice  of  Christ  is 
connected  with  the  forgiveness  of  sins ;  it  is  enough 
that  this  is  declared  by  God  to  be  the  medium 
through  which  my  salvation  is  effected." — Ata- 
gee  on  the  Atonement,  p.  29,  American  edition. 

With  these  declarations  we  entirely  agree. 


348 


THE   UNITARIAN    BELIEF. 


ternal  love  and  pity,  by  winning  examples 
of  the  transcendent  beauty  of  goodness, 
and,  most  of  all,  by  that  grand  consum- 
mation, DEATH,  E)y  that  exhibition  of 
the  curse  of  sin  in  which  Jesus  was 
made  a  curse  for  it,  by  that  compassion 
of  the  Holy  One  which  flowed  forth  in 
every  bleeding  wounJ,  by  that  .voice 
forever  sounding  through  the  world, 
"  Father  !  Father  !  forgive  them," 
Jesus  lias  brought  us  nigh  to  God.  Can 
it  be  thought  enthusiasm  to  say,  that 
there  is  no  blessing,  either  in  possession 
or  in  the  range  of  possibility,  to  be 
compared  with  this  ?  Does  not  reason 
itself  declare  that  all  the  harmonies  of 
moral  existence  are  broken,  if  the  great 
central,  all-attracting  Power,  be  not  ac- 
knowledged and  felt  ?  Without  God  —  to 
every  mind  that  has  awaked  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  its  nature  —  without  God 
life  is  miserable  ;  the  world  is  dark  ;  the 
universe  is  disrobed  of  its  splendors  ; 
the  intellectual  tie  to  nature  is  broken  ; 
the  charm  of  existence  is  dissolved  ;  the 
great  hope  of  being  is  lost ;  and  the 
mind  itself,  like  a  star  struck  from  its 
sphere,  wanders  through  the  infinite 
region  of  its  conceptions,  without  attrac- 
tion, tendency,  destin)-,  or  end.  "  With- 
out God  in  the  world  !  "  what  a  compre- 
hensive and  desolating  sentence  of  ex- 
clusion is  written  in  those  few  words  ! 
"Without  God  in  the  world!  "  It  is  to 
be  without  the  presence  of  the  Creator 
amidst  his  works,  of  the  Father  amidst  his 
family,  of  the  Being  who  has  spread  glad- 
ness and  beauty  all  around  us.  It  is  to 
be  without  spiritual  light,  without  any 
sure  guidance  or  strong  reliance,  without 
any  adequate  object  for  our  ever  expand- 
ing love,  without  any  sufficient  consoler 
for  our  deepest  sorrows,  without  any 
protector  when  the  world  joins  against 
us,  without  any  refuge  when  persecution 
pursues  to  death,  without  any  all-con- 
trolling principle,  without  the  chief  sanc- 
tion of  duty,  without  the  great  bond  of 
existence.  Oh  !  dark  and  fearful  in 
spirit  must  we  be,  poor  tremblers  upon 
a  bleak  and  desolate  creation,  deserted, 
despairing,    miserable    must  we    be,   if 


the  Power  that  controls  the  universe  is 
not  our  friend,  if  God  be  nothing  to  us 
but  a  mighty  and  dread  abstraction  to 
which  we  never  come  near  ;  if  God  be 
not  "  our  God,  and  our  exceeding  great 
reward  forever  !  "  This  is  the  fearful 
doom  that  is  reserved  in  the  gospel  of 
Christ.  .  This  the  fearful  condition  from 
which  it  was  his  great  design  to  deHver 
us.  For  this  end  it  was  that  he  died, 
that  he  might  bring  us  nigh  to  God. 
The  blood  of  martyrdom  is  precious  ; 
but  this  was  the  blood  of  a  holier  sacri- 
fice,—  of  innocence  pleading  for  guilt,  "of 
alamb  without  spotand  without  blemish, 
slain  from  the  foundation  of  the  world." 

But  we  must  pass  to  other  topics,  and 
the  space  that  remains  will  oblige  us  to 
give  them  severally  much  less  expansion 
in  this  briefstatement. 

III.  In  the  third  place,  then,  we  say, 
that  we  believe  in  human  depravity ; 
and  a  very  serious  and  saddening  belief 
it  is,  too,  that  we  hold  on  this  point.  We 
believe  in  the  very  great  depravity  of 
mankind,  in  the  exceeding  depravation 
of  human  nature.  We  believe  that  "  the 
heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things,  and 
desperately  wicked."  We  believe  all 
that  is  meant  when  it  is  said  of  the 
world  in  the  time  of  Noah,  that  "  all  the 
imaginations  of  men,  and  all  the  thoughts 
of  their  hearts,  were  evil,  and  only  evil 
continually."  We  believe  all  that  Paul 
meant  when  he  said,  speaking  of  the 
general  character  of  the  heathen  world 
in  his  time,  "  There  is  none  that  is 
righteous,  no,  not  one  ;  there  is  none 
that  understandeth,  there  is  none  that 
seeketh  after  God  ;  they  have  all  gone 
out  of  the  way,  there  is  none  that  doeth 
good,  or  is  a  doer  of  good,  no,  not  one  ; 
with  their  tongues  they  use  deceit,  and 
the  poison  of  asps  is  under  their  lips; 
whose  mouth  is  full  of  cursing  and  bitter- 
ness ;  and  the  way  of  peace  have  they 
not  known,  and  there  is  no  fear  of  God 
before  their  eyes."  We  believe  that 
this  was  not  intended  to  be  taken  with- 
out qualifications  ;  for  Paul,  as  we  shall 
soon  have  occasion  to  observe,  made 
qualifications.     It  was  true  in  the  gen- 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


349 


eral.  But  it  is  not  the  ancient  heathen 
world  alone  that  we  regard  as  filled 
with  evil  :  we  believe  that  the  world 
now,  taken  in  the  mass,  is  a  very,  a  ywj 
bad  world  ;  that  the  sinfulness  of  the 
world  is  dreadful  and  horrible  to  con- 
sider ;  that  the  nations  ought  to  be 
covered  with  sackcloth  and  mourning 
for  it  ;  that  they  are  filled  with  misery  by 
it.  Why,  can  any  man  look  abroad  upon 
the  countless  miseries  inflicted  bv  selfish- 
ness, dishonesty,  slander,  strife,  war; 
upon  the  boundless  woes  of  intemper- 
ance, libertinism,  gambling,  crime,  —  can 
any  man  look  upon  all  this,  with  the 
thousand  minor  diversities  and  shadings 
of  guilt  and  guilty  sorrow,  and  feel  that 
he  could  write  any  less  dreadful  sentence 
against  the  world  than  Paul  has  written  ? 
Not  believe  in  human  depravity;  great 
general,  dreadful  depravity !  Why,  a 
man  must  be  a  fool,  nay,  a  stock  or  a 
stone,  not  to  believe  in  it!  He  has  no 
eyes,  he  has  no  senses,  he  has  no  per- 
ceptions, if  he  refuses  to  believe  in  it  ! 

But  let  the  reader  of  this  exposition 
take  with  him  these  qualifications  ;  for 
although  it  is  popular,  strangely  popu- 
lar, to  speak  extravagantly  of  human 
wickedness,  we  shall  not  endeavor  to 
gain  any  man's  good  opinion  by  that 
means. 

First,  it  is  not  the  depravity  of  na- 
ture in  which  we  believe.  Human  na- 
ture, nature  as  it  exists  in  the  bosom  of 
an  infant,  is  nothing  else  but  capabil- 
ity ;  capability  of  good  as  well  as  evil, 
though  more  likely  from  its  exposures 
to  be  evil  than  good.  It  is  not  the  de- 
pravity, then,  but  the  depravation  of 
nature,  in  which   we  believe. 

Secondly,  it  is  not  in  the  unlimited 
application  of  Paul's  language  that  we 
believe.  When  he  said,  "  No,  not  one," 
he  did  not  mean  to  say,  without  qualifi- 
cation, that  there  was  not  one  good  man 
in  the  world.  He  believed  that  there 
were  good  men.  He  did  not  mean  to 
s^y,  that  there  was  not  one  good  man 
in  the  heathen  world  ;  for  he  speaks  in 
another  place  of  those  who,  "  not  hav- 
ing the  law,  were  a  law  to  themselves, 


and  by  nature  did  those  things  which 
are  written  in  the  law."  Paul  meant, 
doubtless,  to  say,  that  the  world  is  a 
very  bad  world,  and  in  this  we  believe. 

Neither,  thirdly,  do  we  believe  in 
what  is  technically  called  "  total  de- 
pravity," that  is  to  say,  a  total  and 
absolute  destitution  of  everything  right, 
even  in  bad  men.  No  such  critical  ac- 
curacy do  we  believe  that  the  Apostle 
ever  affected,  or  ever  thought  of  affect- 
ing. A  very  bad  child  may  sometimes 
love  his  parents,  and  be  melted  into 
great  tenderness  towards  them  ;  and  so 
a  mind  estranged  from  God  may  some- 
times tenderly  feel  his  goodness. 

Finally,  we  would  not  portray  human 
wickedness  without  the  deepest  con- 
sideration and  pity  for  it.  Alas  !  how 
badly  is  man  educated,  how  sadly  is  he 
deluded,  how  ignorant  is  he  of  himself, 
how  little  does  he  perceive  the  great 
love  of  God  to  him,  which,  if  he  were 
rightly  taught  to  see  it,  might  melt  him 
into  tenderness  and  penitence.  Let  us 
have  some  patience  with  human  na- 
ture till  it  is  less  cruelly  abused.  Let  us 
pity  the  sad  and  dark  struggle  that  is 
passing  in  many  hearts,  between  good 
and  evil  ;  and,  though  evil  so  often 
gains  the  ascendancy,  still  let  us  pity, 
while  we  blame  it  ;  and  while  we  speak 
to  it  in  the  solemn  language  of  repro- 
bation and  warning,  let  us  "  tell  these 
things,"  as  Paul  did,  "  even  weeping." 

IV.  From  this  depraved  condition, 
we  believe,  in  the  fourth  place,  that 
men  are  to  be  recovered,  by  a  pro- 
cess which  is  termed,  in  the  Scrip- 
tures, regeneration.  We  believe  in 
regeneration,  or  the  new  birth.  Th^t 
is  to  say,  we  believe,  not  in  all  the 
ideas  which  men  have  annexed  to  those 
words,  but  in  what  we  understand  the 
sacred  writers  to  mean  by  them.  We 
believe  that,  "except  a  man  be  born 
again,  he  cannot  see  the  'kingdom  of 
God  ;  "  that  "  he  must  be  new  created 
in  Christ  Jesus  ;  "  that  "  old  things  must 
pass  away,  and  all  things  become  new  " 
We  certainly  think  that  these  phrases 
applied  with  peculiar  force  to  the  con- 


ISO 


THE   UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


dition  of  people  who  were  not  only  to 
be  converted  from  their  sins,  but  from 
the  very  forms  of  religion  in  which  they 
had  been  brought  up  ;  and  we  know 
indeed  that  the  phrase  "  new  birth " 
did,  according  to  the  usage  of  language 
in  those  days,  apply  especially  to  the 
bare  fact  of  proselytism.  But  we  be- 
lieve that  men  are  still  to  be  converted 
from  their  sins,  and  that  this  is  a  change 
of  the  most  urgent  necessity  and  of  the 
most  unspeakable  importance. 

The  application  of  this  doctrine,  too, 
is  nearly  universal.  Some,  like  Samuel 
of  old,  may  have  grown  up  to  piety  from 
their  earliest  childhood,  and  it  may  be 
hoped  that  the  number  of  such,  through 
the  means  of  more  faithful  education, 
is  increasing.  But  we  confess  that  we 
understand  nothing  of  that  romantic 
dream  of  the  innocence  of  childhood. 
There  are  few  children  who  do  not  need 
to  be  "  converted  ;  "  from  selfishness  to 
disinterestedness,  from  the  sullenness  or 
violence  of  crossed  passions  to  meek- 
ness and  submission,  from  the  dislike 
to  the  love  of  piety  and  pious  exercises ; 
from  the  habits  of  a  sensual  to  the  ef- 
forts of  a  rationnl  and  spiritual  nature. 
Childhood  is,  indeed,  often  pure,  com- 
pared with  what  commonly  follows,  but 
still  it  needs  a  change.  And  that  which 
does  commonly  follow  is  a  character 
which  needs  to  be  essentially  changed 
in  order  to  prepare  the  soul  for  happi- 
ness in  heaven. 

Now  there  is  usually  a  time  in  the 
hfe  of  every  devoted  Christian  when 
this  change  commences.  We  say  not, 
a  moment  ;  for  it  is  impossible  so  to  date 
moral  experiences.  But  there  is  a  time 
when  the  work  is  resolutely  begun.  Be- 
gun, we  say  ;  for  it  cannot  in  any  brief 
space  be  completed.  How  soon  it  may 
be  so  far  completed  as  to  entitle  its 
subject  to  hope  for  future  happiness, 
it  is  neither  easy  nor  material  to  say. 
But  to  aver  that  it  may  be  done  in  a 
moment  is  a  doctrine  of  which  it  is 
difficult  to  say  whether  it  is,  in  our 
view,  more  unscriptural,  extravagant,  or 
dangerous. 


With  such  qualifications  and  guards, 
authorized  by  tlie  laws  of  sound  criti- 
cism, we  believe  in  regeneration  ;  and 
we  beHeve  that  the  spirit  of  God  is 
offered  to  aid,  in  this  great  work,  the 
weakness  of  human  endeavor. 

V.  We  believe,  too,  in  the  fifth  place, 
in  the  doctrine  of  election.  This  is  to 
say,  again,  we  believe  in  what  the  Scrip- 
tures, as  we  understand  them,  mean  by 
that  word. 

The  time  has  been,  when,  not  the  in- 
trinsic importance  of  this  doctrine,  but 
the  stress  laid  upon  it,  would  have  re- 
quired that  we  should  give  it  consider- 
able space  in  this  summary  view.  Our 
good  old  Arminian  fathers  fought  with 
it  for  many  a  weary  day.  It  was  the 
great  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of 
the  last  generation.  And,  during  our 
time,  it  has  been  held,  firmly  and  by 
many  hands,  in  its  place,  as  one  of  the 
essential  foundations  of  faith.  But, 
within  a  few  years  past,  it  has  come  to 
be  almost  entirely  overlooked  ;  many 
preachers  have  almost  ceased  to  direct 
attention  to  it ;  and  many  hearers  are 
left  to  wonder  what  has  become  of  it, 
and  why  it  ever  occupied  a  situation 
so  conspicuous.  Would  that  the  his- 
tory of  it  might  be  a  lesson  ! 

The  truth  is,  that  the  doctrine  of 
election  is  a  matter  either  of  scholas- 
tic subtilty  or  of  presumptuous  curi- 
osity, with  which,  as  we  apprehend,  we 
have  but  a  very  little  to  do.  Secret 
things  belong  to  God.  We  believe  in 
what  the  Bible  teaches  of  God's  infinite 
and  eternal  foreknowledge.  We  believe 
that,  of  all  the  events  and  actions  which 
take  place  in  the  universe  of  worlds, 
and  the  eternal  succession  of  ages,  there 
is  not  one,  not  the  minutest,  which  God 
did  not  forever  foresee,  with  all  the 
distinctness  of  immediate  vision.  It  is 
a  sublime  truth.  But  it  is  a  truth,  which 
the  moment  we  undertake  to  analyze 
and  apply,  we  are  confounded  in  igno- 
rance, and  lost  in  wonder.  We  believe, 
but  we  would  take  care  that  we  do  not 
presumptuously  believe.  We  believe  in 
election,  not  in  selection.     We  believe 


THE    UNITARIAN   BELIEF. 


351 


in  foreknowledge,  not  in  fate.  We  be- 
lieve in  the  boundless  wisdom  of  God, 
but  not  less  in  the  weakness  of  our  own 
comprehension.  We  believe  that  his 
thoughts  are  not  as  our  thoughts,  and 
that  his  ways  are  not  as  our  ways,  and 
his  counsels  are  not  as  our  counsels, 
and  his  decrees  are  not  as  our  decrees. 
For  as  the  heavens  are  high  above  the 
earth,  so  is  he  above  the  reach  of  our 
frail  and  finite  understanding. 

VI.  In  the  sixth  place,  we  believe  in 
a  future  state  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments. We  believe  that  sin  must  ever 
produce  misery,  and  that  holiness  must 
ever  produce  happiness.  We  believe 
that  there  is  good  for  the  good,  and  evil 
for  the  evil ;  and  that  these  are  to  be 
dispensed  exactly  in  proportion  to  the 
degree  in  which  the  good  or  evil  quali- 
ties prevail. 

The  language  of  Scripture,  and  all 
the  language  of  Scripture,  on  this  solemn 
subject,  we  have  no  hesitation  aliout 
using,  in  the  sense  in  which  it  was 
originally  meant  to  be  understood.  But 
there  has  been  that  attempt  to  give  def- 
initeness  to  the  indefinite  language  of 
the  Bible  on  this  subject,  to  measure  the 
precise  extent  of  those  words  which 
spread  the  vastness  of  the  unknown 
futurity  before  us  ;  and  with  this  sys- 
tem of  artificial  criticism,  the  popular 
ignorance  of  Oriental  figures  and  met- 
aphors has  so  combined  to  fix  a  specific 
meaning  on  the  phraseology  in  question, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  use  it  without  con- 
stant explanation.  "  Life  everlasting," 
and  "  everlasting  fire,"  the  mansions 
of  rest,  and  the  worm  that  never  dieth, 
are  phrases  fraught  with  a  just  and  rea- 
sonable, but,  at  the  same  time,  vast  and 
indefinite  import.  They  are  too  ob- 
viously figurative  to  permit  us  to  found 
definite  and  literal  statements  upon 
them.  And  it  is  especially  true  of 
those  figures  and  phrases  that  are  used 
to  describe  future  misery,  that  there  is 
not  one  which  is  not  also  used  in  the 
Bible  to  describe  things  earthly,  limited, 
and  temporary. 

So   confident    in   their    opinions   are 


men  made  by  education  and  the  current 
belief,  that  they  can  scarcely  think  it 
possible  that  the  words  of  Scripture 
should  have  any  other  meaning  than 
that  which  they  assign  to  them.  And 
they  are  ready,  and  actually  feel  as  if 
they  had  a  right,  to  ask  those  who  differ 
from  them  to  give  up  the  Bible  alto- 
gether. Nay,  they  go  so  far  sometimes 
as  to  aver,  in  the  honesty  and  blindness 
of  their  prejudices,  that  their  opponents 
have  given  up  the  Bible,  and  have  gi\ien 
up  all  thoughts  of  trying  the  questions 
at  issue  by  that  standard.  We  have  an 
equal  right  certainly  to  return  the  exhor- 
tation and  to  retort  the  charge.  At  any 
rate,  we  can  accept  neither.  We  be- 
lieve in  the  Scriptures  as  heartily  as 
any  others,  and,  as  we  think,  more 
justly.  We  believe  in  all  that  they 
teach  on  this  subject,  and  in  all  they 
teach   on  any  subject. 

We  believe,  then,  in  a  heaven  and  a 
hell.  We  believe  that  there  is  more  to 
be  feared  hereafter  than  any  man  ever 
feared,  and  more  to  be  hoped  than  any 
man  ever  hoped.  We  believe  that 
heaven  is  more  glorious,  and  that  hell 
is  more  dreadful,  than  any  man  ever 
conceived.  We  believe  that  the  con- 
sequences both  in  this  world  and  an- 
other, that  the  consequences  to  every 
man,  of  any  evil  habits  he  forms, 
whether  of  feeling  or  action,  run  far 
beyond  Iiis  most  fearful  anticipations. 
Are  mankind  yet  so  gross  in  their  con- 
ceptions that  outward  images  convey 
the  most  transporting  ideas  they  have 
of  happiness,  and  the  most  tremendous 
ideas  they  have  of  misery  ?  Is  a  celes- 
tial city  all  that  they  understand  by 
heaven  ?  Let  them  know  that  there  is 
a  heaven  of  the  mind,  a  heaven  of  tried 
and  confirmed  virtue,  a  heaven  of  holy 
contemplation,  so  rapturous,  that  all 
ideas  of  place  are  transcended,  are 
almost  forgotten  in  its  ecstasy.  Is  a 
world  of  elemental  fires  and  bodily 
torments  all  that  they  understand  by 
hell  ?  Let  them  consider,  that  a  hell  of 
the  mind,  the  hell  of  an  inwardly  gnaw- 
ing and  burning  conscience,  the  hell  of 


352 


THE   UNITARIAN    BELIEF. 


remorse  and  mental  agony,  may  be 
more  horrible  than  fire  and  brimstone, 
and  the  blackness  of  darkness  forever  ! 
Yes,  the  crushing  mountains,  the  fold- 
ing darkness,  the  consuming  fire,  might 
be  welcomed,  if  they  could  bury,  or 
hide,  or  sear  the  guilty  and  agonized 
passions,  which,  while  they  live,  must 
forever  and  forever  burn,  and  blacken, 
and  blast  the  soul  ;  which,  while  they 
live,  must  forever  and  forever  crush  it 
do«vn  to  untold  and  unutterable  misery. 

VII.  Once  more,  and  finally:  we 
believe  in  the  supreme  and  all-absorb- 
ing importance  of  religion. 

There  is  nothing  more  astonishing  to 
us  than  the  freedom  of  language  which 
we  sometimes  hear  used  on  this  sub- 
ject ;  the  bold  and  confident  tone  with 
which  it  is  said  that  there  is  no  religion 
among  us,  nothing  but  flimsy  and  fine 
sentiment,  passing  under  the  name  of 
religion.  We  are  ready  to  ask,  What  is 
religion  in  the  hearts  of  men,  what  are 
its  sources  and  fountains,  when  they 
can  so  easily  deny  it  to  the  hearts  of 
others  ?  We  are  inclined  to  use  no 
severity  of  retort,  on  this  affecting 
theme  ;  else  the  observation  of  life 
might  furnish  us  with  some  trying  ques- 
tions for  the  uncharitable  to  consider. 
But  we  will  only  express  the  simple  as- 
tonishment we  feel  at  such  treatment. 
We  will  only  say  again,  and  say  it  more 
in  wonder  than  in  anger,  What  must 
religion  be  in  others,  what  can  be  its 
kindness,  and  tenderness,  and  peace, 
and  preciousness,  when  they  are  so 
ready  to  rise  up  from  its  blessed  affec- 
tions to  the  denial  of  its  existence  in 
the  hearts  of  their  brethren  ? 

We  repeat,  then,  that  we  believe  in 
the  supreme  and  all-absorbing  impor- 
tance of  religion.  "  What  shall  it  profit 
a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  own  soul  ? "  is  to  us  the  most 
undeniable  of  all  arguments  ;  "  What 
shall  I  do  to  be  saved  '?  "  the  most  rea- 
sonable and  momentous  of  all  questions ; 
"  God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner  !  "  the 
most  affecting  of  all  prayers.  The  soul's 
concern    is   the    great    concern.      The 


interests  of  experimental,  vital,  practi- 
cal religion,  are  the  great  interests  of 
our  being.  No  language  can  be  too 
strong,  no  language  can  be  strong 
enough,  to  give  them  due  expression. 
No  anxiety  is  too  deep,  no  care  too 
heedful,  no  effort  too  earnest,  no  prayer 
too  importunate,  to  be  bestowed  upon 
this  almost  infinite  concern  of  the  soul's 
purification,  piety,  virtue,  and  welfare. 
No  labor  of  life  should  be  undertaken, 
no  journey  pursued,  no  business  trans- 
acted, no  pleasure  enjoyed,  no  activity 
employed,  no  rest  indulged  in,  without 
ultimate  reference  to  that  great  end  of 
our  being.  Without  it,  life  has  no  suffi- 
cient object,  and  death  has  no  hope, 
and  eternity  no  promise. 

What  more  shall  we  say  ?  Look  at 
it ;  look  at  this  inward  being,  and  say, 
what  is  it  ?  Formed  by  the  Almighty 
hand,  and  therefore  formed  for  some 
purpose;  built  up  in  its  proportions, 
fashioned  in  every  part,  by  infinite  skill ; 
an  emanation,  breathed  from  the  spirit 
of  God  ;  say,  what  is  it."*  Its  nature,  its 
necessity,  its  design,  its  destiny  ;  what 
is  it?  So  formed  it  is,  so  builded,  so 
fashioned,  so  exactly  balanced,  and  so 
exquisitely  touched  in  every  part,  that 
sin  introduced  into  it  is  the  direst 
misery  ;  that  every  unholy  thought  falls 
upon  it  as  a  drop  of  poison  ;  that  every 
guilty  desire,  breathing  upon  any  deli- 
cate part  or  fibre  of  the  soul,  is  the 
plague  spot  of  evil,  the  blight  of 
death.  Made,  then,  is  it  for  virtue,  not 
for  sin  ;  oh  !  not  for  sin,  for  that  is 
death  ;  but  made  for  virtue,  for  purity, 
as  its  end,  its  rest,  its  bliss  ;  made  thus 
by  God  Almighty. 

Thou  canst  not  alter  it.  Go  and  bid 
the  mountain  walls  sink  down  to  the  level 
of  the  valleys  ;  go  and  stand  upon  the 
seashore  and  turn  back  its  swelling 
waves  ;  or  stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and 
hold  the  stars  in  their  courses  ;  but  not 
more  vain  shall  be  thy  power  to  change 
them  than  it  is  to  change  one  of  the 
laws  of  thy  nature.  Then  thou  f/tust  be 
virtuous.  As  true  it  is  as  if  the  whole 
universe  spoke  in  one  voice,  thou  must 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


353 


be  virtuons.  If  thou  art  a  sinner,  thou 
"must  be  born  again."  If  thou  art 
tempted,  thou  must  resist.  If  thou  hast 
guilty  passions,  thou  must  deny  them. 
If  thou  art  a  bad  man,  thou  must  be  a 
good  man. 

There  is  the  law.  It  is  notour  law;  it 
is  not  our  voice  that  speaks.  It  is  the 
law  of  God  Almighty  ;  it  is  the  voice  of 
God  that  speaks  ;  speaks  through  every 
nerve  and  fibre,  through  every  power 
and  element  of  that  moral  constitution 
which  he  has  given.  It  is  the  voice, 
not  of  an  arbitrary  will,  nor  of  some 
stern  and  impracticable  law,  that  is  now  I 


abrogated.  "  For  \\\t grace  of  God,  that 
hatli  appeared  to  all  men,  teaches,  that, 
denying  all  ungodliness  and  every 
worldly  lust,  they  must  live  soberly,  and 
righteously,  and  godly  in  this  present  evil 
world."  So  let  us  live  ;  and  then  tliis 
life,  with  all  its  momentous  scenes,  its 
moving  experiences,  and  its  precious  in- 
terests, shall  be  but  the  beginning  of  the 
wonders  and  glories  and  joys  of  oure.xist- 
ence.  So  let  us  live,  and  let  us  think 
this,  that  to  live  thus,  is  the  great,  urgent, 
instant,  unutterable,  all-absorbing  con- 
cern of  our  life  and  of  our  being. 


ON    THE    NATURE   OF    RELIGIOUS    BELIEF; 


WITH    INFERENCES    CONCERNING   DOUBT,    DECISION,    CONFIDENCE 
AND    THE    TRIAL    OF    FAITH. 


I. 

I  CoR.  xiii.  12  :    "  Now  I  know  in  part." 

It  is  of  some  importance,  I  think  it 
is  of  no  little  importance,  that  we  should 
entertain  just  ideas  of  the  nature  of  re- 
ligious belief.  To  this  subject  therefore, 
and  especially  with  a  view  to  consider 
some  difficulties  and  to  meet  some  prac- 
tical questions,  I  wish,  at  present,  to  in- 
vite your  attention. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  may  be 
observed  in  general,  that  religious  belief 
is  essentially  of  the  same  nature  as 
moral  belief.  Inform  they  differ;  but 
in  substance  they  are  the  same.  The 
commondistinction  between  Religion  and 
Morals,  as  totally  different  things,  is  as 
erroneous  in  principle  as  it  is  injurious  in 
its  effects.  Both  have  their  root  in  the 
same  great  original  sense  of  rectitude, 
which  God  has  impressed  on  our  nature, 
and  without  which  we  should  not  be 
men.  By  religion  we  mean  our  duty 
to  God  ;  and  by  morals,  our  duty  to 
men  :  and  both  are  bound  upon  us  by 
the  same  essential  reason, —  that  they  are 


right.  Or  they  are,  respectively,  the 
love  of  God,  and  the  love  of  men  ;  and 
both,  in  their  highest  character,  are  a 
love  of  the  same  goodness.  Piety  and 
philanthropy  are  essentially  of  the 
same  nature.  The  Bible  appeals  to 
both  alike,  and  it  does  not  sever,  but  it 
binds  them  together ;  summing  up  all 
its  commandments  in  these  two:  "  Thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself;  " 
and  saying  emphatically,  "He  that  loveth 
not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how 
can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not 
seen  ?  " 

Further:  as  the  original  grounds  of 
conviction,  so  the  steps  by  which  we 
arrive  at  our  conclusions  in  both  of  these 
spheres  of  duty,  are  essentially  the  same. 
The  steps  are  steps  of  reasoning.  The 
Bible  teaches  morals  and  religion  alike, 
and  teaches  them  in  the  same  way  ;  and 
we  arrive  at  its  meaning  in  both  by  the 
same  means ;  viz.,  by  that  process  of 
reasoning  called  criticism.  There  is 
not  one  kind  of  criticism  to  be  applied 
to  those  texts  which  teach  the  love  of 


23 


354 


TFIE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


God,  and  another  to  those  which  teach 
the  love  of  man ;  there  is  the  same  pro- 
cess of  reasoning  in  both  cases.  And 
so  in  Natural  Theology,  and  Moral  Phi- 
losophy, alike,  we  begin  with  certain 
original  truths  in  the  mind,  and  proceed 
to  deduce  certain  duties  ;  and  in  both 
cases,  the  process  of  reasoning  is,  in 
kind,  the  same. 

But  now  the  material  question,  and 
that  to  which  I  have  been  endeavoring 
to  bring  you,  is  this  ;  What  kind  of  rea- 
soning is  it  ?  And  the  answer  is  plain  ; 
It  is  that  kind  of  reasoning  which  is  usu- 
ally called  moral  reasoning.  It  is  com- 
monly defined,  simply  by  being  distin- 
guished from  mathematical  reasoning. 
That  is  to  say,  it  is  not  like  a  mathemat- 
ical deduction, —  infallible;  it  is  not  at- 
tended with  a  feeling  of  certainty,  but 
only  of  belief. 

But  still  we  must  distinguish  ;  for  it 
is  important  to  observe  that  the  differ- 
ence of  which  we  speak  relates  only  to 
deductions ;  not  at  all  io  principles.  The 
original  principles  of  religion  and  morals 
are  certain.  They  are  as  certain  as  any 
other  principles  ;  as  certain  as  the  prin- 
ciples on  which  mathematical  science  is 
founded.  They  are  not  matters  of  be- 
lief at  all,  but  matters  of  absolute  knowl- 
edge. Though  not  in  religious  belief, 
accurately  speaking,  yet  in  religion, 
there  are  absolute  certainties.  I  am  as 
sure  that  I  have  a  conscience  and  a  re- 
ligious nature  ;  I  am  as  sure,  again,  that 
benevolence  and  other  moral  qualities 
are  right;  and  I  am  as  sure  that  my  na- 
ture is  constituted  to  approve  and  love 
them,  wherever  they  appear,  in  man  or 
in  God,  —  as  I  am  of  my  own  existence 
and  identity,  or  as  I  am  that  my  nature 
is  constituted  to  assent  to  the  truth  of 
any  mathematical  axioms.  It  is  important 
to  say  this,  because  the  distinction 
commonly  made  between  mathematical 
and  moral  reasonings  may  be  carelessly 
extended  so  as  to  cover  more  ground 
than  belongs  to  it.  For  the  basis  of  the 
mathematics  is  not  more  certain  and 
irrefragable  than  the  basis  of  morals. 

But  the   moment   we  take  one   step 


from  that  basis,  from  those  first  princi- 
ples, and  enter  upon  deductions,  it  is 
agreed  by  all  reasoners  that  a  marked 
and  essential  diflFerence  obtains.  In 
the  mathematics,  every  step  of  the  de- 
duction is  as  certain  as  the  principle 
from  which  it  started.  In  moral  rea- 
sonings, it  is  not  so.  The  ideas  in- 
volved in  these  reasonings  are  not  so 
definite,  the  terms  not  so  clear,  and  the 
result  is,  by  no  means,  so  unerring. 
The  steps  of  moral  deduction,  of  philo- 
logical criticism,  are  not  steps  of  dem- 
onstration. But  these  are  the  steps 
that  lead  to  religious  belief,  that  con- 
duct to  a  creed.  A  creed  is  not  a 
certainty,  but  a  belief.  Put  any  cer- 
tainty into  a  creed,  and  the  absurdity 
would  at  once  be  felt.  No  one  could 
gravely  stand  up  and  say,  "  I  believe  in 
my  own  existence  ;  I  believe  in  my 
identity  ;  I  believe  that  I  ought  to 
be  a  good  man."  These  are  matters 
of  certainty  ;  but  the  propositions  of 
a  creed  are  matters  of  logical  in- 
ference. The  seal  upon  it  is  not 
absolute  consciousness,  but  religious 
conviction.  The  scale  on  which  that 
conviction  is  marked  is  the  scale  of 
probability.  I  use  this  term,  probabil- 
ity, I  ought  to  say,  in  the  technical 
sense  which  moral  reasoners  assign  to 
it,  which  is  stronger  and  more  definite 
than  the  popular  sense.  I  use  it  as 
simply  opposed  to  certainty.  On  the 
scale  of  probability,  or  of  moral  reason- 
ing, in  other  words,  belief  often  rises, 
no  doubt,  almost  to  certainty.  But  it 
never,  strictly  speaking,  arrives  at  that 
point.  It  is  never  absolute  certainty  ; 
it  is  never  perfect  knowledge.  For 
"we  know  in  part,"  says  the  Apostle. 

From  these  views,  I  am  not  aware 
that  any  intelligent  moral  or  religious 
reasoners  dissent.  The  distinction  is 
familiar  in  all  the  standard  writers,  and 
may  be  considered  as  the  settled  judg- 
ment of  all  who  are  competent  to  form 
an  opinion  on  the  subject.  Moral  evi- 
dence is  not  demonstration.  Belief  is 
not  knowledge.  Believing  a  thing  to 
be  true  is  not  knowing  it  to  be  true. 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


355 


Not  to  dwell  longer,  then,  upon  a 
point  so  plain,  and  so  universally  con- 
ceded, my  further  purpose  is  to  offer 
some  remarks  upon  this  admitted  nature 
of  religious  belief. 

I.  My  first  remirk  is,  if  the  view 
presented  be  just,  that  it  is  common  to 
assign,in  some  respects,  a  veryinjurious 
and  unwarrantable  importance  to  doubts. 

Doubts  enter  into  the  very  processes 
by  which  we  arrive  at  belief.  Nay, 
they  enter  into  the  very  nature  of  belief 
itself.  They  constitute  a  pirt  of  it,  Ijy 
very  definition.  Beheving  is  doubting, 
to  a  certain  extent.  Believing  and 
doubting  are  correlative  terms.  They 
are  co-essential  elements.  "  We  know' 
in  part."  That  is  to  say,  our  knowledge 
is  imperfect.  But  imperfect  knowledge 
implies  uncertainty.  And  uncertainty 
is  doubt. 

But  the  prevalent  feeling  and  policy 
of  the  Christian  world  has  been  to  beat 
down  and  destroy  doubts.  It  has  given 
them  no  quarter.  It  has  allowed  them 
no  place  in  the  theory  of  its  creeds, 
though  those  creeds  have  begun  with 
the  phrase  "  I  believe  ; "  not  "  I  know," 
but  "  I  believe."  And  tliis  tendency  of 
the  public  opinion  and  practice  of  the 
churches  has  had  the  effect  -  I  wish  it 
may  be  considered — to  give  not  only  an 
unwarrantable,  but  a  most  injurious,  im- 
portance to  doubts.  Its  effect  has  been, 
not  only  to  rend  the  bosom  of  the 
cliurch,  to  cast  out  many  honest  and 
virtuous  men  from  it,  to  make  a  new 
sect  for  every  new  doubt,  but,  I  fear,  to 
make  many,  who  might  have  been  pre- 
served from  that  result,  infidels.  Doubt, 
I  say,  has  derived  a  factitious  impor- 
tance from  this  universal  persecution. 
That  portion  of  evidence  which  leads  a 
man  to  doubt  has  been  held  by  him  to 
deserve  more  attention  than  that  which 
leads  him  to  believe.  One  fraction  of 
doubt  has  weighed  with  him  more  than 
nine  parts  of  evidence  in  favor  of 
Christianity  ;  and  he  lias  become  an  un- 
believer, we  may  say,  against  his  own 
convictions.  It  is  an  independent  and 
honest   mind,   too,  —  which    makes  the 


case  a  more  unfortunate  one,  —  that  is 
especially  liable  to  be  carried  away  by 
this  fallacy.  Sucii  an  one,  afraid  cf 
everything  implicit  and  traditional  in 
faith,  says,  "  I  have  a  doubt ;  I  must 
be  fair  and  impartial  ;  I  must  be  true  to 
my  convictions  ;  I  must  assent  to  nothing 
from  fear  or  favor  ;  I  have  a  doubt,''''  this 
man  says,  ''  and  how  can  I  say  I  believe, 
so  long  as  I  doubt  ?  "  But  why,  let  me 
ask  in  turn,  should  he  pay  this  sort  of 
homage  to  a  mere  negative  conviction  .'' 
What  is  there  in  a  doubt,  —  that  is  to  say, 
what  is  there  in  a  reason  agai/ist  that 
is  to  be  treated  with  so  much  more  con- 
sideration tlian  in  a  xtasonfor  ?  Why 
should  not  this  man  say,  though  he  may 
noi  feel  that  the  argument  is  perfectly  sat- 
isfactory, though  he  mayhe  troubled  with 
doubts,  —  why  should  he  not  say,  "  I  have 
twice  as  much  evidence  for  the  Bible  and 
a  future  life  as  I  have  against  them,  and 
how  can  I  doubt  so  long  as  I  have  that 
evidence?"  I  am  sure  this  conclu- 
sion would  be  twice  as  rational  as  the 
other  ;  and  I  am  certain  that  the  spirit 
of  this  conclusion  would  have  saved  many 
from  unbelief.  But  we  do  not  ask  so 
much  as  we  have  asked,  in  form,  and 
by  way  of  rejoinder.  We  do  not  ask, 
we  have  no  right,  as  advocates  or  apol- 
ogists for  Christianity,  to  ask  the  man 
who  hesitates,  to  say  that  he  has  no 
doubts  ;  but  we  do  ask,  and  have  in 
reason  a  right  to  ask,  that  he  should 
yield  his  mind,  not  to  any  assumed 
power  or  importance  of  doubt,  but  to  the 
preponderance  of  evidence. 

Beside  the  doubt  about  Christianity, 
there  is  another  which  may  be  considered 
as  a  part  of  it,  but  which,  I  think  de- 
mands a  distinct  notice  ;  and  that  is  the 
doubt  about  a  future  life.  Thisisadoubt 
which  is  much  more  frequently  felt  than 
expressed.  You  will  always  observe, 
when  it  is  expressed,  that  it  is  done  with 
great  reluctance  and  caution,  —  with  a 
feeling  almost  as  if  a  crime  were  con- 
fessed ;  and  with  a  feeling,  too,  as  if  the 
matter  of  the  confession  were  quite  as 
peculiar  to  the  individual  confessing  as 
it  is  painful  to  him. 


3S6 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


Now  the  difficulty  here  arises  from  our 
not  sufficiently  considering  the  nature  of 
moral  evidence,  the  nature  of  religious 
Ijclief.  It  would  relieve  us,  to  be  at  once 
more  frank  and  rational,  instead  of  wrap- 
ping up  the  matter  like  a  dark  secret  in 
the  cloud  of  our  speculative  misappre- 
hensions. The  truth  is,  that  in  doubt 
on  this  point,  there  is  nothing  very 
strange.  It  belongs  to  more  minds  than 
you  may  imagine.  It  must  belong, 
more  or  less,  to  all  minds.  It  enters 
into  the  very  nature  of  our  belief  in  a 
future  state.  For  that  behef  is  not  cer- 
tainty. The  point  in  question,  is  not 
the  subject  of  intuition.  No  man  ever 
saw  the  world  of  departed  spirits.  All 
the  views  and  convictions  that  any  man 
has  or  can  have  about  it  fall  short  of 
actual  knowledge.  We  believe,  indeed, 
in  the  divine  mission  of  Christ.  We 
believe,  too,  in  the  mercy  of  God,  and 
should  entertain  some  hope  of  a  future 
life  even  on  the  general  ground  of  Natu- 
ral Theology.  We  see  not,  moreover, 
how  the  scene  of  this  life  can  be  cleared 
up,  how  the  great  plan  of  things  can  be 
made  consistent  or  tolerable,  without  a 
future  scene.  And  on  all  these  accounts 
we  have  a  strong  faith  in  futurity.  But 
to  say  that  this  faith  has  passed  beyond 
every  shadow  of  doubt  is  to  say  more 
than  is  true,  more  than  can  be  reason- 
ably demanded  of  faith. 

Now  this  shadow,  sometimes  pass- 
ing over  the  mind,  —  why  should  it  chill, 
or  darken,  or  distress  any  one,  as  if 
it  were  something  portentous,  or,  in  fact 
anything  extraordinary  ?  Certainty, 
it  is  true,  would  be  grateful.  Uncer- 
t  linty  is  painful  ;  though  it  is  also,  I 
tliink,  and  will  yet  attempt  to  show,  use- 
ful. It  is  painful,  however,  I  confess,  in 
proportion  as  it  is  great.  But  this  is  what 
I  say  :  it  is  not  at  all  surprising.  It  is 
a  part  of  our  dispensation.  Some  clouds 
are  between  us  and  those  ever  bright 
regions  in  whose  existence  we  fully 
believe.  So  God  has  willed  it  to  be. 
We  see  through  a  glass  darkly.  We 
walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight.  We 
long  for   a    sight   of  those    regions    of 


existence  in  which  we  are  to  live ;  but 
it  has  not  pleased  God  to  give  us  that 
vision. 

And  the  point  that  I  would  urge  is, 
that  we  should  not  give  any  undue  im- 
portance to  this  lack  of  vision,  or  of 
certainty.  We  should  do  most  unwisely 
and  unnecessarily  to  magnify  the  im- 
portance of  this  doubt,  by  considering 
it  as  anything  peculiar  or  awful  or 
criminal.  It  is  painful,  indeed,  but  not 
wonderful.  It  is  painful  ;  but  the  pain, 
like  all  the  pains  of  our  moral  imperfec- 
tion, is  an  element  of  improvement  ; 
and  it  is  to  be  removed  by  reflection, 
by  prayer,  by  self-purification.  To  the 
*mind  rightly  thinking  and  feeling,  the 
evidence  of  immortality  is  growing  con- 
tinually stronger  and  stronger.  Already 
with  some  it  touches  upon  the  borders 
of  certainty.  So  may  it  do  with  every 
one  who  hears  me.  And  the  direction 
to  be  given  for  every  one's  guidance  is, 
not  to  stumble  at  doubt,  but  to  press  on 
to  certainty.  And  I  hold  and  firmly 
believe  that  an  assurance,  all  but  vision, 
is  just  as  certainly  at  the  end  of  the  pro- 
cess, with  every  right  mind,  as  complete 
demonstration  is  at  the  end  of  every 
true  theorem  in  science. 

This  undue  importance  attached  to 
doubts  becomes  a  still  more  serious 
matter  when  it  affects,  not  only  a  man's 
opinions,  but  his  practice.  Do  not 
many  neglect  to  lead  a  strictly  virtuous 
and  religious  life  on  this  plea  of  uncer- 
tainty about  the  result?  Is  it  not,  at 
least,  the  plea  which  the  heart  secretly 
offers  to  justify  its  indolence  or  indiffer- 
ence ?  A  man  says  with  himself,  "  I  do 
not  know  wliat  is  the  right  way,  there 
are  so  many  disputes  about  it  ;  "  and 
he  thinks  that  an  apology  for  his  neglect 
of  the  whole  subject.  Or  he  says,  per- 
haps, "  I  do  not  k?iow  that  the  Bible  is 
true  ;  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any 
future  life,  or  that  there  is  any  retribu- 
tion hereafter.  If  I  did  know  it,  I 
should  act  upon  my  knowledge  ;  but 
the  fact  is,  there  is  no  certainty  abput 
these  matters,  and  therefore  I  shall  give 
myself  no   trouble  about  them."     Now, 


THE   NATURE      OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


357 


to  justify  this  conclusion,  he  should  be 
able  to  say,  '•  I  know  that  tlie  Bible  is  not 
true,  and  that  there  is  no  future  life,  and 
no  retribution  hereafter."  If  he^'^z^/^/say 
this,  then  his  premises  would  be  as 
broad  as  his  conclusion.  But  to  say,  "  I 
do  not  know,"  and  therefore  to  do  noth- 
ing, is  as  if  a  man  should  say,  "  I  do  not 
know  that  I  shall  have  a  crop,  and  there- 
fore I  will  sow  no  seed  ;  "  or,  "  I  do  not 
know  that  I  shall  gain  property,  and 
therefore  I  will  do  no  business  ;  "  or,  "  I 
do  not  know  that  I  shall  obtain  happi- 
ness, and  therefore  I  will  not  seek  it." 
The  truth  is,  that,  in  the  affairs  of  this 
life,  men  act  upon  the  strongest  evi- 
dence, upon  the  strongest  probabil- 
ity ;  it  is  a  part  of  the  very  wisdom 
of  their  condition  that  they  should  so 
act  ;  and  so  they  ought  to  act,  so  it  is 
wise  that  they  should  be  left  to  act,  in 
the  affairs  of  religion.  If  any  one  re- 
fuses to  act  upon  such  a  ground,  he 
refuses  the  discipline  of  his  own  nature, 
and  of  God's  providence;  and  neither 
his  own  nature  nor  tiie  providence  of 
heaven  will  hold  him  guiltless. 

II.  Nay  more,  as  a  religious  being, 
he  must  act  upon  some  ground,  and  he 
.ought  to  choose  the  most  reasonable 
ground ;  and  this  is  the  substance  of 
the  second  remark  I  have  to  offer  on 
the  nature  of  religious  belief. 

It  is  not  often  enough  considered, 
perhaps,  that  every  man,  every  thinking 
man  at  least,  must  have  some  theory, 
must  choose  between  opposing  argu- 
ments ;  must  come  to  some  conclusion, 
which  he  is  to  take  and  defend,  with  all 
its  difficulties.  He  who  doubts  is  apt 
to  regard  himself  as  occupying  vantage- 
ground  in  religious  discussion  ;  as  occu- 
pying a  position  above  the  believer,  and 
entitled  to  look  down  upon  him  without 
sympathy,  and  even  with  scorn  ;  as  if 
he,  the  infidel,  stood  aloof  from  the 
difficulties  that  press  upon  questions 
of  this  nature.  But  this  is  an  entire 
mistake.  He  too,  the  infidel,  is  in  the 
battle,  and  there  is  no  discharge  in 
that  war.  I  have  said  that  believing 
is  doubting  to  a  certain  extent.     I  now 


say  that  doubting  is  believing  to  a 
certain  extent.  The  doubter  holds  a 
theory.  That  extreme  of  doubt  de- 
nominated Pyrrhonism  is  still  a  theory. 
It  is  believing  something;  and  some- 
thing very  prodigious,  too  ;  even  that 
nothing  is  to  be  believed  !  Doubtino-, 
I  say,  is  believing  to  a  certain  extent. 
A  man  may  say  he  is  certain  of  nothing. 
But  he  is  certain,  I  suppose,  of  his  un- 
certainty ;  certain  that  he  is  a  doubter; 
certain  then  that  he  is  a  thinker  ;  certain 
that  he  is  a  conscious  being.  But  still 
he  may  say,  willing  to  doubt  all  he  can, 
that  with  regard  to  the  objects  of  his 
consciousness,  he  can  have  no  certainty. 
He  is  conscious  of  the  difference  be- 
tween truth  and  error,  right  and  wrong  ; 
but  he  is  not  certain,  he  says,  that  these 
perceptions  of  his  agree  with  the  abso- 
lute, the  real  truth  of  things.  Is  this 
doubt  reasonable,  or  possible  ?  A  man 
has  a  perception  of  existence.  What 
existence  1  His  own.  He  knows  that 
lie  exists.  A  man  has  a  perception  of 
rectitude.  What  rectitude  .?  Why,  of  a 
rectitude  within  hint,  just  as  certainly 
existing  as  he  exists.  There  is  a  feel- 
ing in  him  :  he  approves  it.  That  is 
final.  He  cannot  go  behind  this  con- 
sciousness into  a  region  of  doubt,  any 
more  than  he  can  go  behind  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  existence.  Like  a 
fiash  of  lightning,  like  the  voice  of  thun- 
der, is  this  revelation  of  conscience  from 
the  thickest  cloud  of  his  doubts  ;  it  is  as 
clear  and  strong  and  irresistible. 

But  suppose  that  we  have  brought 
the  doubter  thus  far  to  the  recognition 
of  the  great  primitive  facts  of  philosophy 
and  religion  ;  yet  when  we  come  to  the 
deductions  from  these  facts,  to  a  system 
of  faith,  we  have  admitted  that  there  is 
some  uncertainty.  How  shall  our  rea- 
soner  proceed  here  ?  Shall  he  say  that 
because  there  is  uncertainty,  he  will 
believe  nothing  ?  That  would  be  re- 
fusing to  do  the  only  thing,  and  the  very 
thing,  which  the  circumstances  require 
of  him,  —  even  to  choose  between  oppos- 
ing arguments.  It  would  be  as  if  the 
mariner   should  say,    "  The  waters  are 


o:) 


8 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


unstable  beneath  me  ;  they  sway  me 
this  way  and  that  way ;  and  I  will  lay 
no  course  across  the  deep."  No,  the 
only  question  is,  What  is  it  best  to  do  ? 
What  is  the  wisest  course  to  take  ? 
What  is  it  most  reasonable  to  believe 
in .''  The  moral  inquirer  is  on  the 
ocean  ;  and  to  give  himself  up  to  doubt, 
indifference,  and  inaction  is  to  perish 
there.  And  the  question  is  between 
remaining  in  this  state  and  adopting 
some  religious  faith  for  guidance  and 
support. 

Now  it  appears  to  me  that  the  cold- 
est and  feeblest  statement  of  the  argu- 
ment/or  religious  faith,  gathers  strength 
and  warmth,  from  being  placed  in  this 
point  of  light.  For  thus  would  a  man 
reason  on  this  ground  :  "  To  doubt 
everytliing,  to  doubt  all  the  primitive 
facts  of  my  moral  consciousness,  I  have 
admitted,  is  self-contradicting  absurdity. 
But  to  reject  all  religious  systems  flow- 
ing from  them,  because  they  are  not 
equally  certain,  is  as  false  in  philosophy 
as  to  reject  the  original  facts.  Some- 
thing, I  7Jtust  believe;  something  better 
or  something  worse.  Some  conclusions 
flow  out  of  the  principles,  and  I  cannot 
help  it.  To  reject  all  conclusion  is 
irrational  and  impossible  folly.  Nay 
more,  I  am  bound  to  accept  those  con- 
clusions that  favor  the  improvement  of 
my  nature.  That  I  am  made  to  improve 
is  as  certain  as  that  I  am  made  to  be. 
Now  to  reject  all  religions  faith  is  ruin 
to  my  spiritual  nature.  To  deny,  for 
instance,  the  doctrine  of  immortality, 
comes  to  the  same  thing  ;  my  soul  dies 
now,  if  it  is  not  to  live  forever.  To 
reject  Christianity  is  to  reject  what  is 
obviously  the  most  powerful  means 
of  improvement  in  the  world.  At  any 
rate,  if  there  be  no  truth  at  all  in  re- 
ligion, if  its  grandest  principles  are 
falsehoods,  and  its  grandest  revelations 
are  dreams,  —  then  the  very  spring 
of  improvement  in  me  is  broken,  and 
my  situation  involves  this  astounding 
absurdity  :  that  I  am  made  to  improve, 
to  be  happy  in  nothing  else,  and  yet 
that  this  is  the  very  thing  for  which  no 


provision  is  made  ;  that  an  appetite  is 
given  me  which  craves  divine  and  im- 
mortal good  ;  that  on  its  being  supplied 
depends  the  essential  life  of  my  mind  and 
heart,  —  and  yet,  that  beneath  the  heav- 
ens there  is  no  food  for  it ;  no,  nor 
above  the  heavens  ;  that  the  only  pro- 
vision made  for  it  is  poison  and  death  !  " 

Can  this  be?  —  as  it  must  be  if  the 
sceptic's  theory  be  true.  Can  it  be 
that  a  light  is  on  my  path,  which  leads 
me  to  the  loftiest  and  most  blessed  vir- 
tue and  happiness,  —  such  is  the  light 
of  religion,  —  and  yet  that  it  sprung 
from  the  dark  suggestions  cf  fraud  and 
imposture  .''  Can  it  be  that  God-  has 
formed  our  minds  to  feel  the  most  inex- 
pressible longings  after  a  life  beyond 
the  barriers  of  time  ;  and  yet  that  he 
has  left  our  hearts  to  break  with  the 
dreadful  conviction  that  the  blessed 
land  is  not  for  us  }  Is  this  the  obvious 
reasonableness  of  the  sceptic's  choice  .'' 
Is  this  the  charm  of  doubt  that  is  to 
outweigh  the  whole  mass  of  evidence  .'' 
Why  such  useless  and  cruel  contradic- 
tions and  incongruities  as  enter  into 
the  unbeliever's  plan  ?  Why  are  we 
sent  to  wander  through  this  world,  in 
sorrow  and  despair,  as  we  must  do,  if 
there  is  no  guiding  light  and  no  inviting 
prospect  ? 

It  would  be  easy,  if  there  were  space 
in  this  discussion,  to  present  in  many 
lights  the  glaring  contradictions  to 
which  scepticism  must  lead,  and  which 
surely  are_  harder  to  receive  than  any 
tolerably  rational  system  of  faith.  Sup- 
pose that  such  system  were  not  free 
from  serious  difficulties.  I  think  it  is  ; 
but  suppose  that  it  were  not.  Yet  if 
the  weight  of  evidence  be  in  its  favor ; 
and  if  we  must  embrace  some  system, 
and  that  of  faith  clears  up  more  difficul- 
ties than  the  opposite  system,  — is  it  not 
most  reasonable  that  our  minds  should 
settle  down  into  a  calm  and  confiding 
belief .-"  Let  every  man,  with  these 
views,  make  his  election.  Let  him 
choose  —  for  these  are  the  questions 
—  whether  he  will  take,  for  his  por- 
tion, light  or  darkness,  cheerfulness  or 


THE    NATURE   OF    RELIGIOUS    BELIEF. 


359 


sadness,  hope  or  despair,  the  warmth 
of  confiding  piety  or  the  cold  and  cheer- 
less atmosphere  of  distrust,  the  spirit 
of  sacred  improvement  or  the  spirit  of 
worldly  negligence  and  apathy.  I  do 
not  wish,  in  making  tliis  contrast,  to 
speak  with  any  harshness  of  scepticism. 
I  state  it  as  it  appears  to  myself,  and  as 
it  would  appear,  let  me  embrace  which- 
ever theory  I  might.  Faith  is  light,  and 
cheerfulness,  and  hope,  and  devotion, 
and  improvement.  And  doubt,  on 
essential  points,  is  in  its  very  nature 
d:irkness,  and  sadness,  and  despondency, 
and  distrust,  and  spiritual  death. 

For  which,  think  you,  —  for  I  cannot 
help  pressing  the  alternative  a  moment 
longer,  —  for  which  was  our  nature 
made  .-*  To  be  lifted  up  and  strength- 
ened, to  be  bright  and  happy,  or  to  be 
cast  down  and  crusiied  ;  to  be  the  victim 
of  doubt ;  to  be  plunged  into  the  dun- 
geon of  despair?  Suppose  a  man  should 
literally  shut  himself  up  in  a  dungeon, 
should  sit  down  in  darkness,  and  sur- 
round himself  with  none  but  dismal 
objects,  should  resign  his  powers  to  in- 
action, and  give  up  all  the  glorious 
prospects  and  enjoyments  of  the  wide 
and  boundless  universe  ;  and  then  should 
say,  that  this  was  the  portion  designed 
for  him  by  the  Author  of  nature.  What 
should  we  say  to  him  ?  We  should  say, 
and  surely  we  should  take  strong  ground, 
"  Your  Maker  has  given  you  limbs  and 
senses  ;  he  has  given  you  active  powers, 
and  capacities  for  improvement,  and  he 
designed  that  you  should  use  them ;  he 
made  you  not  to  dwell  in  a  prison,  not 
to  dwell  in  dungeon  glooms,  but  he  made 
you  for  light,  and  action,  and  freedom, 
and  improvement,  and  happiness.  Your 
senses,  your  very  faculties,  both  of  body 
and  mind,  will  perish  and  die  in  this 
situation  ;  go  forth,  then,  into  the  open 
and  fair  domain  of  nature  and  life."  And 
this  we  may  say,  with  equal  force,  to  him 
who  is  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  the 
dreary  prison-house  of  scepticism.  God 
made  us  not  to  know,  not  to  know  every- 
thing, for  then  must  he  have  made  us 
equal  to  himself  ;  but  to  believe,  to  con- 


fide, to  trust.  And  he  who  refuses  to 
receive  what  is  reasonable,  because  it  is 
not  certain,  refuses  obedience  to  that 
very  law  under  which  he  is  created  and 
must  live. 


II. 

I  Cor.  xiii.  12  :   "  Now  I  know  in  part." 

From  these  words,  I  resume  the  sub- 
ject of  my  morning  discourse.  The 
subject  was  the  nature  of  religious  be- 
lief, though  it  was  my  leading  object  to 
present  some  inferences  from  the  admit- 
ted principles  of  this  kind  of  belief.  With 
regard  to  the  nature  of  faith,  however,  I 
stated  what  is  admitted  on  all  hands,  that 
it  is  not  certainty  ;  that  believing  is  not 
knowing  ;  that  this  kind  of  conviction  is 
entirely  to  be  distinguished  from  intui- 
tion and  from  the  results  of  scientific 
demonstration.  But  in  this  account  of 
faith  I  said  that  its  original  principles 
are  not  to  be  confounded.  They  are 
certain.  They  are  not  matters  of  faith, 
but  of  knowledge.  I  do  not  believe  that 
I  exist;  I  know  it.  I  do  not  believe  in 
the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  ; 
I  knoiv  it.  I  do  not  believe  that  benev- 
olence or  the  promotion  of  others'  hap- 
piness is  right  ;  I  know  it.  In  all  these 
cases  I  assert  a  self-evident  proposition  ; 
a  truism,  in  fact.  I  am  but  saying,  in 
effect,  that  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is 
wrong.  But  the  moment  I  depart  from 
these  primary  moral  distinctions  and  first 
truths  of  religion,  and  take  one  step  of 
deduction,  that  is  a  step  of  faith.  Abso- 
lute certainty  then  forsakes  me,  and  I 
stand  upon  the  ground  of  faith.  My  de- 
ductions then  are  not  mathematical,  but 
moral;  tiiey  are  not  certain,  but  they 
take  their  place  on  the  scale  of  logical 
probability.  That  is  to  say,  they  are  ac- 
companied with  something  more  or  less 
of  doubt ;  and  religious  doubting,  there- 
fore, ought  not  to  be  made  the  monster 
that  it  has  been  in  the  Christian  world. 
It  is  giving  an  unwarrantable  importance 
to  doubt,  thus  to  treat  it.  And  this  was 
the   matter  of  my  first  inference.     My 


36o 


THE    NATURE   OF    RELIGIOUS    BELIEF. 


next  observation  was,  that  every  think- 
ing man  must  have  a  system,  and  is 
bound  to  adopt  that  which  is  most  rea- 
sonable ;  that  the  sceptic  has  a  system 
as  truly  as  the  believer  :  and  that  in  the 
balance  of  probabilities,  the  sceptic  has 
adopted  a  system,  which  not  only  has  its 
difficulties,  like  every  other,  but  which 
has  this  special  and  insuperable  diffi- 
culty, that  it  is  fatal  to  the  clearest 
principles  and  dearest  hopes  of  human 
improvement. 

III.  In  connection  with  what  I  have 
said  about  the  nature  of  faith,  let  me  now 
observe,  in  the  third  place,  that  those 
who  profess  to  know  that  they  are  right-, 
who  profess  this  not  only  in  regard  to 
the  great  points  of  conscience  and  of 
consciousness,  but  also  in  regard  to  the 
peculiarities  of  their  creed,  have  as  little 
to  support  them,  in  a  just  view  of  the 
subject,  as  those  who  give  an  undue  im- 
portance to  their  doubts ;  or  as  those 
who  choose  a  system  of  doubt  (by  defini- 
tion, the  weaker  system)  in  preference  to 
a  system  of  faith. 

I  have  heard  men  say,  when  comparing 
themselves  with  their  religious  oppo- 
nents, and  I  have  remarked  that  it  was 
said  with  great  self-complacency  :  "  The 
difference  between  us  and  others  is,  that 
they  think,  indeed,  that  they  are  right, 
but  we  know  that  we  are  right.  They 
are  confident  that  they  hold  the  truth, 
but  we  are  certain  that  we  hold  the 
truth."  Now,  for  any  men  to  say  this 
is  so  very  little  to  the  credit  of  their  dis- 
crimination, that  it  cannot  be  tmich  to 
the  credit  of  their  correctness.  It  shows 
that,  so  far  from  being  entitled  to  presume 
that  they  have  the  right  faith,  that  they 
do  not  know  what  any  faith  is  ;  that  they 
do  not  know  what  faith  is  in  the  most 
generic  sense  ;  that  they  do  not  under- 
stand the  definition  of  the  term.  Faith 
is  not  knowledge.  Believing  that  we 
are  right  is  not,  in  any  tolerable  use  of 
the  English  language,  knowing  that  we 
are  right.  For  what  a  man  seeth,  why 
doth  he  yet  hope  for?  What  he  know- 
eth,  why  doth  he  speak  of  as  a  matter  of 
faith  ?     Demonstration  is  one  thing  ;  a 


creed  is  another,  and  an  entirely  differ- 
ent thing.      It  is  so  by  definition. 

1  do  not  object  to  a  firm  persuasion  in 
any  mind,  that  it  is  right,  provided  the 
point  be  one  on  which  it  is  competent  to 
decide.  I  do  not  object,  7iow,  to  the  use 
of  the  phrase  —  as  a  phrase  of  great  em- 
phasis and  energy  —  "I  know,  or  I  feel, 
or  I  am  sure,  "  that  a  certain  doctrine  is 
true.  But  when  any  persons  profess  to 
use  this  expression  of  confidence  liter- 
ally and  accurately  ;  when  they  hold  this 
their  assurance  as  a  specific  and  tri- 
umphant distinction  ;  when  they  claim  to 
be  superior  to  others  on  such  ground, 
and  would  attempt  to  overawe  and  abash 
modest  and  thoughtful  men  by  such  ar- 
rogant and  irrational  pretensions  to  infal- 
libility,—  I  think  it  a  proper  occasion  for 
applying  the  language  of  the  apostolic 
rebuke,  and  telling  them  that  they 
"know  not  what  they  say,  nor  whereof 
they  affirm."  They  quite  mistake  the 
subject  and  subject-matter  of  which  they 
are  speaking  ;  and  I  have  only  to  remind 
them  that  it  is  believing  that  they  were 
talking  about,  not  knowing. 

The  principle  must  be  a  very  poor  one, 
too,  that  works  so  poorly  in  practice  ; 
that  destroys  itself,  indeed,  the  moment 
it  is  brought  to  its  application.  If  differ- 
ent classes  of  Christians  will  say,  mod- 
estly, and  no  matter  how  solemnly,  that 
they  believe  that  they  are  right ;  and  yet 
will  concede  so  much  to  human  frailty  as 
to  admit,  that  they  may  be  wrong  in  some 
measure, —  then  their  respective  claims 
do  not  destroy  each  other  entirely,  nor 
destroy  the  common  faith.  But  if  every 
class  will  have  it  that  it  knows  itself  to 
be  right,  and  knows  everything  differing 
from  it  to  be  wrong, —  what  a  picture 
of  presumptuous,  distracted,  and  self- 
destroying  churches  is  presented  to  us  ! 
Here  is  the  Calvinist  that  knows  he  is 
right  ;  and  the  Arminian  knows  he  is 
right  ;  and  the  Universalist  knows  he  is 
right  ;  and  the  Swedenborgian  has  his 
full  measure  of  the  same  comfortable 
knowledge  ;  and  the  Presbyterian  and 
Episcopalian,  and  the  Methodist  and 
Baptist,  are  each  and  all   possessed  of 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


361 


the  same  undoubting  assurance.  Are  all 
right,  then,  in  the  points  in  which  they 
differ?  No:  that  is  impossible.  To  what, 
then,  does  this  vaunted  distinction  of 
knowing  amount  ?  To  noticing  at  all. 
That  cannot  be  a  distinction  which  ap- 
pertains to  all  classes,  to  individuals, 
that  is  to  sa}',  of  all  classes.  To  what, 
then,  does  the  knowing  itself  amount  ? 
I  answer,  once  more,  to  nothing  at  all. 
For  it  is  clear  that  all  this  knowing  can- 
not be  knowledge.  It  may  be  confidence, 
and  presumption,  and  positive  assertion, 
but  it  is  not  knowledge. 

But  a  man  may  say,  "  It  is  a  matter  of 
experience,  and  therefore  I  know  it." 
What,  let  me  ask,  is  a  matter  of  experi- 
ence .'  Not  that  any  theological  system 
is  true,  not  that  any  doctrine  is  revealed, 
not  that  any  one  mode  of  church  order  is 
divinely  ordained.  These  are  matters  of 
inference,  not  of  experience.  "  Nay,  but 
my  meaning,"  says  the  confident  votary, 
"is,  that  my  faith  or  my  mode  of  wor- 
ship has  had  such  an  effect  upon  me  ; 
it  has  so  delightfully  wrought  itself  into 
my  experience,  that  I  am  sure  it  must  be 
the  true  doctrine,  the  true  way.  Heaven 
has  thus  sealed  it  to  me  in  absolute  cer- 
tainty." If  only  one  class  could  say  this, 
it  might  amount  to  something  like  pre- 
sumptive proof.  But  the  truth  is,  that 
every  form  of  faith  and  discipline  can 
present  just  such  instances.  It  is  par- 
ticularly true,  that  recent  conversion  to  a 
religious  system  is  apt  to  produce  this 
kind  of  vivid  experience.  There  is  not 
a  faith  in  Christendom,  Catholic  or  Prot- 
estant, strict  or  liberal,  but  has  converts 
ready  to  proclaim  its  efficiency.  The 
argument  proves  too  much,  legitimately 
to  prove  anything. 

This  arrogance,  too,  is  as  unseemly 
as  it  is  baseless.  If  the  subject  did 
not  forbid  it,  yet  the  sense  of  imperfec- 
tion ought  to  restrain  a  frail,  fallible, 
erring  human  bein^^from  such  presump- 
tion; presumption,  too,  which  is  com- 
monly strong  in  proportion  as  the 
doctrine  is  dark  and  doubtful,  and  the 
mind  is  readier  to  decide  than  to  examine. 
Such  indeed  was  not  the  spirit  of  New- 


ton, "  child-like  sage."  Such  was  not  the 
spirit  of  Socrates,  who,  against  the  all- 
knowing  sophists  of  his  day,  was  accus- 
tomed to  say  that  he  professed  to  know 
nothing;  that  he  was  only  a  seeker  after 
knowledge.  Such,  in  fine,  has  never 
been  the  spirit  of  deep  study  and  patient 
thought.  But  assurance  rises  up  to 
speak,  where  modesty  is  silent  ;  and  a 
rash  judgment  to  pronounce,  where 
patient  inquiry  hesitates;  and  ignorance 
to  say  "  1  know,"  where  real  knowl- 
edge can  only  say,  "  I  believe." 

Such  was  not  the  spirit  of  the  author 
of  the  "  Saints'  Rest,"  nor  of  the  good 
old  English  time.  "  I  am  not  so  fool- 
ish," says  Baxter,  "  as  to  pretend  my 
certainty  to  be  greater  than  it  is,  merely 
because  it  is  a  disiionor  to  be  less  certain. 
My  certainty  that  I  am  a  man  is  before 
my  certainty  that  there  is  a  God.  My 
certainty  that  there  is  God  is  before 
my  certainty  that  he  requireth  love  and 
holiness  of  his  creatures.  My  certainty 
of  this  is  greater  than  my  certainty  of 
the  life  of  rewards  and  punishments 
hereafter.  My  certainty  of  that  is  great- 
er than  my  certainty  of  the  endless 
duration  of  it,  and  the  immortality  of 
individual  souls.  My  certainty  of  the 
Deity  is  greater  than  my  certainty  of 
the  Christian  faith.  My  certainty  of  the 
Christian  faith,  in  its  essentials,  is  great- 
er than  my  certainty  of  the  perfection 
and  infallibility  of  the  Holy  Scriptures. 
And  my  certainty  of  that  is  greater  than 
my  certainty  of  many  particular  texts, 
and  so  of  the  truth  of  many  particular 
doctrines,  and  of  the  canonicalness  of 
some  certain  books." 

Let  me  add  a  word  of  caution,  however, 
if  it  can  be  necessary,  in  closing  this 
part  of  my  discourse.  Because  I  main- 
tain that  absolute  certainty  does  not 
properly  attach  to  matters  of  faith,  let 
it  not  by  any  means  be  regarded  as  a 
fair  inference,  that  the  great  points  of 
our  Christian  faith  are  to  be  held  as  if 
they  were  doubtful  matters.  A  believer 
is,  by  definition,  one  whom  belief,  and 
not  doubt,  characterizes.  And  the  Chris- 
tian belief,  I  hold  to  be  founded  on  such 


362 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


evidence  as  to  be  put  "beyond  all  rea- 
sonable doubt."  This  phrase,"  beyond 
reasonable  doubt,"  is  held  in  the  law  to 
describe  the  nearest  approach  to  certain- 
ty that  is  compatible  with  the  nature  of 
moral  evidence  ;  to  describe  such  a  de- 
gree of  confidence  as  lays  a  just  founda- 
tion for  decision  and  action.  Such  I 
hold  to  be  the  nature  and  strength  of 
the  Christian  faith. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  show  that  un- 
certainty or  doubt,  greater  or  less  in 
degree,  is  a  part  of  our  dispensation,  im- 
plied in  that  declaration  of  the  Apostle, 
that  we  know  only  in  part ;  that  it  is  im- 
phed  in  the  very  nature  of  moral  evidence  ; 
implied  in  faith  ;  and  therefore  that  it  is 
not  to  be  regarded  as  monstrous,  nor  to 
be  magnified  into  undue  impt)rtance,  nor 
to  be  made  a  reason  for  rejecting  the  sys- 
tem of  faith  ;  unless,  in  the  second  place, 
it  can  lay  claim  to  a  strength  and  consist- 
ency, and  an  escape  from  difficulties, 
which  will  give  it  manifest  superiority 
over  the  system  of  faiih,  — a  superiority 
which,  on  great  points,  is  denied  to  it  by 
its  utter  insufficiency  to  improve,  exalt, 
strengthen,  and  bless  human  nature  ;  and, 
finally,  I  have  insisted,  that,  on  the  other 
hand,  no  rational  system  of  faith,  when 
it  goes  beyond  the  principles  of  absolute 
conscience  and  consciousness,  can  pre- 
tend to  be  freed  from  doubt,  can  pretend 
to  absolute  certainty  ;  and  hence,  that 
the  confident  assurance  of  the  fanatic  is, 
in  this  matter  as  much  out  of  place  as 
the  overweening  self-complacency  of 
the  sceptic. 

IV.  But  after  all,  this,  to  some,  may 
be  a  very  unsatisfactory  view  of  the 
subject.  They  may  even  think  it  inju- 
rious and  unsafe.  I  must  not  leave  the 
subject,  therefore,  without  attempting, 
in  the  last  place,  to  show  the  utility  of 
that  moral  system  and  mental  discipline, 
under  which,  as  I  contend,  we  are 
placed.  That  we  are  placed  under  it, 
is,  indeed,  in  my  view,  a  sufficient 
answer  to  all  objections.  But  it  may 
still  be  asked,  why  is  it  so  ?  Why  is 
there  one  shadow  or  shade  left  on  our 
path  ?     Why,  instead  of  shining  brighter 


and  brighter,  can  it  not  be,  from  the 
beginning,  one  track  of  brightness  ? 
Why  are  we  not  made  just  as  sure  of 
every  moral  truth,  that  is  interesting 
and  important  to  us,  as  we  are  that  we 
behold  the  light  of  the  sun  ?  Why,  in 
fine,  is  not  moral  evidence,  like  mathe- 
matical demonstration,  put  beyond  every 
possibility  of  doubt .'' 

It  might,  indeed,  be  answered,  that 
the  very  nature  of  the  subjects,  and  of 
the  mind,  makes  the  difference.  And 
I  believe  that  this  is  true.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  inconceivable  to  us  that  moral 
deductions  should,  by  any  possibility, 
have  been  made  as  definite  and  certain 
as  those  of  the  most  exact  science.  But 
I  am  not  obliged  to  rest  the  answer  on 
this  apparent  necessity  of  the  case 
alone ;  and  I  proceed  to  offer,  in  further 
defence  of  that  moral  constitution  of 
things  under  -which  our  minds  are 
trained  up,  the  consideration  of  utility. 

I  say,  then,  that  it  is  a  useful  system, 
a  good  system,  the  best  system  by  us 
conceivable.  If  I  am  asked  why  we 
have  not  vision,  instead  of  promise,  to 
guide  us  ;  why  we  have  not  assurance 
instead  of  trust  ;  wliy  not  knowledge, 
instead  of  faith,  —  I  answer,  because  it 
is  not  expedient  for  us'.  Probably  we 
could  not  bear  vision,  or  it  would  be  too 
much  for  our  contentment  or  our  atten- 
tion to  the  objects  around  us  ;  but  I  do 
not  rest  on  a  probability  :  I  appeal  to 
what  is  certain  also;  and  that  is,  that 
assurance  and  knowledge  would  lessen 
the  trial  of  virtue  and  of  the  intellect, 
and  therefore  would  hinder  their  im- 
provement. 

To  give  an  illustration  of  my  mean- 
ing, and  especially  to  show  why  it  may 
not  be  expedient  that  we  should  have  an 
actual  vision  of  a  future  life  ;  it  is  not 
best  that  children,  for  instance,  should 
be  introduced  to  an  actual  knowledge  or 
experience  of  the  circumstances,  allure- 
ments, or  interests  of  maturer  life. 
That  view  of  the  future  might  too  much 
dazzle  or  engross  them,  might  distract 
them  from  the  proper  business  of  their 
education,   and    might,   in   many    ways 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS    BELIEF. 


363 


bring  a  trial  upon  tlieir  young  spirits 
beyond  their  power  to  bear.  Therefore, 
they  look  through  a  veil  upon  the  full 
strength  of  human  passions  and  inter- 
ests. Human  love  and  hate,  and  hope 
and  fear,  human  ambition  and  covetous- 
ness,  and  splendor  and  beauty,  they 
"see  through  a  glass  darkly."  Just  as 
little  might  we  be  able,  in  this  childhood 
of  our  being,  to  have  the  realities  of  a 
future  scene  laid  open  to  us. 

Again,  for  an  illustration  of  the  gen- 
eral advantages  of  inquiry  instead  of 
certainty :  if  a  man  were  to  travel  around 
the  globe,  it  might  be  far  more  agree- 
able and  easy  for  him  to  have  a  broad 
and  beaten  pathway,  to  have  marked 
and  regular  stages,  to  be  borne  onward 
in  a  chariot  under  an  experienced  and 
safe  conduct,  and  to  have  deputations 
from  the  nations  he  passed  through  to 
wait  upon  him,  and  to  inform  him  ex- 
actly of  everything  he  wished  to  know. 
But  would  such  a  grand  progress  be  as 
favorable  to  his  character,  to  his  mental 
cultivation  or  moral  discipline,  to  his 
enterprise  and  good  sense  and  hardihood 
and  energy,  as  it  would  be  to  thread  out 
his  way  for  himself;  to  overcome  ob- 
stacles and  extricate  himself  from  diffi- 
culties ;  to  take,  in  other  words,  the 
general  chart  of  his  travels,  and  to  gain 
an  acquaintance  with  men  and  things, 
by  inquiry  and  observation,  and  reason- 
ing and  experience  }  Such  is  the  course 
ordained  for  the  moral  traveller  in  pass- 
ing through  this  world.  And  certainly 
it  is  better  for  him  ;  better  that  he 
should  draw  conclusions,  though  he 
make  mistakes ;  better  that  he  should 
reason  upon  probabilities,  though  he 
sometimes  err  ;  better  that  he  should 
gain  wisdom  from  experience,  though 
the  way  be  rough  and  sometimes  over- 
shadowed with  uncertainty, — than  that 
he  should  always  move  on  upon  the  level 
and  easy  and  sure  path  of  knowledge. 

Apply  the  same  question  to  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  life.  A  youth  might  al- 
ways have  a  tutor  or  a  mentor  to  direct 
him.  And  then  he  would  alwavs  be  in 
the  condition  of  one  who  knew  what  to 


do,  of  one  who  had  no  doubt.  Yes,  and 
he  would  always  be  a  child.  Can  any 
one  doubt  that  it  would  be  more  con- 
ducive to  his  improvement,  to  his  cour- 
age and  resolution,  to  his  wisdom  and 
wortli,  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  rea- 
son, to  employ  his  powers,  to  be  tried 
with  conflicting  views  of  subjects,  to 
find  out  his  own  way,  to  grow  wise 
by  his  own  experience,  and  to  have 
light  break  in  upon  his  path  as  he 
needs  it,  or  as  he  seeks  it  ?  But  such 
is  the  actual  course  of  life  ;  and  similar 
to  this  is  the  course  which  the  mind 
must  take  in  the  religious  life. 

Nor  is  this  all.  It  appears  to  me 
that  there  is  one  further,  more  specific, 
and  more  important  use  of  the  trials  of 
faith  ;  and  that  is,  that  they  urge  us  to 
the  most  strenuous  self-purification  and 
fervent  piety.  I  believe  that  it  is  an  ex- 
press law  of  religious  progress  that  the 
advancement  and  strength  of  our  faith, 
other  things  being  equal,  are  always  in 
proportion  to  the  fervor  and  purity  of 
our  religious  affections.  This  law  re- 
sults from  the  very  nature  of  the  sub- 
jects to  which  it  relates.  Our  faith  in 
Christianity,  for  instance,  and  in  a  fut- 
ure life,  is  not  a  deduction  of  abstract 
reasoning,  irrespective  of  ourselves  and 
of  the  character  of  God,  nor  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  communication  as  compared 
with  them.  Belief  is  grounded,  in  part, 
on  certain  views  of  our  nature  and 
wants,  and  on  certain  views  of  the 
character  of  God.  Now,  none  but  a 
pure  and  spiritual  mind  can  estimate 
the  transcendent  worth  of  its  own  na- 
ture, or  can  so  love  God  as  to  enter- 
tain a  just  view  of  his  love  to  us.  and 
to  hope  all  that  the  filial  mind  will  hope 
from  him.  Self- purification,  therefore, 
is  an  essential  part  of  the  progress  to 
light  and  certaintv- 

In  .this  progress  not  a  few  have  ar- 
rived to  the  very  confines  of  the  land  of 
vision.  Their  faith  has  become  scarce- 
ly less  than  assurance.  Invisible  things 
have  not  only  become  the  great  realities, 
as  they  are  to  all  men  of  true  faith  ;  but 
they  have  become,  as   it  were,  almost 


3^4 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


visible  ;  there  is  a  presence  of  God,  felt 
and  almost  seen,  in  all  nature  and  life  ; 
there  is  in  the  heart  an  assurance,  a 
feeling,  of  heaven  and  immortality.  So 
it  is  oftentimes  with  the  good  man  in 
the  approach  to  death  :  the  veil  of  flesh 
is  almost  rent  from  him ;  the  shadows 
of  mortal  imperfection  are  disappearing  ; 
the  threshold  of  heaven  is  gained  ;  and 
beamings  from  the  ever-bright  regions 
fill  his  soul  with  their  blessed  light. 
Then  it  is  that  it  is  hard  to  return  to 
life;  to  pass  again  beneath  the  shadow  ; 
to  feel  the  cold,  dull  realities  of  life 
effacing  the  impressions  of  heavenly 
beauty  and  glory.  This  is  sometimes 
looked  upon,  I  know,  as  a  kind  of  hal- 
lucination,-a  visionary  rapture;  and  so 
it  sometimes  may  be  ;  but  the  truth  is, 
that  in  the  purified  mind  it  is  the  result 
of  principles  in  accordance  with  the 
strictest  reason.  The  explanation  is, 
that  such  a  mind  is  prepared  to  receive 
the  full  and  entire  impression  of  the  ob- 
jects of  faith  ;  the  light  of  heaven  is  in- 
deed around  that  mind,  because  it  is  as 
an  image  pure  and  polished  and  bright 
to  refiect  the  light  of  heaven. 

True  faith  is,  indeed,  a  great  and  sub- 
hme  quality.  It  is  greater,  I  am  per- 
suaded, than  it  is  commonly  accounted 
to  be,  much  as  it  is  exalted  and  lauded 
in  rehgious  discourses  It  is  some- 
times lauded,  indeed,  at  the  expense  of 
reason.  It  is  often  so  represented  as 
if  its  sublimity  consisted  in  its  being 
a  mystical  quality,  in  its  superiority  to 
works,  to  the  labors  of  duty,  to  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  quiet  and  humble  virtues. 
To  the  hearer  of  such  representations 
it  often  seems  as  if  this  glory  and  charm 
of  faith  lay  in  a  sort  of  visionary  peace 
of  mind,  obtained  without  any  reference 
to  the  culture  of  the  mind  or  of  the 
heart.  But  no :  the  very  reverse  of 
this  is  the  truth.  Faith  is  a  great  and 
sublime  quality,  because  it  is  founded 
in  eternal  reason  ;  because  it  is  a  patient 
and  faithful  inquirer,  and  not  a  hasty 
and  self-confident  rejecter,  nor  an  idol- 
izer  of  its  own  fanciful  and  visionary 
suggestions  of  doubt.     It  is  great,  too, 


because  it  is  moral :  because,  as  an 
Apostle  declares,  it  works  by  love,  and 
purifies  the  heart ;  because  it  is  an  ele- 
vation of  the  soul  towards  the  purity 
and  glory  of  the  only  and  independently 
great  and  glorious  Being.  It  is  great, 
moreover,  and  in  fine,  because  it  is  a 
principle  of  perpetual  advancement.  It 
does  not  write  down  its  creed  as  if  it 
could  never  go  beyond  that ;  as  if  that 
were  its  standard  and  its  limit ;  as  if 
that  were  the  sum  and  the  perfection  of 
all  that  it  could  ever  receive.  No  :  it  is 
a  sublime  principle  because  it  takes  hold 
of  the  sublimity  of  everlasting  progress. 
When  it  reaches  a  brighter  sphere  ; 
when  it  no  longer  knows  in  part,  but 
knows  as  it  is  known  ;  when  its  contem- 
plation has  become  actual  vision,  and  its 
deductions  have  risen  to  assume  the  cer- 
tainty and  take  the  place  of  first  prin- 
ciples,—  then  will  it,  on  the  basis  of  these 
first  principles,  proceed  to  still  farther 
deductions.  Still  and  ever  will  the  fields 
of  inquiry  lie  before  it ;  far  and  forever 
before  it.  Onward  and  onward  will 
they  spread,  benearh  other  heavens, 
to  other  horizons ;  bright  regions,  lead- 
ing to  yet  brighter  regions  ;  boundless 
worlds  for  thought  to  traverse,  beyond 
the  track  of  solar  day  ;  where — where 
shall  its  limit  be  ?  What  eye  can  pur- 
sue its  flight  through  the  infinitude  of 
ages  ! 

Christian  !  wouldst  thou  make  that 
boundless,  that  glorious  career  thine 
own  ?  Then  be  faithful  to  the  light 
that  now  shines  around  thee.  Sink 
not  to  rest  or  slumber  beneath  the 
passing  shadows  of  doubt.  To  sink, 
to  sleep  is  not  thy  destination,  but  to 
•wake,  to  rise.  Rise,  then,  to  the  glori- 
ous pursuit  of  truth  ;  connect  with  it 
the  work  of  self-purification  ;  open  thy 
mind  to  heavenly  hope  ;  aspire  to  the 
life  everlasting  !  Count  it  not  a  strange 
thing  that  thou  hast  difficulties  and 
doubts.  Well  has  it  been  said,  that  he 
who  never  doubted  never  believed. 
Shrink  not  and  be  not  afraid  when 
that  cloud  passeth  over  thee.  Through 
the  cloud  still  press  onward.     Only  be 


THE   NATURE   OF   RELIGIOUS   BELIEF. 


365 


assured  of  this,  and  with  this  assurance 
be  of  courage  :  God  made  thee  to  be- 
lieve. Without  faith,  the  ends  of  thy 
being  cannot  be  accomplished,  and 
therefore  it  is  certain  that  he  made 
thee  to  believe.  In  perfect  confidence, 
then,  say  this  with  thyself  :  "  I  am  sure 
that  I  shall  believe ;  all  that  is  necessary 
for  me,  I  shall  believe  ;  in  the  faithful 
and  humble  use  of  my  faculties,  I  am 
assured  that  I  shall  come  to  this  result. 
I  fear  not  doubt  ;  I  fear  not  darkness  ; 
doubt  is  the  way  to  faith,  and  darkness 
is  the  way  to  light."  Come,  holy  light ! 
come,  blessed  faith  !  and  cheer  every 
humble  seeker  with  joy  unspeakable  and 
full  of  glory  ! 

And  it  will  come  to  every  true  and 
trusting  heart.  Why  do  I  say  this? 
Because,  J  still  repeat,  I  know  that  God 
made  our  nature  for  faith,  and  virtue,  and 
improvement.  Why  should  it  be  diffi- 
cult to  see  this  ?  And  are  not  scepti- 
cism and  sin  and  the  process  of  moral 
deterioration,  are  they  not  misery  and 
darkness  and  destruction  to  our  nature  ? 
Look  at  the  young  tree  of  the  forest. 
Are  you  not  sure  that  God  made  it  to 
grow  ?  And  can  you  doubt  that  he  made 
your  moral  nature  to  grow  and  flourish  .'' 
But  how  does  he  make  that  tree  to  grow  ? 
By  pouring  perpetual  sunshine  upon  it  ? 
No :  he  sends  the  storm  and  the  tempest 
upon  it ;  the  overshadowing  cloud  lowers 
upon  its  waving  top;  and  its  branches 
wrestle  with  the  rude  elements.  So  it 
is  with  human  faith.  Amidst  storm  and 
calm,  amidst  cloud  and  sunshine  alike, 
it  rises  and  rises,  stronger  and  stronger; 
till  it  is  transplanted  at  length  to  the  fair 
clime  of  heaven,  there  to  grow  and  blos- 
som, amidst  everlasting  light,  in  everlast- 
ing beauty. 


NOTE. 


I  liave  met  in  Professor  Stuart's  Miscellanies, 
just  published  (see  Appendix,  pp.  205-206)  with 
the  following;  (to  me)  very  surprising  comment, 
not  only  upon  the  language  of  the  foregoing  arti- 
cle, but  upon  the  motives  of  the  writer :  surprising, 


because  I  as  little  suspected  in  my  relations  with 
my  former  instructor  in  Biblical  studies  ais  in  my 
own  conscious  integrity  any  ground  for  such 
causeless  wrong.  In  a  notice  of  Mrs.  Dana's  ad- 
mirable Letters,  Professor  Stuart  says;  — 

"On  p.  71  she  has  a  long  extract  from  Dr. 
Dewey,  of  New  York,  in  which  he  asserts  that 
the  Unitarians  believe  in  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost ;  in  the  atonement  as  a  sacrifice,  a 
propitiation  ;  in  human  dejaravity,  in  regeneration, 
in  the  doctrme  of  election,  and  in  a  future  state  of 
rewards  and  punishments.  On  the  part  of  such 
a  man  as  Dr.  Dewey,  I  can  call  this  nothing  but 
gross  deception.  He  knows  well,  although  this 
lady-champion  does  not,  that  there  is  not  a  single 
one  of  these  doctrines,  according  to  the  usual  sense 
attached  to  them  by  all  theologians  of  any  name, 
which  Unitai-ians  admit,  and  which  indeed  they  do 
not  violently  oppose.  The  artifice  of  Dr.  Dewey 
consists  in  employing  an  entirely  new  set  of  defini- 
tions." And  then,  after  speaking  of  the  well- 
known  and  acknowledged  difference  between  the 
Calvinistic  and  Unitarian  construction  of  these 
doctrines,  he  adds,  ' '  The  worst  of  the  case  is,  that 
he  (  Dr.  D.)  knows  this  to  be  so  ;  and  yet  he  holds 
out  these  lures  before  the  public.  .  .  .  It  is  an  un- 
worthy, a  degrading  artifice  to  practise  thus  upon 
the  credulity  or  ignorance  of  his  uninstructed 
hearers  or  readers.  It  merits  (what  it  will  be  cer- 
tain sooner  or  later  to  receive)  the  scorn  of  every 
upright  and  honest  man.'' 

To  this  language,  which  I  do  not  wish  to  char- 
acterize, the  article  may  be  quietly  left  to  reply 
for  itself.  Throughout,  as  the  reader  must  see, 
a  discrimination  is  studiously  made  between  the 
Orthodox  and  the  Liberal  construction  of  the  terms 
in  question.  So  fai"  from  my  professing  to  hold 
them  in  the  Calvinistic  and  Trinitarian  sense, 
that  is  precisely  what  is  denied.  There  is  no- 
where any  bald  statement  of  a  creed,  as  Professor 
Stuart  lays  it  down  for  me  :  there  is  no  such  sen- 
tence as  he  professes  to  quote  ;  but  the  subjects 
mentioned,  are  taken  up  in  succession  ;  and  at 
every  step  the  qualification  is  distinctly  made,  that 
we  receive  what  the  words,  as  we  understand  them, 
mean  in  the  Scriptures,  and  not  what  they  mean 
in  the  popular  creeds.  In  the  very  outset,  the 
reader  will  perceive,  if  he  will  turn  to  the  para- 
graph on  pp.  5-6,  that  I  argue  for  the  propriety  of 
our  using  some  of  these  terms  more  freely  than 
we  do,  though  in  a  sense  different  from  the  Ortho- 
dox use,  because  they  are  .Scripture  terms.  Indeed, 
if  they  had  been  used  without  any  express  qualifi- 
cation, if  they  had  been  recited  as  a  bare  creed, 
does  not  the  very  position  of  the  writer  as  a  Uni- 
tarian obviously  qualify  them ;  and  would  not 
any  man,  on  a  moment's  reflection,  say,  "  Of  course 
he  uses  them  in  a  sense  of  his  own  "  ?  And  does 
Professor  Stuart  really  suppose  that  we  are  anx- 
ious to  be  thought  or  called  Trinitarians  and  Cat- 
vinists  ?     The  case  speaks  for  itself.     The  allega- 


65 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINITY. 


tion  is  absurd.  It  is  scarcely  possible  for  me 
seriously  to  consider  it.  1  can  hardly  persuade 
myself  that  Professor  Stuart  himself  believes  what 
his  language  implies.  And  most  sincerely  do  1  wish, 
from  the  respect  which  1  have  always  felt  and  ex- 
pressed for  him,  that  the  charge  might  bear  no 
more  serious  aspect  any  way  than  it  does  toward 
myself. 

The  only  pertinent,  not  to  say  decent,  charge 
would  be,  not  that  of  disingenuousness, —  inten- 
tional, mean,  base,  contemptible  disingenuousness, 
—  but  of  im  propriety,  in  the  use  of  the  terms 
with  which  I  have  set  forth  "  the  Unitarian  Be- 
lief.'' If  this  were  the  allegation,  I  should  then  ask. 
Does  Professor  Stuart  mean  to  say  that  only  he 
and  those  who  think  with  him  have  a  right  to  de- 
fine their  faith  in  Scripture  language  ?  This  would 
be  a  new  kmd  of  claim.  This  would  be  an  exclu- 
sion that  would  drive  us  beyond  the  pale  of  Eng- 
lish speech.  I  had  thought  that  speech  and  Bible 
speech  were  common  property.  He  might  as 
well  say,  "  These  persons  profess  to  believe  in 
God  and  Christ,  in  religion  and  holiness,  and  they 
are  guilty  of  gross  deception.''     What  language, 


I  pray,  are  we  to  use,  be'ieving  as  we  do  ?  We 
do  believe  in  the  Father  and  the  Son  and  the  Holy 
Ghost.  This  is  the  great,  primitive,  Christian 
creed.  As  such  it  is  introduced  in  the  proselyte's 
ordinance  of  baptism.  In  baptism  we  continually 
use  it.  Must  we  not  be  allowed  to  say  that  we  be- 
lieve in  what  those  words  mean  1  We  do  believe 
in  the  Atonement,  the  Sacrifice,  the  Propitiation, 
as  we  understand  the  New  Testament  to  teach 
them  ;  and  in  the  same  sense,  we  balieve  in  hu- 
man depravity,  regeneration,  election,  and  a  future 
state  of  rewards  and  punishments.  And  can  we 
not  say  that  we  believe  in  them,  without  incurring 
the  charges  of  "gross  deception,"  of  "  artifice," 
and  of  a  conduct  which  "  merits  the  scorn  of  all 
upright  and  honest  minds  ".'' 

These  theological  commonplaces  —  these  po- 
lemic accusations  —  alas  !  one  is  tempted  to  ex- 
claim, in  what  school  of  morality  is  it  that  they 
yet  find  a  home.'  In  what  atmosphere  of  religious 
sentiment  is  it  that  is  breathed  the  fierce  and  fiery 
breath  of  such  terrible  accusations  1  If  it  were 
Christian,  one  could  hardly  wonder  at  the  Infidel- 
ity that  should  seek  a  better  school. 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS 

ON    THE    QUESTIONS    AT    ISSUE    BETWEEN    ORTHODOX    AND 
LIBERAL    CHRISTIANS.* 


I. 


ON   THE   TRINITY. 

What  is  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  ? 
It  is,  that  the  Almighty  Father  is  God  ; 
that  Jesus,  whom  he  sent  into  the  world, 
is  God  ;  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit,  rep- 
resented also  as  a  separate  agent,  is 
God  ;  and  yet  that  these  three,  "  equal 
in  power  and  glory,"  are  but  one  God. 
This  is  what  the  advocate  of  the  Trinity 
says.  But  now  let  me  ask  him  to  con- 
sider what  it  is  that  he  thinks ;  not 
what   are  the  words  he  uses,  but  what 

*  I  mean  no  offence  by  this  designation  of  the 
parties.  If  the  words  Orthodox  and  Liberal  be 
taken  in  a  literal  sense,  then,  of  course,  1  claim  to 
be  orthodox,  and  I  do  not  deny  that  others  are  liberal. 
But  I  take  the  terms  as  they  are  used  in  common 
parlance;  and  I  prefix  them  to  this  series  of  articles, 
because  no  other  cover  the  whole  ground  of  the  dis- 
cussion. In  any  view,  if  others  assume  the  title  of 
Orthodox,  I  think  they  cannot  charge  us  with  pre- 
sumption if  we  adopt  the  title  of  Liberal. 


are  his  actual  conceptions.  If  he  con- 
ceives of  only  one  God,  one  Infinite 
Mind  ;  and  then  if  all  that  he  means 
by  the  Trinity  is  that  the  Saviour  and 
the  Holy  Spirit  partook,  in  some  sense, 
of  the  nature  of  God,  —  this  is  nothing 
materially  different  from  what  we  all 
believe.  If  he  means  that  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Spirit  are  only  representations 
of  the  same  God,  acting  in  three  char- 
acters, then  he  is  not  a  Trinitarian,  but 
a  Sabellian.  But  if  he  goes  farther,  and 
attempts  to  grasp  the  real  doctrine  of 
the  Trinity  ;  if  he  attempts  to  conceive 
of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit 
as  possessing  each  a  distinct  existence, 
consciousness,  and  volition,  as  holding 
counsel  and  covenant  with  each  other, 
—  then,  though  he  may  call  these  Three 
one,  though  he  may  repeat  it  to  himself 
all  the  day  long,  that  they  are  but  one  ; 
yet  does  he  actually  conceive  of  them 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINITY. 


367 


as  three  agents,  three  beings,  three 
Gods  ?  The  human  mind,  I  aver,  is  so 
constituted,  that  it  cannot  conceive  of 
three  agents  sustaining  to  each  other 
the  relations  asserted  by  the  doctrine  of 
the  Trinity  without  conceiving  of  them 
as  three  Gods. 

Let  the  reader  keep  his  mind  free 
from  all  confusion  on  this  point  arising 
from  Christ's  incarnation,  or  adoption 
of  human  nature.  Before  that  event 
the  distinction  is  held  by  Trinitarians  to 
be  just  as  marked  as  it  is  now.  Then 
it  was  that  the  Father  covenanted  with 
the  Son.  Then  it  was  that  the  Son 
offered  to  assume  human  nature,  and 
not  the  Father.  Then  it  was  that  the 
Father  promised  to  the  Son  that  he 
should  "see  the  travail  of  his  soul  and 
be  satisfied."  Then  it  was  that  the 
Father  sent  the  Son  into  the  world.  Is 
it  possible  for  any  human  mind  to  con- 
template these  relations  without  con- 
ceiving of  those  between  whom  they 
existed  as  two  distinct,  self-conscious 
beings  ?  I  aver  that  it  is  not.  The 
Father,  by  supposition,  must  have 
known  that  he  was  not  the  Son.  The 
Son  must  have  known  that  he  was  not 
the  Father.  Two  who  speak  to  one 
another,  who  confer  together ;  the  one 
of  whom  commissions,  the  other  is  com- 
missioned ;  the  one'of  whom  sends  the 
other  into  the  world, — these  two  are, 
to  every  human  mind  so  contemplating 
them,  and  are  in  spite-  of  itseU,  two 
beings.  If  not,  then  there  is  nothing 
in  the  universe  answering  to  the  idea  of 
two  beings.  We  all  partake  of  a  common 
humanity  ;  and  it  might  just  as  well  be 
maintained  that  all  tnen  are  one  being 
as  that  the  three  in  the  Trinity  are  one 
being. 

In  simple  truth,  I  do  not  see  why 
any  reader  on  tliis  subject  need  go  far- 
ther tlian  this.  Till  something  credible 
is  offered  to  be  proved,  till  something 
better  than  absolute  self-contradiction 
is  proposed  as  a  matter  of  belief,  who 
is  bound  to  attend  to  the  argument  ? 

I  mean  no  discourtesy  nor  injustice 
to  the  Trinitarian,  unless  argument  shall 


be  thought  such.  I  know  that  he  sup- 
poses himself  to  hold  a  theory  which 
escapes  from  the  charge  of  self-contra- 
diction. But  so  long  as  he  says  that 
the  Father  sent  the  Son,  and  that  these 
two  are  one  and  the  same  being,  I 
believe  that  he  does  not  and  cannot 
escape  from  it.  I  know  that  he  pro- 
fesses to  believe  in  one  God;  and  in 
truth,  in  all  his  practical  and  devotional 
thoughts, — whenever  he  prays  to  the 
Father  through  the  Son,  —  he  is,  and 
his  mind  compels  him  to  be,  virtually 
a  Unitarian.  And  this  doubtless  is,  and 
always  has  been,  the  state  of  the  general 
mind.  Practical  Unitarianism  has  al- 
ways been  the  general  faith  of  Christen- 
dom. Even  when,  as  in  the  Roman 
Church,  and.  sometimes  in  the  Protes- 
tant, men  have  prayed  to  Jesus  Christ, 
it  would  be  found,  if  their  thoughts 
could  be  confessed,  that  they  have  for- 
gotten the  Father  for  the  time ;  and 
their  error  has  not  consisted  in  Trithe- 
ism,  but  in  clothing  the  being  called 
Jesus  with  the  attributes  of  sole  Di- 
vinity. Still,  tliough  erring,  they  have 
been  practical  Unitarians.  But  scho- 
lastic men  have  always  been  weaving 
theories  at  variance  with  the  popular 
and  effective  belief.  Half  of  the  history 
of  philosophy  might  be  written  in  illus- 
tration of  this  single  point.  Such  a 
theory,  I  conceive,  is  the  Trinity.  It 
has  existed  in  studies,  in  creeds,  in 
theses,  in  words  ;  but  not  in  the  actual 
conceptions  of  men,  not  in  their  heartfelt 
belief.  From  the  days  when  Tertullian 
complained  in  the  second  century  that 
the  common  people  would  not  receive 
this  doctrine,  and  down  through  all  the 
ages  of  seeming  assent,  and  to  this  very 
day,  I  believe  that  it  has  ever  been  the 
same  dead  letter.  And  when  Christi- 
anity has  fairly  thrown  off  this  incum- 
brance, as  I  believe  it  will,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  many  will  say,  what  not  a 
few  are  saying  now,  "  We  never  did 
believe  in  the  Trinity  ;  we  always  felt 
that  the  Son  was  inferior  to  the  Father 
who  sent  him." 

But  how  then,  I  may  be  asked,  does 


/v'.^jr.-j-j^ 


368 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINITY. 


it  come  to  pass,  that  this  doctrine  is 
honestly  and  earnestly  maintained  by  a 
great  many  able  and  learned  men,  to  be 
accordant  with  the  teachings  of  Scrip- 
ture ?  Because,  I  answer,  that,  on  a 
certain  theory  of  interpretation,  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  proof  for  it  from  Scrip- 
ture ;  while  upon  another  and  true 
principle,  1  firmly  believe  that  there  is 
none  at  all. 

Let  me  invite  the  reader's  attention, 
for  a  few  moments,  to  the  consideration 
of  this  point,  —  the  trice  principle  of  in- 
terpretation. My  own  conviction  is,  that 
it  settles  the  whole  question ;  but,  at 
any  rate,  I  cannot,  in  this  cursory  view 
which  I  am  taking,  go  over  the  ground 
of  the  whole  argument ;  and  therefore  I 
shall  confine  myself  to  the  most  material 
point  at  issue. 

We  must  all  have  seen  by  this  time  — 
indeed,  I  think  the  whole  Christian 
world  must  have  perceived  —  how  im- 
possible it  is  to  settle  any  question  from 
the  Scriptures  by  bare  textual  discus- 
sion. Texts  may  be  arrayed  against 
texts,  and  have  been  for  ages,  and 
might  be,  from  any  mass  of  writings 
like  the  Scriptures ;  they  might  be,  and 
have  been,  thus  arrayed  by  the  parties 
to  every  religious  controversy,  with  very 
little  tendency  to  produce  conviction,  so 
long  as  the  true  principle  of  their  inter- 
pretation was  disregarded.  So  long 
as  texts  are  considered  by  themselves 
alone,  considered  as  independent  pas- 
sages, uncontrolled  by  any  such  princi- 
ple, one  text  is  as  good  as  another  ;  and 
thus  Christian  sects  have  presented  the 
strange  anomaly  —  the  wonder  of  ob- 
servers, the  scorn  of  infidels  —  of  being 
directly  at  issue  on  the  clearest  points  of 
Christian  doctrine,  all  armed  with  proof 
passages, all  equally  confident,and  all  with 
equal  assurance  condemning  each  other. 

What  is  to  account  for  this  phenom- 
enon ?  There  are  other  causes,  indeed  ; 
but  I  am  persuaded  that  the  main  cause 
lies  in  the  peculiarity  of  treatment  to 
which  the  Scriptures  have  been  subjected. 
There  is  doubtless  a  superstructure  of 
passion,   prejudice,  pride,  and  worldly 


interest;  but  resting  ostensibly,  as  it 
does,  on  the  Scriptures,  there  must  be 
some  error  touching  the  very  interpreta- 
tion of  them. 

Let  me  now  more  distinctly  state  what 
are  the  two  principles  or  theories  of 
interpretation  by  which  it  is  proposed 
to  explain  the  language  of  Scripture  on 
this  subject.  For  the  Trinitarian  has 
his  theory,  his  humanly  devised  theory, 
and  his  reasoning,  and  what  he  con- 
siders his  rational  principle  of  exposi- 
tion, as  much  as  the  Unitarian.  The  dif- 
ference is  not,  though  it  is  often 
alleged,  that  the  Unitarian  relies  more 
upon  reasoning,  independent  of  Scrip- 
ture ;  but,  as  I  conceive,  that  he  relies 
upon  a  more  rational,  a  more  natural, 
and  a  really  sounder,  principle  of  inter- 
pretation. The  Trinitarian  says,  "  Here 
are  two  classes  of  passages,  —  those 
which  describe  an  inferior,  and  those 
which  describe  a  superior  nature.  We 
receive  both  classes  without  admitting 
any  qualification,  or  limitation  of  sense  in 
either.  One  class  of  texts  ascribes  human 
qualities  to  Jesus,  therefore  he  is  man  ; 
another  ascribes  divine  works  and  offices, 
therefore  he  is  God  ;  and  we  dare  not 
explain  them  into  what  we  might  imagine 
to  be  a  consistency  with  each  other,  as 
we  should  any  other  history,  concerning 
any  other  person.  We  receive  the  con- 
trasted portions  of  this  history  just  as  they 
stand:  holding  it  to  be  not  our  business 
to  explain,  but  only  to  believe." 

By  this  theory,  undoubtedly,  the  Trin- 
ity can  be  proved.  By  this  theory  a 
double  nature  in  Christ  can  be  proved. 
And  by  this  theory,  do  I  seriously  aver 
that  Transubstantiation,  Anthropomor- 
phism, and  irreconcilable  contradictions 
in  the  Divine  nature  can  be  proved. 
Transubstantiation,  the  doctrine  that 
the  sacramental  bread  and  wine  are  the 
real  body  and  blood  of  Christ ;  for  while, 
in  one  class  of  passages,  these  elements 
are  called  bread  and  wine,  in  another, 
doth  notour  Saviour  say,  "This  is  my 
body,— this  is  my  blood  ".^  Anthropomor- 
phism ;  for  while  we  are  taught  that  God 
is  a  spirit,  is  he  not  said  to  have  hands, 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINnV. 


369 


eyes,  to  walk  on  the  earth,  &c.  ?  Irre- 
concilable contradictions  in  his  nature  ; 
for  while  we  are  taught  that  God  is 
unchangeable,  is  he  not  represented  as 
repenting  that  he  had  made  man  ;  re- 
penting that  he  had  made  Saul  king  ? 
Upon  what  principle  is  it  that  such  mon- 
strous conclusions  are  avoided  ?  Upon  a 
principle,  I  answer,  that  is  latal  to  the 
Trinitarian  theory  of  interpretation.  It 
is  the  principle  that  words  are  not  to  be 
taken  by  themselves  in  the  Bible  ;  that 
limitations  and  qualifications  in  their 
meaning  must  be  admitted,  in  order  to 
make  any  sense  ;  that  the  Scriptures 
are,  in  this  respect,  to  be  interpreted 
like  other  books  ;  that  when  human  lan- 
guage is  adopted  as  the  instrument  of  a 
divine  communication,  it  may  fairly  be 
presumed  that  it  is  subject  to  the  laws  of 
that  instrument  ;  and  that  no  other  prin- 
ciple of  criticism  can  save  the  Bible,  or 
any  other  book,  from  the  imputation  of 
utter  absurdity  and  folly. 

This  I  understand  to  be  the  Unitarian 
theory  of  interpretation.  The  reader 
will  perceive  at  once  that  just  this  differ- 
ence of  theory  will  bring  out  precisely 
the  difference  of  results  that  character- 
ize these  two  classes  of  believers.  Which, 
then,  is  the  true  theory  ? 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  case  speaks 
for  itself ;  that  all  common-sense,  all 
usage,  all  criticism,  all  tolerable  com- 
mentary on  the  Bible,  sutificiently  declares 
which  is  the  right  principle. 

But  let  us  appeal  to  undeniable  author- 
ity,—  that  of  the  sacred  teachers  them- 
selves ;  that  of  the  Bible  interpreting 
itself. 

For  the  application  of  our  principle  of 
interpretation  to  the  very  subject  before 
us,  we  have  the  authority  of  Jesus  Christ 
himself  ;  and  the  application  is  as  clear 
and  decisive,  as  the  appeal,  with  every 
Christian,  must  be  final  and  ultimate. 
1  allude  to  that  most  e.\traordinary  pas- 
sage, in  John  x.  30-36, —  most  extraor- 
dinary I  mean  in  reference  to  this  con- 
troversy ;  and  I  propose  to  make  it  the 
subject  of  considerable  comment  and 
argument. 


What  is  the  question  in  the  passage 
here  referred  to  ?  I  answer,  the  very  ques- 
tion which  is  now  virtually  before  us  : 
Did  Jesus  claim  to  be  God  .^  What  was 
the  language  of  our  Saviour?  "  God  is 
my  Father :  I  and  my  Father  are  one." 
What  was  the  accusation  of  the  Jews  ? 
•'  Thou  biasphemest,  and,  being  a  man, 
makest  thyself  God," —  the  very  allega- 
tion on  which  Trinitarianism  is  founded. 
It  was  once  a  cavil:  it  is  now  a  creed. 
And  now  I  ask,  in  the  name  of  reason 
and  truth  and  Scripture,  liow  does  our 
Saviour  treat  it?  His  answer,  be  it  re- 
membered, in  the  first  place,  is  a  solemn 
and  absolute  dental  of  the  allegation 
that  he  had  made  himself  God  !  '-Jesus 
answered  them.  Is  it  not  written  in  your 
law,  I  said  ye  are  gods  ?  If  he  called 
them  gods  to  whom  the  word  of  God 
came,  and  the  Scripture  cannot  be 
broken,  say  ye  of  him  whom  the  Father 
hath  sanctified  and  sent  into  the  world, 
Thou  biasphemest,  because  I  said,  I  am 
the  Son  of  God  ? "  Our  Saviour  had 
used  strong  language  concerning  hi  mself . 
He  had  said,  "As  the  Father  knoweth 
me,  even  so  know  I  the  Father  ;  "  refer- 
ring, however,  as  I  suppose,  not  to  the 
extent,  but  the  certainty  of  the  knowl- 
edge. He  had  said,  "  I  and  my  Father 
are  one.  Then  the  Jews  took  up  stones 
to  cast  at  him;"  they  accused  him  of 
blasphemy  ;  they  said,  "  Thou  makest 
thyself  God."  Jesus  denies  that  ihe  lan- 
guage he  had  used  warrants  the  infer- 
ence they  drew  from  it.  This  is  the 
second  point.  He  denies  their  inference. 
He  clearly  implies,  moreover,  that 
stronger  language  still  would  not  war- 
rant the  inference.  He  tells  the  cavil- 
ling Jews,  that  even  those  "  to  whom  the 
word  of  God  came"  had  been  'called 
gods."  And  then,  so  far  from  declar- 
ing himself  to  be  God,  he  speaks  of  him- 
self as  one  whom  God  "  had  sanctified 
and  sent  into  the  world  ;  "  and  as,  on 
that  account,  entitled  to  speak  of  himself 
in  exalted  terms. 

And  yet,  how  astonishing  is  it,  we  may 
observe,  by  the  by,  that  this  very  lan- 
guage,   "  I   and   my   Father  are  one," 


24 


3/' 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS    ON    THE   TRINITY. 


concerning  which,  and  much  stronger 
language  too,  he  had  declared  its  insuffi- 
ciency to  prove  him  God ;  this  very  lan- 
guage, I  say,  and  other  similar  phraseol- 
ogy, is  constantly  quoted  to  prove  the 
supreme  deity  of  the  Son  of  God  !  Words, 
once  caught  up  by  gainsayers,  and  by 
them  wrested  into  a  charge  against  our 
Saviour,  of  assuming  Divinity,  and  de- 
nied by  him  to  be  any  legitimate  proof 
of  such  an  allegation,  now  help  to  sup- 
port the  faith  of  multitudes  in  this  very 
allegation,  as  a  portion,  and  a  most  es- 
sential portion,  of  the  Christian  doctrine  ! 

I  say  that  our  Saviour  appeals  to  a 
principle  of  interpretation.  Those,  in 
ancient  times,  "  to  whom  the  word  of 
God  came,"  were  men,  ordinary  men  ; 
and  when  they  were  called  gods,  this 
language  was  limited  in  its  force  by 
their  known  character.  No  one  could 
think  of  taking  this  language  for  what 
it  meant,  by  itself  considered,  and  with- 
out any  qualification.  But  our  Saviour 
was  an  extraordinary  personage,  and  he 
argues  that  words  of  much  loftier  im- 
port might  be  applied  to  him  without 
furnishing  any  warrant  for  the  inference 
that  he  was  God  ;  and  he  absolutely 
contradicts  the  inference. 

Let  us  now  apply  in  another  way 
the  reasoning  with  which  our  Saviour 
confounded  the  Jews. 

I  suppose  it  will  be  admitted  that  the 
words,  "  I  and  my  Father  are  one,"  do 
not  prove  our  Saviour  to  be  God,  since 
he  himself  expressly  disallows  the  in- 
ference. Now,  is  there  any  language 
in  the  Bible  concerning  Christ  that  is 
stronger  than  this  ?  Is  there  any  of 
all  the  proof-texts  that  is  stronger  .''  I 
confess  that  I  know  of  none.  This  is 
the  very  language  of  the  popular  creed  ; 
not  that  the  Father  and  the  Son  are 
two  Gods,  but  that  they  are  one.  And 
so  exactly  does  it  express  the  Orthodox 
belief  that,  Jiotwithsfanding  our  Sav- 
iour's disclamation,  it  is  constantly  used 
to  convey  the  idea  that  he  was  God. 
His  disclamation,  however,  settles  the 
matter  entirely.  And  I  suppose  that 
an  intelligent  reasoner  on  the  Trinita- 


rian side,  would  say:  "It  is  true  the 
words  here  used  do  not  prove  Jesus  to 
be  God.  Still,  however,  he  may  be 
God.  He  was  reasoning  with  the  Jews 
on  a  particular  charge.  The  charge  was 
that  he  had,  by  the  langtiage  he  used, 
made  himself  God.  He  simply  denies 
that  this  particular  language  warrants 
their  inference."  Is  not  this,  however, 
at  the  least,  a  very  extraordinary  suppo- 
sition ?  It  makes  our  Saviour  say  with 
himself.  "  True,  I  am  God,  and  being 
so  I  have  used  language  very  naturally 
expressive  of  that  fact.  However,  I 
can  reason  it  away  with  these  people 
on  the  ground  of  their  own  Scriptures, 
and  I  will  do  so.  I  am  God,  indeed  ; 
but  I  will  deny  this  inference  of  the 
Jews,  though  it  amounts  to  the  exact 
truth.  I  will  deny  it,  thougii  I  thereby 
mislead  them  altogether  and  infinitely 
as  to  my  true  character."  This,  I  say, 
would  be  our  Saviour's  reasoning  with 
himself  on  the  Trinitarian  hypothesis. 
But  the  truth  is,  this  supposition,  im- 
proper and  incredible  as  it  is,  will  not 
save  the  doctrine.  Because  this  lan- 
guage, which  our  Saviour  declares  in- 
sufficient to  prove  him  God,  is,  in  fact, 
as  strong  as  any  language  that  the  ad- 
vocates of  that  doctrine  adduce.  If  this 
language  does  not  fairly  prove  him  to 
be  God,  then  no  language  in  the  Bible 
does. 

Let  us  suppose,  to  put  this  in  another 
form,  that  the  New  Testament  in  all  its 
doctrinal  parts  ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the 
Epistles  had  been  written  and  all  had 
been  completed  before  our  Saviour's 
death  ;  and  that  our  Trinitarians  could 
have  said  to  him,  after  the  manner  of 
the  Jews,  "  Thy  disciples,  whom  thou 
hast  commissioned  to  declare  the  truth, 
make  thee  to  be  God."  I  conceive  that 
Jesus  might  have  given  the  same  answer 
as  he  did  to  his  Jewish  accusers.  He 
would  say,  "No  :  in  all  writings  it  is 
common  to  speak  of  men  according  to 
their  distinction  ;  nor  is  there  any  need, 
on  the  principles  of  ordinary  interpre- 
tation and  sense,  of  guarding  and  re- 
straining the  natural  language  of  admi- 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINITY. 


371 


ration  and  love.  Tlie  ancient  Jews 
were  called  gods,  because  the  word  of 
God  came  to  them.  And  I,  on  account 
of  inv  Messiahship,  may  properly  be 
spoken  of,  and  spoken  of  in  that  char- 
acter^ much  more  strongly." 

But,  to  bind  the  argument  more  close- 
ly, and  to  render  it,  as  I  think,  incon- 
trovertible, let  me  add,  that  the  matter 
which  I  now  state  is  not  a  matter  of  sup- 
position, but  of  fact.  Jesus  is  spoken  of, 
and  that  frequently,  in  his  simple  charac- 
ter of  Messiah  ;  tliat  is  to  say,  as  infe- 
rior, as  confessedly  inferior,  as  an  official 
person  he  is  spoken  of  as  strongly  as 
he  is  anywhere.  Observe  the  following 
language  :  "  For  by  him  were  all  tilings 
created  that  are  in  heaven  and  eartli,  vis- 
ible and  invisible,  whether  they  be  thrones 
or  dominions,  or  principalities  or  powers, 
all  things  were  created  by  him  and  for 
him,  and  he  is  before  all  things,  and  by 
him  all  things  consist."  There  is  no 
stronger  language  than  this.  And  yet, 
for  all  this,  Jesus  is  represented  as  de- 
pendent on  the  good  pleasure  of  God. 
''For — for  it  pleased  the  Father  that  in 
him  should  all  fulness  dwell."  I  suppose 
this  to  be  that  moral  creation,  that  cre- 
ating anew  of  many  souls,  which  Jesus 
by  his  doctrine  has  effected,  together 
with  that  influence  upon  the  visible  king- 
doms of  the  world  which  his  doctrine 
has  unquestionably  produced.  Again  : 
we  read  of  Jesus  Christ  as  being  '•  far 
above  principality  and  power,  and  might 
and  dominion,  and  every  name  that  is 
named,  not  only  in  this  world,  but  in  that 
which  is  to  come  ;"  and  again,  I  say, 
there  is  no  stronger  language  than  this. 
But  it  is  expressly  said,  tiiat  God  "  set 
him  above  all  principality,"  &c.  How 
directly  are  we  led  back  from  these  pas- 
sages to  our  Saviour's  principle  of  inter- 
pretation !  And  as  if  there  should  be  no 
doul)t  about  the  subordinate  and  tempo- 
rary character  of  this  distinction,  high 
as  it  was,  we  are  expressly  told,  that 
"  when  the  end  shall  come  ;"  when,  ac- 
cording to  the  Trinitarian  hypothesis, 
we  expect  to  see  Jesus  ascend  to  his  pri- 
meval dignity  as  God;  when  "all  things 


shall  be  subdued  unto  him,"  —  lo!  "then 
shall  he  be  subject  unto  him  that  put 
all  things  under  him,  that  God  may  be 
all  in  all."  And  as  if  to  warrant  the  very 
principle  of  interpretation  on  wiiich  1 
am  insisting,  as  if  to  show  that  nothing 
that  is  said  of  the  glory  of  our  Saviour 
is  to  be  taken  in  derogation  from  the  su- 
premacy of  God,  it  is  said  in  this  very 
connection,  "But  when  it  is  said,  ail 
things  are  put  under  him,  it  is  manifest 
tiiat  He  is  excepted  who  did  put  all  things 
under  him."  As  if  it  were  said,  —  nay  it 
is  said,  —  that  nothinjr  written  concerning: 
the  greatness  of  Jesus  is  to  bring  into 
question  the  unrivalled  supremacy  of 
God. 

And  let  me  add,  that  this  provides  us 
with  an  answer  to  the  only  objection  that 
stands  in  our  way.  It  may  be  said,  that 
there  are  still  passages  whose  force  is 
not  controlled  by  any  express  qualifica- 
tion. I  answer  that  it  is  nevertheless 
fairly  controlled  by  the  general  sense  of 
the  book.  The  certain  truth  that  there 
is  but  one  God  ;  the  constant  ascription 
of  that  supremacy  to  the  Father,  the  con- 
stant declaration,  that  Jesus  owed  every- 
thing to  God,  justly  limits  the  sense  of 
those  passages  which  ascribe  to  the  Sav- 
iour a  lofty  distinction.  This  is  accord- 
ing to  the  usage  of  all  writings.  Suppose 
that  when  the  biographer  had  said  of 
Bonaparte,  that  "  his  footstep  shook  the 
Continent, "  or  of  Mr.  Pitt,  that  he 
"  struck  a  blow  in  Europe  that  resounded 
through  the  world,"  or  the  poet,  of  Mil- 
ton, — 

"  He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  space  and  time  : 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze  ; " 

suppose,  I  say,  that  he  immediately  add- 
ed, and  in  every  such  instance  added, 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  be  taken  literal- 
ly, —  that  he  did  not  mean  that  tiie  per- 
sonage in  question  was  a  demigod, — 
could  anything  be  more  unnatural  and 
unnecessary  ?  Were  any  writings  ever 
composed  upon  this  plan  ? 

What,  then,  is  the  conclusion  at  which 
we  arrive  ?  The  very  olijection  which 
we  are  considering,  in  fact,  gives  up  the 
whole  argument.     For  it  is  admitted  by 


372 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   TRINITY. 


this  objection,  that  if  the  qualification 
had  been  constantly  introduced;  that  is 
to  say,  if  every  time  that  any  lofty  dis- 
tinction had  been  ascribed  to  Jesus,  it 
had  been  expressly  said  that  ''  God  gave 
him  this,"  that  "God  had  set  him  there," 
—  it  is  admitted,  I  say,  that  by  this  con- 
stantly repeated  qualification  the  whole 
Trinitarian  argument  would  have  been 
completely  overthrown.  Is  it  possible, 
then,  for  the  Trinitarian  expositor,  inter- 
preting the  Bible  on  the  same  principle 
that  he  does  other  books,  to  maintain 
his  argument  ?  If  he  does  maintain  it, 
I  fearlessly  assert  that  he  gives  up  the 
principle.  The  moment  he  feels  the 
Trinitarian  ground  strong  beneath  hirn, 
that  moment  he  abjures  the  principle  in 
his  exposition;  that  moment  he  begins 
to  say,  "  It  is  profane  to  interpret  the 
Scriptures  as  we  do  other  books,  the 
Scripture  biography  as  we  do  other 
biographies." 

The  fact  is,  and  I  must  assert  it,  that 
the  Trinitarian,  with  all  his  assumptions 
of  exclusive  reverence  for  the  Bible,  does 
not  adhere  to  the  Bible  as  his  opponent 
does.  If  he  would  vindicate  his  claim, 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  little  more  re- 
gard for  Scripture  usage  in  his  doxolo- 
gies  and  ascriptions.  From  all  pulpits, 
at  the  close  of  almost  every  prayer,  may 
be  heard,  on  any  Sunday,  fonmilas  of 
expression  like  these,  nowhere  to  be 
found  in  the  Bible  :  "And  to  the  Feather, 
the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  be  all  hon- 
or and  glory  :"  "  To  the  holy  and  ever- 
blessed  Trinity,  one  God,  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  be  equal  and  un- 
divided honors  and  praises." 

And  yet  those  who  pass  upon  us  such 
unscriptural  theories,  as  we  think  them, 
and  are  constantly  swaying  the  public 
mind  by  using  such  confessedly  unscrip- 
tural language,  are,  at  the  same  time, 
perpetually  charging  us  with  rejecting 
the  Bible  and  relying  on  our  presump- 
tuous reasonings,  and  with  leaning,  and 
more  than  leaning,  to  infidelity. 

I  repeat,  in  close,  that  the  question 
between  us  is  a  question  of  interpreta- 
tion.    It  is  a  question  of  "  What  saith 


the  Scripture  ?  "  It  amounts  to  nothing, 
in  view  of  this  question,  to  tell  me  that 
for  many  centuries  the  church  has,  in  the 
body  of  it,  believed  this  or  that  doctrine. 
The  church,  by  the  confession  of  us  all, 
has  believed  many  errors,  for  many  cen- 
turies. It  is  worse  yet,  contemptuously 
or  haughtily  to  say,  that  it  is  unlikely 
any  great  or  new  truth  in  religion  is  now 
to  be  found  out.  Such  a  principle  would 
stop  the  progress  of  the  age.  Such  a 
principle  would  have  crushed  the  Ref- 
ormation. Neither  is  our  doctrine  new, 
nor  is  it  unhonored,  so  far  as  human  tes- 
timony can  confer  honor.  It  was  the 
doctrine,  as  we  firmly  believe,  of  the 
primitive  church.  It  has  been  held  by 
many  good  men  ever  since.  And  when 
you  come  upon  English  ground,  —  when 
you  retrace  the  bright  lineage  of  our 
English  worthies,  to  whom  do  all  eyes 
turn  as  the  brightest  in  that  line  ?  Whose 
names  have  become  household  words  in 
all  the  dwellings  of  a  reading  and  intel- 
ligent community  ?  I  answer,  the  names 
of  Newton,  and  Locke,  and  Milton.  And 
yet  Newton,  who  not  only  read  the  stars  : 
and  Locke,  who  not  only  penetrated  with 
patient  study  the  secrets  of  the  mind  ; 
and  Milton,  who  not  only  soared  into  the 
heaven  of  poetry,  and  '"passed  the  sap- 
phire blaze,  and  saw  the  livmg  throne,''  — 
all  of  whom  read  their  Bibles  too,  and 
wrote  largely  upon  the  Scriptures,  —  all 
these,  after  laborious  investigation,  con- 
curred in  rejecting  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity.  What  these  men  believed  is 
not  to  be  accounted  of  mushroom  growth. 
They  were  men  not  of  parts  and  genius 
only,  but  men  of  solid  and  transcendent 
acquisitions  and  ever-during  fame.  I 
would  not  name  them  in  the  spirit  of 
vain  and  foolish  boasti  ng.  But  I  do  say,  — 
and  I  would  urge  this  consideration  par- 
ticularly, —  I  do  say,  that  the  extraordi- 
nary circumstance,  that  these  three  men 
have  been  as  distinguished  for  their 
study  of  the  Bible  as  they  have  been 
otherwise  distinguished  among  the  great 
and  learned  men  of  England,  should  lead 
every  man  to  pause  before  he  rejects 
a  doctrine  which  they  believed.     Much 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


Z7l 


more  does  it  become  men  of  inferior 
parts  and  little  learning  to  abstain  from 
pouring  out  contempt  and  anathemas 
upon  a  doctrine  which  Newton  and 
Locke  and  Milton  believed. 

It  is  to  little  purpose,  indeed,  to  lift 
up  warnings  and  denunciations,  and  to 
awaken  prejudice  and  hostility  against 
the  great  doctrine  on  which  Unitarian- 
ism  is  built,  —  the  simple  Unity  of  God  ; 
and  the  entire  inferiority,  yet  glorious 
distinction,  of  Jesus,  as  his  Son  and 
IMessenger.  This  doctrine  professes  to 
stand  securely  on  the  foundation  of 
Scripture.  Argument,  therefore,  not 
passion,  must  supply  the  only  effectual 
weapons  against  it.  If  this  doctrine  be 
wrong,  may  God  speedily  show  it  !  If 
it  be  right,  he  will  defend  the  right. 
Concerning  all  improper  opposition,  we 
might  say  to  its  opponents,  in  the  words 
of  Gamaliel,  "  Let  it  alone  :  for  if  this 
counsel  or  this  work  be  of  men,  it  will 
come  to  nought ;  but  if  it  be  of  God, 
ye  cannol  overthrow  it  :  lest  haply  ye  be 
found  even  to  fieht  against  God." 


II. 


ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 

1  Cor.  ii.  2 :  "  For  I  determined  not  to  know  any- 
thing among  you,  save  Jesus  Christ  and  him  cruci- 
fied." 

The  pre-eminence  thus  assigned  to 
one  subject  of  Christian  teaching,  the 
sufferings  of  Jesus,  must  command  for 
it  our  serious  attention.  It  is  true  that 
Paul  did  not  mean  to  say  that  he  would 
not  speak  of  anything  but  the  passion 
of  Christ  ;  for  he  did  speak  of  many 
other  things.  But  it  is  quite  clear  that 
he  did  give  to  this  subject,  in  the  Chris- 
tian system,  an  importance  pre-eminent ; 
predominating  over  all  others. 

Why  did  he  so  ?  Why  is  the  death 
of  Jesus  the  highest  subject  in  Chris- 
tianity ?  Why  is  the  cross  the  chief- 
est  emblem  of  Christianity  ?  Why  has 
something  like  Paul's  determination 
always    been  realized  in   the   Christian 


church,  —  to  know  nothing  else  ?  Why 
has  it  been  celebrated  as  nothing  else 
has  been  celebrated  ?  Why  has  a  holy 
rite  been  especially  ordained  to  show 
forth  the  death  of  Christ  through  all 
time  ?  The  brief  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions is,  that  the  substance,  the  subject- 
matter  of  Christianity,  is  the  character 
of  Christ  as  the  Saviour  of  men  ;  and 
that  the  grandest  revelation  of  his  char- 
acter and  purpose  was  made  on  the 
cross.  Of  this  revelation  I  am  now  to 
speak. 

In  entering  upon  this  subject  I  feel 
one  serious  difficulty.  It  has  taken  such 
hold  of  the  superstition  of  mankind  that 
it  is  difficult  to  present  it  in  its  true, 
simple,  natural,  and  affecting  aspects. 
For  this  reason,  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
engage  your  minds  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  a  doctrinal  discussion.  I 
cannot  discuss  this  solemn  theme  in  a 
merely  metaphysical  manner.  I  cannot 
contemplate  a  death,  and  least  of  all  the 
death  of  the  Saviour,  only  as  a  doctrine. 
It  is  to  me,  I  must  confess,  altogether 
another  kind  of  influence.  It  is  to  me, 
if  it  is  anything,  power  and  grandeur  ;  it 
is  something  that  rivets  my  eye  and 
heart  ;  it  is  a  theme  of  admiration  and 
spiritual  sympathy  ;  it  leads  me  to  medi- 
tation, not  to  metaphysics  ;  it  is  as  a 
majestic  example,  a  moving  testimony, 
a  dread  sacrifice,  that  I  niust  contem- 
plate it.  I  see  in  it  a  death-blow  to  sin. 
I  hear  the  pleading  of  the  crucified  One 
for  truth  and  salvation,  beneath  the 
darkened  heavens  and  amidst  the  shud- 
dering earth  ! 

I  mean  to  say,  that  all  this  is  spiritual 
and  practical.  It  amazes  me  that  this 
great  event,  which  is  filling  all  lands  and 
all  ages,  should  be  resolved  altogether, 
—  all  gathered  and  stamped  into  a  for- 
mula of  faith.  It  is  every  way  astonish- 
ing to  me  that  such  a  speculative  use 
should  have  been  made  of  it  ;  that  suf- 
fering should  have  been  seized  upon 
as  a  subject  for  metaphysical  analysis  ; 
that  the  agony  of  the  Son  of  God  should 
have  been  wrested  into  a  thesis  for  the 
theologian  ;  that  a  death   should   have 


74 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


been  made  a  dogma  ;  that  blood  should 
have  been  taken  to  write  a  creed ;  that 
Calvary  should  have  been  made  the 
arena  of  controversy.  That  the  cross, 
whereon  Jesus,  with  holy  candor  and 
meekness,  prayed  for  his  enemies,  say- 
ing, "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do  ;  "  that  tlie  cross 
should  have  been  made  a  rack  of  moral 
torture  for  his  friends,  whereon,  in  all 
the  valleys  and  upon  all  the  hills  of 
Christendom  they  have  been  crucified  by 
unkindness  and  exclusion,  —  is  there 
another  such  contradiction,  is  there 
another  such  phenomenon  to  be  found 
in  all  the  strange  history  of  the  world  ? 
There  have  been  martyrdoms  recorded 
in  the  world's  great  story  ;  but  when 
before  were  martyrdoms  wrought  into 
sharp  and  reproachful  metaphysics  ? 
There  have  been  fields  drenched  with 
righteous  blood  ;  there  have  been  lowly 
and  lonely  valleys,  like  those  of  Pied- 
mont and  Switzerland,  where  the  sighs 
and  groans  of  the  crushed  and  bleeding 
have  risen  and  echoed  among  the  dark 
crags  that  surrounded  them  ;  but  who 
ever  thought  of  building  up  these  dread 
testimonies  of  human  suffering  and  for- 
titude into  systems  of  doctrinal  specu- 
lation ? 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  In 
the  train  of  the  world's  history,  as  I 
follow  it,  I  meet  at  length  with  a  being 
marked  and  singled  out  from  all  others. 
1  read  in  the  Gospel  the  wonderful  ac- 
count of  the  most  wonderful  personage 
that  ever  appeared  on  earth.  Nothing 
in  the  great  procession  of  ages  ever 
bore  any  comparison  with  the  majestic 
story  that  now  engages  my  attention.  I 
draw  near  and  listen  to  this  being,  and 
he  speaks  as  never  man  spake.  By 
some  strange  power,  which  I  never  so 
felt  before,  he  seems  as  no  other  master 
ever  did  to  speak  to  me.  I  follow  him  as 
the  course  of  his  life  leads  me  on.  I  be- 
come deeply  interested,  more  than  as  for 
a  friend,  in  everything  he  says  and  does 
and  suffers.  I  feel  the  natural  amaze- 
ment at  the  resistance  and  hatred  he 
meets  with.     I  feel  a  rising  glow  in  my 


cheek  at  the  indignities  that  are  heaped 
upon  him.  I  say  with  myself,  "  Surely 
God  will  interpose  for  him  !  "  I  hear  him 
speak  obscurely  of  a  death  by  violence  ; 
but,  like  the  disciples,  I  cannot  receive 
it.  I  look,  rather,  that  some  horses 
and  chariots  of  fire  shall  come  and 
bear  him  up  to  heaven.  But  the  scene 
darkens  around  .him ;  more  and  more 
frequently  fall  from  his  lips  the  sad 
monitions  of  coming  sorrow  ;  he  pre- 
pares a  feast  of  friendship  with  his  dis- 
ciples, but  he  tells  them  that  it  is  the  last ;' 
he  retires  thence  to  the  shades  of  Geth- 
semane  ;  and  lo  !  through  those  silent 
shades  comes  the  armed  band  ;  he  is 
taken  with  wicked  hands ;  he  is  borne 
to  the  Judgment  Hall ;  he  is  invested 
with  a  bloody  crown  of  tiiorns,  and 
made  to  bear  his  cross  amidst  a  jeering 
and  insulting  multitude  ;  he  is  stretched 
upon  that  accursed  tree  ;  he  expires  in 
agony.  Oh  !  where  are  now  the  hopes 
that  he  would  do  some  great  thing  for 
the  world  !  He  seemed  as  one  who 
would  save  the  world,  and  lo !  he  is 
crucified  and  slain  !  He  seemed  to  hold 
in  his  bosom  the  great  regenerative 
principle  ;  he  knew  what  was  in  man, 
and  what  man  wanted  ;  he  appeared  as 
the  hope  of  the  world  ;  and  where 
now  is  that  hope  ?  Buried,  entombed, 
quenched  in  the  dark  and  silent  sepul- 
chre. All  is  over  ;  all,  to  my  worldly 
view,  is  ended.  I  wander  away  from 
the  scene  in  hopeless  despair.  I  fall 
in  company  as  the  narrative  leads  me 
on,  with  two  of  the  scattered  disciples 
going  to  Emmaus.  And  as  we  talk  of 
these  things,  one  joins  us  in  our  walk, 
and  asks  us  what  are  these  sad  com- 
munings of  ours.  And  we  say,  "  Art 
thou  only  a  stranger  in  Jerusalem, 
and  hast  not  known  the  things  which 
are  come  to  pass  there  in  these  days  .-" 
And  he  says,  What  things  ?  And  we 
answer,  Concerning  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
Then  expounds  he  to  us  the  Scriptures  ; 
and  says,  Ought  not  Christ  to  have  suf- 
fered these  things  and  to  enter  into  his 
glory?  "  In  fine,  he  reveals  himself  unto 
us,  and  then  vanishes  away.     And  ue 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


375 


say,  "Did  not  our  hearts  burn  within  us 
while  he  talked  with  us  l)y  the  way,  and 
while  he  opened  to  us  the  Scriptures  ? " 

In  short,  it  is  at  this  point  that  a  new 
view  enters  my  mind  of  the  sufferings  of 
Jesus.  The  worldly  views  all  pass 
away  ;  the  worldly  views  of  death  and 
defeat,  of  ignominy  and  ruin  ;  and  I  see 
that  through  death  it  was  that  Jesus 
conquered.  I  see  that  his  dying,  even 
more  than  his  living,  is  a  ministration  of 
power,  and  light,  and  salvation  to  the 
world.  I  see  that  that  ignominy  is 
glory;  that  those  wounds  are  fountains 
of  healing  ;  that  the  cross,  hitherto 
branded  as  the  accursed  tree,  fit  only 
for  the  execution  of  the  vilest  culprits, 
has  become  the  emblem  of  everlasting 
honor. 

Now,  therefore,  the  death  of  Jesus 
becomes  to  me  the  one  great  revelation. 
I  determine  to  know  nothing  else, 
nothing  in  comparison  with  it;  nothing 
is  of  equal  interest.  All  the  glory  of 
Christ's  example,  all  the  graciousness 
of  his  purposes,  shines  most  brightly 
on  the  cross.  It  is  the  consummation 
of  all,  the  finishing  of  all.  The  epitaph 
of  Jesus  is  the  epitome  of  Christianity. 
The  death  of  Jesus  is  the  life  of  the 
world. 

In  saying  this,  I  wish  to  utter  no 
theological  dogma,  which  shall  be  re- 
spectfully received  as  a  mere  dogma.  I 
simply  express  what  is,  upon  my  own 
mind,  the  natural  impression.  I  stand 
by  the  cross  of  Jesus  ;  for  no  interven- 
ing ages  can  weaken  the  power  of  that 
manifestation  ;  and  what  is  its  language 
to  me  ?  1  will  suppose  myself  to  stand 
alone  by  that  cross  ;  I  will  suppose 
that  I  have  never  iieard  of  any  theologi- 
cal systems  ;  I  stand  in  the  simplicity 
of  the  elder  time,  before  any  systems 
were  invented.  And  what  now  is  the 
first  feeling  that  enters  my  mind  as  I 
gaze  upon  that  Sufferer  ? 

I.  I  think  I  shall  state  the  natural 
impression,  taking  into  account  all  that 
I  have  known  of  Jesus,  when  I  say  that 
the  first  feeling  is,  that  I  am  a  sinner. 
It  is  ever  the  tendency  of  human  guilt, 


on  witnessing  any  great  catastrophe,  to 
exclaim,  "  1  am  a  sinner."  But  this  is 
not  a  catastrophe  witiiout  an  explana- 
tion. Let  us  see  if  my  feeling  is  not 
right.  I  have  heard  all  that  Jesus  has 
said  of  the  supreme  evil  that  sin  is.  I 
have  seen  how  that  one  conviction 
rested  upon  his  mind,  and  breathed  out 
in  all  his  teachings,  that  nothing  besides 
is  comparatively  an  evil.  I  have  seen 
that  it  was  on  this  very  account  that  he 
came  on  a  mission  of  pity  from  the 
Father  of  mercies.  I  have  heard  all 
that  he  has  said ;  my  heart  has  been 
probed  by  his  words,  and  I  involuntarily 
exclaim,  as  I  see  him  suspended  on  the 
cross,  "  Ah  !  sinful  being  that  I  am, 
that  such  an  one  should  suffer  for  me. 
It  is  I  that  deserved  to  suffer  ;  but 
God  hath  made  him  the  propitiation  for 
my  sins.  Could  nothing  else  set  forth 
before  me  the  curse  of  sin  ?  Could  no 
other  hand  bear  the  burden  of  my 
redemption  ?  Truly,  I  have  sinned 
against  the  gracious  Father  of  my  exist- 
ence ;  I  always  knew  it ;  I  always  felt 
that  I  had  ;  but  how  is  it  shown  to  me 
now,  when  the  love  and  pity  of  the  infi- 
nite Father  appears  in  this,  that  he 
spared  not  his  own  Son,  but  gave  him 
to  die  for  me !  Oh  !  sore  and  bitter  to 
abide  are  pains  and  wounds  ;  cherished 
in  heaven  are  the  sufferings  of  martyred 
innocence  !  how  then  does  every  pain 
of  Jesus  awaken  the  pain  of  conscious 
guilt  in  my  mind  !  how  does  every 
wound  reveal  a  deeper  wound  in  my 
soul  !  I  will  repent  me  now,  if  I  never 
would  before.  I  will  resist,  I  can  resist 
no  longer.  I  will  be  crucified  to  sin, 
and  sin  shall  be  crucified  to  me.  I  will 
bathe  the  cross  of  Jesus  with  the  tears  of 
penitence.  God,  who  hast  interposed 
for  me,  help  me  to  die  daily  unto  sin, 
and  to  live  unto  righteousness  !  " 

It  is  in  this  connection,  if  anywhere, 
that  we  must  give  a  few  moments' 
attention  to  the  doctrinal  explanation  of 
the  atonement.  I  have  indeed  remon- 
strated against  the  speculative  use  of 
this  subject ;  but  the  state  of  the  public 
mind  makes  it  necessary,  perhaps,  that 


376 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS    ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


something  should  be  said  of  the  theory 
of  the  atonement. 

I  understand  this,  then,  to  be  the 
state  of  the  question :  Two  leading 
views  of  the  sacrifice  of  Christ  divide 
the  Christian  world.  The  one  regards 
it  as  an  expedient ;  the  other  as  a  man- 
ifestation. According  to  the  first  view, 
the  sacrifice  of  Christ  is  usually  repre- 
sented either  as  the  suffering  of  a  pen- 
alty, or  as  the  payment  of  a  debt,  or  as 
the  satisfaction  of  a  law.  It  is  some- 
thins:  that  either  turns  God's  favor 
towards  us,  or  makes  it  proper  for  him 
to  show  favor.  It  is  some  new  element, 
or  some  new  expedient,  introduced 
into  the  Divine  government,  without 
which  it  is  impossible  to  obtain  forgive- 
ness. This,  I  understand  to  be,  in 
general  and  in  substance,  the  Calvinis- 
tic  view.  The  other  view  regards  the 
suffering  of  Christ  as  simply  a  mani- 
festation. It  is  not  a  purchase,  or  pro- 
curement, but  a  manifestation  of  God's 
love,  and  pity,  and  willingness  to  forgive. 
It  is  not  the  enfranchisement,  from 
some  legal  bond,  of  God's  mercy  ;  but 
the  expression,  the  outflowing  of  that 
mercy  which  was  forever  free.  It  was 
a  satisfaction  not  to  the  heart  of  reluc- 
tant justice,  but  of  abounding  grace. 
The  divine  displeasure  against  sin,  in- 
deed, was  manifested  ;  for  how  costly 
was  the  sacrifice  for  its  removal  !  but 
not  a  displeasure  that  must  burn  against 
the  sinner  till  some  expedient  was  found 
to  avert  it. 

Now  tiie  view  of  manifestation  is  tlie 
one  which  we  adopt  ;  and  certainly 
many  of  the  more  modern  Orthodox 
explanations  come  to  the  same  thing. 
They  still  proceed,  it  is  true,  upon  the 
presumption  that  this  inanifestation  was 
intrinsically  necessary  ;  that  sin  could 
not  have  been  forgiven  without  it ;  that 
the  authority  of  God's  law  could  not 
have  been  otherwise  upholden.  I  cer- 
tainly cannot  take  this  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. I  cannot  undertake  to  say  what 
it  was  possible  or  proper  for  the  Al- 
mighty to  do.  I  can  only  wonder  at  the 
presumption  of  those   who  do   profess 


thus  to  penetrate  into  the  fathomless 
counsels  of  the  Infinite  Government. 
I  read  in  the  Gospel,  it  is  true,  of  a 
necessity  for  the  sufferings  of  Christ; 
but  I  understand  it  to  be  founded  in 
prophecy  which  must  be  fulfilled  ; 
founded  in  the  moral  purposes  of  his 
mission ;  founded  in  the  wisdom  of 
God.  I  read,  that  God  is  the  justifier 
of  him  that  believeth  in  Jesus,  of  him 
that  is  penitent  and  regenerate  ;  that  is, 
God  treats  him  as  if  he  were  just  ;  in 
other  words,  shows  favor  to  him  ;  be- 
stows pardon  and  mercy  upon  him. 
And  of  this  mercy  Jesus,  the  sufferer,  is 
the  great  and  all-subduing  manifestation. 

I  cannot  here  go  into  the  details  of 
Interpretation.  It  is  perplexed  by  rea- 
sonings of  the  Apostles  about  the  rela- 
tions of  Jews  and  Gentiles,  by  analogies 
to  the  Jewish  sacrifices,  by  the  language 
and  speculations  of  an  ancient  time  ; 
by  difiiculties,  in  short,  that  require 
much  study  and  learning  for  their  clear- 
ing up,  and  demand  no  solution  at  the 
hand  of  plain  and  unlearned  persons, 
who  are  simply  seeking  for  their  salva- 
tion. This  profound  criticism,  in  short, 
is  a  subject  for  a  volume,  rather  than 
for  a  sermon. 

But  I  will  present  to  you,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  frequent  practice  of  theo- 
logians, a  single  illustration,  which,  if 
you  will  carry  into  the  New  Testament, 
you  will  see,  I  believe,  that  it  explains 
most  of  the  language  you  will  find 
there. 

Suppose,  then,  that  a  father,  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  country,  had  a  family 
of  sons,  all  dear  to  him.  Suppose  that 
all  of  them,  save  one,  who  remained  at 
home  with  him,  had  wandered  away  into 
the  world  to  seek  their  fortunes,  and 
that  in  the  prosecution  of  that  design, 
they  had  come  to  one  of  our  cities. 
Suppose  that,  in  process  of  time,  they 
yield  to  the  temptations  that  surround 
them,  and  become  dissolute  and  aban- 
doned, and  are  sunk  into  utter  misery  ; 
first  one,  and  then  another,  till  all  are 
fallen.  From  time  to  time,  dark  and 
vajrue  rumors  had  gone    back  to  their 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS   ON    THE   ATONEMENT. 


Z77 


country-home  that  all  was  not  well  ; 
and  their  parent  had  been  anxious  and 
troubled.  He  thought  of  it  in  sleepless 
nights;  but  what  could  he  do?  He 
desired  one  and  another  of  his  neighbors, 
going  down  to  the  great  city,  to  see  his 
sons,  and  tell  him  of  their  estate.  On 
their  return  they  speak  to  him  in  those 
reserved  and  doubtful  terms  that  sear 
a  parent's  heart  :  one  messenger  after 
another  speaks  in  "this  manner,  till  at 
length  evasion  is  no  longer  possible, 
and  the  father  learns  the  dreadful  truth, 
that  his  sons  are  sunk  into  the  depths 
of  vice,  debasement,  and  wretchedness. 
Then,  at  last,  he  says  to  his  only  re- 
maining and  beloved  son,  "  Go,  and 
save  thy  brethren."  Let  me  observe  to 
you  here,  that  nothing  is  more  common 
in  the  books  of  Divinity  than  compari- 
sons of  this  nature  ;  and  that  it  is  not, 
of  course,  designed  to  imply  anything  in 
such  comparisons  of  the  relative  rank  of 
the  parties.  The  father  says,  "  Go  and 
save  thy  brethren."  Moved  by  com- 
passion, that  son  comes  to  the  great 
city.  He  seeks  his  unhappy  brethren 
in  their  miserable  haunts ;  he  labors  for 
their  recovery.  Ere  long  a  fearful  pes- 
tilence spreads  itself  in  the  city.  Shall 
the  heroic  brother  desist  from  his  task  ? 
No,  he  labors  on  ;  night  and  day  he  la- 
bors ;  till  in  the  noisome  abodes  of  vice, 
poverty,  and  misery,  he  takes  the  infec- 
tious disease,  and  dies.  He  dies  for 
the  salvation  of  his  brethren. 

Now  what  is  the  language  of  this  sac- 
rifice on  the  part  of  the  father,  what  is 
it  on  the  part  of  the  son,  and  what  ^s  it 
to  tho.se  unhappy  objects  of  this  inter- 
position ? 

On  the  part  of  the  father,  it  was 
unspeakable  compassion.  It  was  also, 
constructively,  an  expression  of  his  dis- 
pleasure against  vice,— of  the  sense  he 
entertained  of  the  evil  into  which  his  sons 
had  fallen.  On  the  part  of  the  son,  it 
was  a  like  conviction  and  compassion, 
and  a  willingness  to  die  for  the  recovery 
of  his  brethren.  What  would  it  be  to 
those  guilty  brethren  ?  Wiiat  would  it  be 
especially,  if  by  dying  for  them  he  recov- 


ered them  to  virtue,  restored  them  to  their 
father's  arms  and  to  a  happy  life  .?  "Ah  ! 
our  brother  !  "  they  would  say  :  "  he  died 
for  us  ;  he  died  that  we  might  live.  His 
blood  has  cleansed  us  from  sin.  Bj'  his 
stripes,  by  his  groans,  by  his  pains,  we 
are  healed.  Dearly  beloved  brother  !  we 
will  live  in  memory  of  thy  virtues,  and 
in  honor  of  thy  noble  sacrifice."  Nor, 
my  friends,  is  there  one  word  of  reliance 
or  gratitude  in  the  New  Testament  ap- 
plied to  the  sacrifice  of  Jesus,  which  per- 
sons thus  circumstanced,  and  with  a 
Jewish  education,  would  not  apply  to 
just  such  an  interposition  as  we  have 
supposed.  If,  then,  we  have  put  a  case 
which  meets  and  satisfies  all  the  Scrip- 
tural language  to  be  explained,  have  we 
not  put  a  case  that  embraces  the  essential 
features  of  the  great  atonement .'' 

II.  I  have  now  spoken  of  the  relation 
of  the  cross  of  Christ  to  our  sins  and  to 
the  pardon  of  sin.  But  we  should  by 
no  means  have  exhausted  its  efficacj-,  we 
should  by  no  means  have  shown  all  the 
reasons  of  its  pre-eminence  in  the  Chris- 
tian dispensation,  if  we  were  to  stop  here. 
Not  less  practical,  not  less  momentous,  is 
its  relation  to  our  deliverance  from  sin. 
That,  indeed,  is  its  ultimate  end,  and 
pardon  is  to  be  obtained  only  on  that  con- 
dition. This  idea,  indeed,  has  been 
essentially  involved  in  what  we  have  al- 
ready said  ;  but  it  requires  j'et  further 
to  be  unfolded. 

The  death  of  Jesus  is  the  greatest  min- 
istration ever  known  on  earth  to  human 
virtue.  It  was  intended  not  to  be  a  relief 
to  the  conscience,  but  an  incentive,  a 
goad  to  the  negligent  conscience. 

It  was  not  meant,  because  Christ  has 
died,  that  men  should  roll  the  burden  of 
their  sin  on  him,  and  be  at  ease  ;  but 
that,  more  than  ever,  they  should  strug- 
gle with  it  themselves.  It  was  designed 
that  the  cross  should  lay  a  stronger  bond 
upon  the  conscience  even  than  the  law. 
When  I  look  upon  the  cross  I  cannot 
indulge,  my  brethren,  in  sentimental  or 
theologic  strains  of  rapture  over  reliefs 
and  escapes  ;  over  the  broken  bonds 
of    legal   obligation  ;    over  a    salvation 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT, 


wrought  out  for  me,  and  not  in  me  ; 
over  a  purchased  and  claimed  pardon  ; 
as  if  now  all  were  easy,  as  if  a  commu- 
tation were  made  with  justice, —  the  debt 
paid,  the  debtor  free ;  and  there  were 
nothing  to  do  but  to  rejoice  and  triumph. 
No  :  I  should  feel  it  to  be  base  and 
ungenerous  in  me  thus  to  contemplate 
sufferings  and  agonies  endured  for  my 
salvation.  The  cross  is  a  most  majes- 
tic and  touching  revelation  of  solemn 
and  bounden  duty.  It  makes  the  bond 
stronger,  not  weaker.  It  reveals  a  harder, 
not  an  easier,  way  to  be  saved.  That  is 
to  say,  it  sets  up  a  stricter,  not  a  looser, 
law  for  the  conscience.  Every  particle 
of  evil  in  the  heart  is  now  a  more  la- 
mentable and  gloomy  burden  than  it 
ever  was  before.  The  cross  sets  a  darker 
stamp  upon  the  malignity  of  sin  than  the 
table  of  the  commandments  ;  and  it  de- 
mands of  us,  in  accents  louder  than 
Sinai's  thunder,  sympathetic  agonies  to 
.be  freed  from  sin. 

The  cross,  I  repeat,  is  the  grand  min- 
istration to  human  virtue.  It  is  a  lan- 
guage to  all  lonely  and  neglected,  or 
slighted  and  persecuted,  virtue.  Often  do 
we  stand  in  situations  where  that  cross 
is  our  dearest  example  and  friend.  It  is, 
perhaps,  beneath  the  humble  roof,  where 
the  great  world  passes  us  by,  and  neither 
sees  nor  knows  us  ;  where  no  one  bla- 
zons our  patience,  our  humility,  cheerful- 
ness, and  disinterestedness,  to  the  multi- 
tude that  is  ever  dazzled  with  outward 
splendor.,  There  must  we  learn  of  him 
who  for  us  was  a  neglected  wanderer,  and 
had  not  even  where  to  lay  his  head. 
There  must  we  learn  of  him  who  was 
meek  and  lowly  in  heart,  and  find  rest 
unto  our  souls.  There  must  we  learn 
of  liim  who  bowed  that  meek  and  lowly 
liead  upon  the  cross  ;  dishonored  before 
a  passing  multitude,  honored  before  all 
ages.  Or  we  stand,  perhaps,  beneath  the 
perilous  eye  of  observation,  of  an  obser- 
vation not  friendly,  but  hostile  and  scorn- 
ful. We  stand  up  for  our  integrity  -.  we 
stand  for  some  despised  and  persecuted 
principle  in  religion  or  morals  or  science. 
And  it  is  hard  to  bear  opprobrium  and 


injury  for  this,  hard  for  the  noblest  testi- 
mony of  our  conscience  to  bear  the  worst 
infliction  of  human  displeasure.  The 
dissenting  physician,  the  dissenting  phi- 
lanthropist, the  dissenting  Christian, 
knows  full  well  how  hard  it  is.  And  there, 
keeping  there  our  firm  stand,  must  we 
look  upon  that  cross,  whereon  hung  one 
who  was  despised  and  rejected  of  men, 
—  the  scorned  of  earth,  the  favored  and 
beloved  of  heaven.  That  stand  for  con- 
science, kept  firmly,  humbly,  meekly,  we 
must  learn,  is  not  mean  and  low  ;  it  is  the 
very  grandeur  of  life  ;  it  is  the  magnifi- 
cence of  tlie  world.  It  is  a  world  of  mis- 
construction, of  injury,  of  persecution  ; 
that  cross  is  lifted  up  to  stay  our  faint- 
ing courage,  to  fix  our  wavering  fidel- 
ity, to  inspire  us  with  meekness,  pa- 
tience, forgiveness  of  enemies,  and 
trust  in  God. 

Again,  the  cross  is  a  language  to  all 
tempted  and  struggling  virtue.  Jesus' 
was  tempted  in  all  points  as  we  are,  yet 
without  sin.  Thou  too  art  tempted.  In 
high  estate  as  well  as  in  low,  thou  art 
tempted.  Nay,  and  the  misery  and 
peril  of  the  case  is,  that  all  estates  are 
becoming  low  with  thee  ;  all  is  sinking 
around  thee,  when  temptation  presses 
thee  sore.  When  thou  art  tempted  to 
swerve  from  the  integrity  of  thy  spirit 
or  of  thy  life,  and  the  perilous  hour 
draws  near,  and  thou  reasonest  with 
thyself,  thou  art  in  a  kind  of  despair. 
Thou  sayest  that  friends  desert  thee, 
and  the  world  looks  coldly  on  thee  ;  or 
thou  sayest  that  thy  passions  are  strong, 
and  thy  soul  is  sad,  and  thy  state  is  un- 
happy, and  it  is  no  matter  what  befalls. 
Then  it  is  that  to  thy  tempted  and  dis- 
couraged virtue  Jesus  speaks,  and  says, 
"  Deny  the  evil  tliouglit,  and  take  up 
thy  cross  and  follow  me.  Behold  my 
agony,  behold  my  desertion,  behold  the 
drops  of  bloody  sweat.  I  shrink  in  the 
frailty  of  nature,  as  thou  dost,  from 
the  cup  of  bitterness  ;  1  pray  that  it 
may  pass  from  me  ;  but  I  do  not  refuse 
it.  There  is  worse  to  fear  than  pain,  — 
o^uilt ;  failure  in  the  great  trial  ;  the 
prostration  of  all  thy  nobleness    before 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


379 


the  base  appliance  of  a  moment's  grati- 
fication ;  ay,  the  pain  of  all  thy  after  life 
for  an  hour's  pleasure.  Learn  of  me, 
that  virtue  does  not  always  repose  on 
a  bed  of  roses.  Oh  I  no:  sharp  pangs, 
sharp  nails,  piercing  thorns,  are  for 
me  ;  wonder  not  thou,  then,  at  the  fiery 
trial  in  thy  soul  :  my  sufTerings  emblem 
thine,  so  let  my  triumph  ;  all  can  be 
endured  for  victory,  holy  victory,  immor- 
tal victory." 

Once  more  :  the  cross  appeals  to  all 
heroic  and  lofty  virtue.  Let  me  say 
heroic  ;  though  that  word  is  scarcely 
yet  found  in  the  Christian's  vocabulary. 
But  in  the  Christian's  life  there  is  to  be 
a  heroism.  He  is  to  feel  as  one  who 
has  undertaken  a  lofty  enterprise.  He 
has  entered  upon  a  sublime  work.  It  is 
his  being's  task  and  trial  and  triumph. 
We  think  too  poorly  of  what  a  Christian 
life  is.  We  hold  it  to  be  too  common- 
place. There  is  nothing  heroic  or  lofty, 
as  to  the  principle,  in  all  history,  in  all 
the  majestic  fortunes  of  humanity,  but  is 
to  come  into  the  silent  strife  of  every 
Christian's  spirit. 

Now  to  this,  the  example  of  the  cru- 
cified Saviour,  is  an  emphatic  appeal. 
The  cross  is  commonly  represented  as 
humbling  to  the  human  heart;  it  is  so 
to  the  worldly  pride  of  the  human  heart  : 
but  it  is  also  to  that  heart,  an  animat- 
ing, soul-thrilling,  ennobling  call.  It 
speaks  to  all  that  is  sacred,  disinterested, 
self-sacrificing  in  humanity.  I  fear  that 
we  regard  Christ's  sacrifice  for  us  so 
technically  that  we  rob  it  of  its  vital  im- 
port, it  was  a  painful  sacrifice  for  us, 
as  truly  as  if  our  brother  had  died  for 
us;  it  was  a  bitter  and  bloody  propitia- 
tion to  bring  back  offending  man  to  his 
God  ;  it  was  a  groan  for  human  guilt 
and  misery  that  rent  the  earth  ;  it  was  a 
death  endured  for  us,  that  we  might  live, 
and  live  forever.  I  speak  not  one  word 
of  this  technically ;  I  speak  vital  truth. 
Even  if  Jesus  had  died  as  any  other 
martyr  dies  ;  if  he  had  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  his  own  fidelity,  had  thought  of 
nothing  but  bearing  witness  to  the  truth, 
—  still  the  call  would,  f)}/  inference,  have 


come  to  us.  But  it  is  not  left  to  infer- 
ence. Jesus  was  commissioned  to  bear 
this  very  relation  to  the  world.  He  knew 
that,  if  he  were  lifted  up,  he  should  draw 
all  men  to  him.  And  liow  draw  all  men 
to  him  ?  Plainly,  in  sympathy,  in  imi- 
tation, in  love.  He  desig-ned  to  speak 
to  all  ages,  to  touch  all  the  high  and  sol- 
emn aspirations  of  unnumbered  millions 
of  souls  ;  to  win  the  world  to  the  noble 
spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  —  to  disinterest- 
edness and  fortitude  and  patience ;  to 
meekness  and  candor  and  gentleness, 
and  forgiveness  of  injuries.  This  is  the 
heroism  of  Christianity.  In  these  vir- 
tues centres  all  true  glory.  This  did 
Jesus  mean  to  illustrate.  His  purpose 
was  to  turn  off  the  eyes  of  men  from  the 
power,  pride,  ambition,  and  splendor  of 
the  world,  to  the  true  grandeur,  dignity, 
and  all-sufficing  good  of  love,  meekness, 
and  disinterestedness.  And  how  surely 
have  his  purposes  and  predictions  been 
accomplished  !  A  renovating  power  has 
gone  forth  from  him  upon  the  face  of  the 
whole  civilized  world,  and  is  fast  spread- 
ing itself  to  the  ends  of  tlie  earth.  And 
one  emphatic  proof  of  this  is,  that  the 
cross,  before  the  stigma  of  the  vilest 
crimes,  has  become  the  emblem  of  all 
spiritual  greatness. 

At  the  risk  of  wearying  your  patience, 
my  brethren,  let  me  invite  you  to  a  brief 
consideration  of  one  other  relation  of  the 
cross  of  Christ :  I  mean  its  relation  to 
human  happiness.  It  shall  be  a  closing 
and  a  brief  one. 

Jesus  was  a  sufferer  ;  and  yet  so  filled 
was  his  mind  with  serenity  and  joy  that 
the  single  instance  in  which  we  read  that 
he  wept,  seems  to  open  to  us  a  new  light 
upon  his  cliaracter.  Jesus  was  a  pa- 
tient, cheerful,  triumphant  sufferer.  The 
interest  which  in  this  light  his  charac- 
ter possesses  for  the  wliole  human  race 
has  never,  it  appears  to  me,  been  suffi- 
ciently illustrated. 

We  are  all  sufferers.  At  one  time  or 
another,  in  one  way  or  another,  we  all 
meet  this  fate  of  humanity.  So  true  is 
this,  and  so  well  do  we  know  it  to  be  true, 
that  it  would  be  only  too  painful  to  open 


38o 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE   ATONEMENT. 


the  wide  volume  of  proofs  which  life  is 
continually  furnishing  It  is  really  nec- 
essary to  lay  restraint  upon  our  thoughts 
when  speaking  of  the  pains  and  afflic- 
tions of  life.  I  know  it  is  often  said 
that  the  pulpit  is  not  sufficiently  excit- 
ing. But  how  easy  were  it  to  make  it 
more  so !  A  thoughtful  man  will  often 
feel,  that,  instead  of  cautiously  and  con- 
siderately touching  the  human  heart,  he 
might  go  into  that  heart,  with  swords  and 
knives,  to  cut,  to  wound,  and  almost  to 
slay  it,  if  such  were  his  pleasure.  What 
if  he  were  to  describe  suffering  infancy, 
or  a  sick  and  dying  child,  or  the  agony 
of  parental  sorrow,  or  manhood  in  its 
strength,  or  matronage  in  its  beauty,  bro- 
ken down  under  some  infliction,  touch- 
ing the  mind  or  the  body,  to  more  than 
infant  weakness ;  who  could  bear  it  ? 
Yes  :  it  is  the  lot  of  humanity  to  suffer. 
No  condition,  no  guarded  palace,  no 
golden  shield,  can  keep  out  the  shafts 
of  calamity.  And  especially  it  is  the  lot 
of  intellectual  life  to  suffer.  As  man  be- 
comes properly  man,  as  his  mind  grap- 
ples with  its  ordained  probation,  the 
dispensation  naturally  presses  harder 
upon  him.  The  face  of  careless  child- 
hood may  be  arrayed  with  perpetual 
smiles ;  but  behold  how  the  brow  of 
manhood,  and  the  matronly  brow,  grows 
serious  and  thoughtful,  as  years  steal 
on  ;  how  the  cheek  grows  pale,  and  what 
a  meaning  is  set  in  the  depths  of  many 
an  eye  around  you  ;  all  proclaiming  his- 
tories, long  histories,  of  care  and  anx- 
iety, and  disappointment  and  affliction  ! 

Now  into  this  overshadowed  world 
One  has  come  to  commune  with  suffer- 
ing ;  to  soothe,  to  relieve,  to  conquer  it  : 
himselfa  sufferer,himself  acquainted  with 
grief,  himself  the  conqueror  of  pain  ; 
himself  made  perfect  through  sufferings  ; 
and  teaching  us  to  gain  like  virtue  and 
victory..  For  in  all  this  I  see  him  ever 
calm,  patient,  cheerful,  triumphant. 

And  what  a  touching  aspect  does  all 
this  strong  and  calm  endurance  lend  to 
his  afflictions  !  For  he  was  afflicted, 
and  his  soul  was  sometimes  "  sorrowful, 
even  unto  death."     When  I    read    that 


at  the  grave  of  Lazarus  "  Jesus  wept ;  " 
when  I  hear  him  say,  in  the  garden  of 
Gethsemane,  "Father,  if  it  be  possible, 
remove  this  cup  from  me  ;  "  when  from 
the  cross  arose  that  piercing  cry,  '■  My 
God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken 
me  ?  "  I  know  that  he  suffered.  1  know 
that  loneliness  and  desertion  and  dark- 
ness were  upon  his  path  ;  I  feel  that 
sorrow  and  fear  sometimes  touched, 
with  a  passing  shade,  that  seraphic  coun- 
tenance. 

But  oh  !  how  divinely  does  he  rise 
above  all  !  What  a  peculiarity  was  there 
in  the  character  of  this  wonderful  Being  ; 
the  rejected,  the  scorned,  the  scourged, 
the  crucified  :  and  yet  no  being  was  ever 
so  considerate  towards  the  faults  of  his 
friends  as  he  was  towards  the  hostility 
of  his  very  enemies  ;  no  being  was  ever 
so  kindly  and  compassionate  in  spirit; 
so  habitually  even  and  cheerful  in  tem- 
per ;  so  generous  and  gracious  in  man- 
ner. I  cannot  express  the  sense  1  have 
of  his  equanimity,  of  his  gentleness,  of 
the  untouched  beauty  and  sweetness  of 
his  philanthropy,  of  the  unapproached 
greatness  of  his  magnanimity  and  forti- 
tude. He  locked  through  this  life  with 
a  spiritual  eye,  and  saw  the  wise  and 
beneficent  effect  of  suffering.  He  looked 
up  witii  confiding  faith  to  a  Father  in 
heaven  ;  he  looked  through  the  long 
and  blessed  ages  beyond  this  life;  and 
earth,  with  all  its  scenes  and  sorrows, 
shrunk  to  a  point  amidst  the  all-surround- 
ing infinity  of  truth  and  goodness  and 
heaven. 

Thus,  my  brethren,  has  he  ta^ight  us 
how  to  suffer.  He  has  resolved  that 
dark  problem  of  life  :  how  that  suffering, 
in  the  long  account,  may  be  better  than 
ease  ;  and  poverty,  better  than  riches  ; 
and  desertion,  better  than  patronage  ;  and 
mortification,  better  than  applause  ;  and 
disappointment,  better  than  success ; 
and  martyrdom,  better  than  all  honors 
of  a  sinful  life  :  and  how,  therefore,  that 
suffering  is  to  be  met  with  a  brave  and 
manly  heart,  with  a  sustaining  faith, 
with  a  cheerful  courage  ;  counting  it  all 
joy,  and  making  it  all  triumph. 


ON    THE   FIVE   POINTS   OF   CALVINISM. 


381 


Thus  have  I  attempted,  and  I  feel 
that  I  ought  not  to  detain  you  longer, — 
I  have  attempted,  however  imperfectly, 
to  untold  the  intent  for  which  Jesus  suf- 
fered; to  unfold  the  import  and  teach- 
ing of  the  cross  of  Christ  to  human 
guilt,  to  human  virtue,  and  to  human 
happiness.  May  you  know  more  of  the 
truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus  than  words  can 
utter  or  worldly  heart  conceive  !  And 
may  the  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
be  with  you  always  !     Amen. 


in. 


ON   THE  FIVE   POINTS  OF 

CALVINISM. 

The  celebrated  7f7'^^^/«/i'  of  Calvin- 
ism are  the  following:  total  depravity, 
election,  particular  redemption,  irresist- 
ible grace,  and  the  final  perseverance 
of  saints.  It  has  been  justly  observed 
that  "  the  two  first  only  are  fundamental 
doctrines  ;  the  three  last,  necessary  con- 
sequences." The  consequences,  how- 
ever, are  none  the  less  liable  to  their 
separate  and  particular  objections.  But 
as  I  propose  to  confine  myself  to  ques- 
tions at  issue  between  Orthodox  and 
Liberal  Christians,  I  shall  not  think  it 
necessary  to  offer  anything  more  than  a 
passing  remark  or  two  on  the  doctrines 
of  particular  redemption  and  the  saints' 
perseverance. 

Particular  redemption,  or  the  limita- 
tion of  the  atonement,  both  in  its  de- 
sign and  efficacy,  to  the  electa  is  a 
doctrine  which  has  long  since  been 
discarded  by  the  Congregationalists  of 
this  country.  Indeed,  these  churches  are 
about  as  improperly  called  C^/ww/j'/zV  as 
they  are,  in  common  parlance  among  the 
mass  of  our  people,  denominated  Pres- 
l)yterian.  It  is  worth  while  to  remark, 
though  it  be  only  for  the  sake  of  cor- 
recting a  verbal  inaccuracy,  that  there 
are  not  above  a  dozen  or  twenty  Presby- 
terian churches  in  all  New  England ; 
the  word  Presbyterian  properly  stand- 
ing for  a  form  of  church  government, 


j  not  for  a  faith.  And  it  is  more  impor- 
tant to  observe,  for  the  sake  of  correct- 
ing an  error  in  the  minds  of  the  people, 
that  there  is  probably,  in  strictness  of 
speech,  not  one  Calvinistic  Church  in 
the  ancient  dominion  of  the  Puritans. 
Every  one  of  the  five  points  has  been 
essentially  modified,  has  been  changed 
from  what  it  originally  was. 

But  to  return  :   the   doctrine  of  par- 
ticular redemption   deserves  to  be  no- 
ticed,  as   an  instance   of   that   attempt 
at  jnathenintical  precision,  which,  as   I 
think,  is  a  distinguishing  trait  of  Calvin- 
ism, and  which  has  done  so  much  harm 
to  the  theological   speculations  of  this 
country.     I  shall  have  occasion  to  re- 
fer to  this  kind  of  reasoning  again.     In 
the  instance  before  us  it  appears  in  the 
following    statement :    Sinners,    it   was 
said,  had  incurred  a  debt  to  divine  jus- 
tice ;  they   owed   a   certain   amount   of 
suffering.     Jesus  Christ    undertook,    in 
behalf  of  the  elect,    to   pay   this   debt. 
Now,   if    he   had    suffered    more,    paid 
more  than  was  necessary  to  satisfy  this 
particular  demand,    there    would    have 
been  a  waste  of  suffering,   a  waste  of 
this  transferable  merit.     But  there,w«.y 
no   such   waste;    the    suffering  exactly 
met  the  demand  ;  and  therefore  the  re- 
demption \M-^%  particular ;  it  was  limited 
to  the  elect ;  no  others  could  be  saved, 
without  a7iother  atonement.     This  was 
once  theological  reasoning  !   And  to  dis- 
pute it  was  held  to  be  intolerable  pre- 
sumption.     Such  presumption  severed, 
for  a  time,  the  New  England  churches 
from  their  southern  brethren.     Such  a 
dispute,  with  one  or  two  others  like  it, 
has    rended    the   Presbyterian    Church 
asunder. 

Let  us  now  say  a  word  on  the  doc- 
trine of  the  saints''  perscveratice.  If  you 
separate  from  this  the  idea  of  an  irresist- 
ible grace,  impelling,  and,  as  it  were,  com- 
pelling Christians  to  persevere  in  piety 
and  virtue,  there  is  little,  perhaps,  to  ob- 
ject to  it.  It  is  so  separated  in  the 
present  Orthodox  belief,  and  therefore 
it  is  scarcely  a  question  in  controversy. 
We   all   believe   that  a   man   who   has 


;82 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS 


become  once  thoroughly  and  heartily 
interested  in  the  true  gospel,  doctrine, 
character,  and  glory  of  Jesus  Christ,  is 
7'e7'y  likely  to  persevere  and  grow  in 
that  interest.  I  confess  that  my  own 
conviction  on  this  point  is  very  strong, 
and  scarcely  falls  short  of  any  language 
in  which  the  doctrine  of  perseverance  is 
declared.  I  can  hardly  conceive  how  a 
man  who  has  once  fully  opened  his  eyes 
upon  that  "  Light  "  should  ever  be  will- 
ing to  close  them.  And  I  believe,  that 
in  proportion  as  the  gospel  is  under- 
stood and  felt,  felt  in  all  its  deep  foun- 
tains of  peace  and  consolation,  under- 
stood in  all  its  revelations  and  unfoldings 
of  purity  and  moral  beauty, — that,  in  pro- 
portion to  this,  the  instances  of  ''falling 
away,"  whether  into  infidelity  or  world- 
liness,  will  be  more  and  more  rare.  I 
am  aware,  however,  and  think  it  ought 
to  be  said,  that  the  common  statements 
of  the  doctrine  of  perseverance  are  dan- 
gerous to  the  unreflecting  and  to  the 
speculative.  The  truth  is,  that  we  ought 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  perseverance 
as  a  doctrine,  and  everything  with  it  as 
a  fact.  Good  men  shall  persevere  ;  good 
Christians,  above  all,  shall  persevere  ; 
but  let  them  remember  that  they  can  do 
so  only  by  constant  watchfulness,  en- 
deavor,   self-denial,  prayer,  fidelity. 

I  shall  now  take  up  the  more  impor- 
tant subjects  named  at  the  head  of  this 
article. 

The  first  is  total  depravity,  including, 
of  course,  the  position  that  this  deprav- 
ity is  native. 

I  shall  say  nothing,  in  the  few  brief 
hints  I  have  now  to  offer,  of  the  practi- 
cal views,  which  we  all  ought  deeply  to 
consider,  of  the  actual  depravity  of 
man.  I  am  concerned  at  present,  then, 
only  with  the  speculative  and  abstract 
doctrine  of  native,  total  depravity.  And 
I  am  anxious,  in  the  first  place,  to  state 
it  in  such  a  manner  as  shall  be  unex- 
ceptionable to  its  most  scrupulous  ad- 
vocate. It  is  not,  then,  according  to 
modern  explanations,  that  man  is  unable 
to  be  good,  or  that  he  is  as  bad  as  he 
can   be ;  or  that  his  natural  appetites, 


sympathies,  and  instincts  are  originally 
bad.  I  have  known  the  distinction  to 
be  put  in  this  way  :  that  man  is  totally 
depraved,  in  the  theological  sense  of 
those  words,  but  not  in  the  common 
and  classical  sense  of  them,  as  they 
are  used  in  our  English  literature,  and 
in  ordinary  conversation,  —  a  very  good 
distinction,  but  a  very  bad  precedent 
and  principle  for  all  fair  reasoning. 
For  if  men  are  allowed  to  apply  to 
common  words  this  secret,  technical, 
theological  meaning,  their  speculations 
can  neither  be  understood  nor  met, 
nor  subjected  to  the  laws  of  common- 
sense.  It  is  not  safe  in  moral  reason- 
ings to  admit  two  kinds  of  depravity, 
or  two  kinds  of  goodness.  Men  will 
be  too  ready  to  find  out  that  it  is  easier 
to  be  good,  according  to  one  theory  of 
goodness  than  according  to  another. 
And  it  has  too  often  come  to  pass  that 
regenerated  and  sanctified —  the  theo- 
logical words  —  have  not  meant  pure, 
humble,  amiable,  and  virtuous.  And  so, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  much 
more  easily  and  calmly  admit  that  he  is 
depraved,  in  the  theological  than  in  the 
common  sense.  And  in  making  this 
distinction  he  deprives -himself  of  one 
of  the  most  powerful  means  of  convic- 
tion. There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in 
that  theory  of  moral  sentiments,  though 
it  does  not  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  sub- 
ject, which  maintains  that  a  man  learns 
to  condemn  and  reproach  himself //^r^w^^/i 
synipatJiy  with  that  feeling  of  others 
wiiich  condemns  and  reproaches  him. 
But  of  this,  by  his  peculiar  and  secret 
idea  of  depravity,  the  reasoner  in  ques- 
tion deprives  himself.  And  hence  it  is 
that  such  a  man  can  talk  loudly  and  ex- 
travagantly of  his  own  depravity.  It  is 
because  he  does  not  use  that  word  in 
the  ordinary  sense,  nor  feel  the  reproach 
that  attaches  to  it.  It  is  hence  that 
congregations  can  calmly  and  indiffer- 
ently listen  to  those  charges  of  utter 
depravity,  which,  if  received  in  their 
comnjon  acceptation,  would  set  them  on 
fire  with  resentment. 

But   the   distinction   does  not  much 


ON  THE    FIVE    TOINTS   OF   CALVINISM. 


383 


tend,  after  all,  to  help  the  matter  as  a 
doctrine,  though  it  does  tend  so  nearly 
to   neutralize    it   as    a    conviction ;    be- 
cause it  is  still  contended  that  the  tlieo- 
logical  sense  is  the  true  sense.     When 
the  advocate  of  this  doctrine  says    that 
men    are    utterly   depraved,    he    means 
that  they  are  so,  in  tlie  only  true,  in  the 
highest,    sense   of    those    words.     And 
when  he  says  that  this  depravity  is  na- 
tive, he  means  to  fix  the   charge,   not 
indeed  upon  the  whole  nature  of  man, 
not  upon  his  original  appetites  and  sym- 
pathies, but  upon  his  highest,  his  moral 
nature.     Ke  means  to  say  that  his  moral 
nature  —  and  nothing  else,  strictly  speak- 
ing,   cafi  be    sinful    or  holy  —  that   his 
moral  nature  produces  nothing  but  sin  ; 
that  all  which  can  sin  in  man  does  sin, 
and  does  nothing  but  sin,  so  long  as  it 
follows  that  tendency  which  comes  from 
his  nature.     He  means  to  say  that   sin 
is  as  truly  and  certainly  the  fruit  of  his 
moral  nature  as  thought  is  the  fruit  of 
his  mental  nature.     And    it   makes   no 
difference  to  say  that  he  sins  freely,  for 
it  is  just  as  true  that  he  thinks  freely. 
In  fact,  he  is  not  free  to  cease  from  doing 
either.     In  this  view,  indeed,  depravity 
comes  nothing  short  of  an  absolute  in- 
ability to    be    holy.      For   if  the    moral 
constitution   of    man   is    such    as    natu- 
rally to  produce  nothing  but  sin,  I  see 
not  how  he  can  any  more  help  sinning 
than  he  can  help  thinking.     I    do  not 
forget  that  it  is  said  that  man  has  the 
moral  power  to  be  holy  ;  for  I  am  glad 
to  admit  any  modification  in  the  state- 
ment of  the  doctrine.     But,  in  fact,  what 
does  it  atnount  to  ?     What  is  a  moral 
power  to  be  good,  but  a  disposition  to 
be  so  .^     And  if  no  such  disposition  is 
allowed  to  belong  to  human   nature,   I 
see  not   in   what  intelligible  sense  any 
power  can  belong  to  it  * 

*  I  believe  that  this  is  still  the  prevailing  view  of 
human  depravity;  but  I  should  not  omit,  perhaps, 
to  notice  that,  since  these  essays  were  written,  an- 
other modification  of  the  doctrine  has  been  proposed. 
It  is,  that  sin  is  not  the  necessary  result  of  man's 
moral  constitution,  but  the  invariable  result  of  his 
moral  condition.  There  is  little  to  choose  In  either 
ca^e,  sin,  aud  Sn  only,  is  inevitably  bound  up  with 
human  existence. 


I    will    not   pursue    this  definition  of 
human  depravity  farther  into  those  met- 
aphysical distinctions  and  subtilties   to 
which  it  would  lead.     But  I  would  now 
ask  the  reader,  as  a  matter  of  arguinent, 
whether  he  can  believe   that  the  simple 
and   practical   teachers  of  our  religion 
ever   thought   of   settling  any   of  these 
nice  and  abstruse  questions  .''     For  it  is 
not  enough  for  Orthodox   believers  on 
this  point,  that  we  admit  the  Scripture 
writers  to  have  represented  human  de- 
pravity as  exceedingly  great  and  lamen- 
table,—  that  they  undoubtedly  did  ;  but 
the    Orthodox   interpreter    insists    that 
they   meant  to  represent  it,  with   meta- 
physical exactness,  as  native  and  total. 
He  insists  that  they  mQz.nt  Just  so  miich. 
That   they   meant   a  great   deal,   I    re- 
peat, is  unquestionable  ;  that  they  used 
phraseology  of  a  strong  and  unlimited 
character    is    admitted  ;    but    to   draw 
from    writings  so  marked  with   solemn 
earnestness  and  feeling  certain  precise 
and     metaphysical     truths,    to    extract 
dogmas  from  the  bold  and  heartburning 
denunciations  of  prophets,  to  lay  hold 
of  weapons  of  controversy  in  the  sor- 
rowful   and     indignant    reproaches    of 
those  who  wept  over  human  wickedness, 
—  seems  to  me  preposterous.     Surely, 
if  any  one  of  us  were  speaking  of  some 
very  iniquitous  practice,  of  some  abomi- 
nable traffic,  or  of  some  city  or  country 
whose  wickedness  cried  to  heaven,  —  we 
should   speak   strongly,  we  should   ex- 
haust our  language  of  its  strongest  epi- 
thets ;  it  would  be  perfectly  natural  to 
do  so  :  but,  as  surely,  the  last   thing  we 
should  think  of  would  be  that  of  laying 
down    a   doctrine  ;    the    last   thing    we 
should  think  of  would  be  that  of  philos- 
ophizing,   and    propounding     theoretic 
dogmas  upon   the  nature  of  the  soul  ! 
And,  to  make  the  case  parallel,  I   may 
add.  that  we  should  by  no  means  think 
of  charging  every  or  any  individual,  in 
such    a  country    or   city    or    company, 
with    total    and    native    depravity.      I 
know  there   will  be   some  to   say,  but 
they  will   not  be  the   really   intelligent 
and  thinking,    that   our    language    and 


384 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS 


Scriplure  language  are  different  things. 
Let  them  be  different  in  as  many  re- 
spects as  any  one  pleases  ;  but  they 
must  not  be  different  in  this.  All 
language  is  be  interpr-eted  by  the  same 
general  principles.  He  who  does  not 
admit  this  has  not  taken  the  first  step 
in  true  theology,  and  is  not  to  be  dis- 
puted with  on  this  ground  ;  but  must 
be  carried  back  to  consider  "  what  be 
the  first  principles  "  applicable  to  such 
inquiries. 

As  a  matter  of  argument,  out  of  the 
Scriptures,  I  will  ask  but  one  further 
question,  and  tlien  leave  the  subject.  I 
ask  the  Calvinist  to  say  from  what 
source  he  originally  derived  his  ideas  of 
moral  qualities;  whence  he  obtained 
his  conceptiotis  of  goodness,  holiness, 
&c.  I  am  certain  that  neither  he  nor 
any  man  has  obtained  these  conceptions 
of  moral  qualities  from  anything  but  the 
experience  of  them.  A  man  could  no 
more  conceive  of  goodness  without 
having  felt  it  at  some  moment,  and  to 
some  extent,  than  he  could  conceive  of 
sweetness  without  tasting  it.  No  de- 
scription, no  reasoning,  no  comparison, 
could  inform  him  either  of  the  one  or 
the  other.  A  man  does  not  approve  of 
what  is  right  by  any  reasoning,  —  wheth- 
er upon  utility,  or  the  fitness  of  things,  or 
upon  anything  else;  but  by  simple  con- 
sciousness. This  is  the  doctrine  of 
our  most  approved  moral  philosophers. 
But  consciousness  of  what  ?  Of  the 
qualities  approved,  plainly.  A  man 
must  have  a  right  affection  before  he 
can  approve  it,  before  he  can  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Does  not  this  settle  the 
question  ?  A  totally  and  natively  de- 
praved being  could  have  no  idea  of 
rectitude,  or  holiness,  and,  by  conse- 
quence, no  idea  of  the  moral  character  of 
God.  And  it  has,  therefore,  been  rightly 
argued,  by  some  who  have  held  the 
doctrine  we  are  discussing,  that  men 
naturally  have  no  such  ideas.  But  I 
will  not  suppose  that  this  is  a  position 
to  be  contended  against ;  since  it  would 
follow  that  men  are  commanded,  on 
peril   and    pain    of  all  future    woes,   to 


love  a  holiness  and  a  moral  perfection 
of  God  which  they  are  not  merely 
unable  to  love,  but  of  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  supposition,  they  have  no 
conception! 

The  two  remaining  points  to  be  con- 
sidered are  election  and  irresistible  grace, 
or  the  divine  influence  on  the  mind.  I 
take  these  together,  because  I  have  one 
principle  of  Scriptural  interpretation  to 
advance  which  is  applicable  to  them 
both.  And  as  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  seen  it  brought  forward  in  discus- 
sions of  this  nature,  and  as  it  seems 
to  me  an  unquestionably  just  princi- 
ple, I  shall  take  up  some  space  to 
explain  it. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  very  strong 
and  pointed  language  is  used  in  the 
New  Testament  concerning  election, 
and  God's  spirit  or  influence  in  the 
human  heart.  And  I  think  it  is  appar- 
ent that  the  Arminian  opposers  of  these 
doctrines  have  betrayed  a  conscious- 
ness that  they  had  considerable  diffi- 
culties to  contend  with.  They  have 
seemed  to  be  aware  that  the  language 
of  Scripture  —  which  their  Calvinistic 
adversaries  quote  —  is  strong,  and  they 
have  shown  some  disposition  to  lessen 
its  force,  or  to  turn  it  into  vague  and 
general  apphcations.  Now,  for  my  own 
part,  I  find  no  difficulty  in  admitting  the 
whole  force  and  personal  bearing  of 
these  representations,  though  I  cannot 
receive  them  in  the  form  which  Cal- 
vinism has  given  them.  And  I  make 
this  exception,  too,  not  because  I  am 
opposed  to  the  strength  and  directness 
of  the  Calvinistic  belief,  but  because 
I  am  opposed  in  this,  as  in  other  re- 
spects, to  the  metaphysical  and  moral 
principles  of  the  .system.  In  short,  I 
believe  in  personal  election,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Almighty  Spirit  on  the 
mind ;  and  this,  or  what  amounts  to 
this,  I  suspect  all  Christians  believe. 
For,  an  "election  of  communities,"  as 
some  interpret  it,  is  still  an  election 
of  the  individuals  that  compose  them. 
And  an  "election  to  privileges,"  as 
others  prefer  to  consider  it,#is  still  mak- 


ON   THE   FIVE   POINTS   OF   CALVINISM. 


385 


ing  a  distinction,  and  a  distinction  on 
vvhicli  salvation  depends.  If  it  be  said 
that  an  "  election  to  privileges  "  savefe 
the  doctrine  of  human  freedom  ;  so,  I 
answer,  must  any  election  save  the  doc- 
trine of  human  freedom,  but  that  of  the 
fatalist.  And  the  same  may  be  said  of 
divine  influence. 

Let  us,  then,  go  to  the  proposed  prin- 
ciple of  interpretation,  which,  I  confess, 
relieves  my  own  mind,  and  I  hope  it 
may  other  minds. 

I  say.  then,  that  the  apostles  wrote 
for  their  subject.  It  is  a  well-estab- 
lished principle  among  the  learned, 
though  too  little  applied,  that  the  apos- 
tles wrote  for  their  age  ;  with  particular 
reference,  that  is,  to  the  circumstances 
of  their  own  times.  I  now  maintain,  in 
addition  to  this,  that  they  wrote  for  their 
subject.  Their  subject,  their  exclusive 
subject,  was  religion  ;  and  the  principles 
of  the  divine  government,  which  they 
apply  to  this  subject,  may  be  equally  ap- 
plicable to  everything  else.  Their  not 
saying  \\\'A.\.  these  principles  have  such 
an  application  does  not  prove  that  they 
have  not ;  because  they  wrote  for  their 
subject,  and  it  was  not  their  business  to 
say  so.  In  other  words,  God's  govern- 
ment is  infinite  ;  and  they  speak  but  of 
one  department  of  it.  His  foreknowl- 
edge and  his  influence  are  unbounded  ; 
they  speak  of  this  foreknowledge  and 
influence,  but  in  one  single  respect. 
But  instead  of  limiting  the  application 
of  their  principles  to  this  one  depart- 
ment and  this  one  respect,  the  inference 
would  rather  be,  that  they  are  to  be  ex- 
tended to  everything.  And,  in  fact,  this 
extension  of  the  principle  with  regard 
to  election  —  in  one  instance,  and  I  be- 
lieve only  one — is  hinted  at,  where  the 
Apostle  says  that  Christians  are  "pre- 
destinated according  to  the  purpose  of 
him  who  worketh  all  things  after  the 
counsel  of  his  own  will."  If  this  be 
true,  then  eiierything  is  a  matter  of 
divine  counsel  ;  everything  is  disposed 
of  by  election.  And  men  are  as  much 
elected  to  be  philosophers,  merchants, 
or   inhabitants  of  this   country  or   that 


country,  as  they  arc  elected  to  be  Chris- 
tians. If  this  is  election,  I  believe 
there  will  be  found  no  difficulty  in  it, — 
save  what  exists  in  that  inscrutableness 
of  the  subject  which  must  forbid  our 
expecting  ever  to  fathom  it. 

It  will  be  apparent  from  this  view 
in  what  I  differ  from  Calvinists.  They 
make  that  foreknowledge  and  purpose 
of  God  which  relate  to  the  religious 
characters  of  men  a  peculiarity  in  the 
divine  government.  Connecting  the 
doctrine  of  election,  as  they  do,  with 
tliat  of  special  grace,  they  leave  an  im- 
pression unfavorable  to  human  exertion 
and  to  the  divine  impartiality.  But  I 
maintain  —  without  denying  the  general 
difficulties  of  the  subject  —  that  the 
religious  part  of  the  character  is  no 
more  the  result  of  the  divine  prescience 
and  purpose  than  any  otiier  part ;  and 
we  have  no  more  reason  to  perplex  our- 
selves with  this  department  of  tlie  divine 
government  than  with  any  other. 

Our  principle  admits  of  a  fuller  illus- 
tration on  the  subject  of  di-vine  influ- 
ence. I  say  that  the  apostles  wrote  for 
their  subject,  and  wrote  so  exclusively 
for  it  that  no  inference  is  to  be  raised 
from  their  silence  against  applying  their 
principles  to  other  subjects.  And  I 
will  present  an  illustration  of  this  argu- 
ment to  which  no  one  who  respects 
the  authority  of  Scripture  can  object. 
Look,  then,  at  the  inspired  writers  of 
old.  Writing  as  they  did  under  a  long- 
established  form  and  dispensation  cf 
religion,  they  took  a  freer  and  wider 
range  of  subjects.  And  thus  they  ex- 
tended the  doctrine  of  divine  influence 
to  evetything.  They  applied  it  much 
more  Irequently  to  outward  things  than 
to  the  mind  ;  and  much  more  frequently 
to  the  common  business  of  life  than  to 
religion.  Nay,  they  asserted  the  neces- 
sity of  this  influence  in  the  common 
affairs  of  life,  as  strongly  as  the  New- 
Testament  writers  do  in  the  spiritual 
concerns  of  religion.  They  as  much 
and  as  strongly  asserted  that  men  could 
not  succeed  in  business,  or  in  study,  in 
agriculture,  in  the  mechanic  arts,  or  in 


25 


386 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS 


seeking  after  kno^vledg^,  without  God's 
aid  and  influence,  as  our  Christian 
teachers  assert  that  men  cannot  grow 
in  grace  and  piety  without  that  aid  and 
influence.  But  now  observe  how  differ- 
ent was  the  situation  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment writers.  They  had  no  leisure,  if 
I  may  speak  so,  to  turn  aside  to  the 
common  affairs  of  life.  They  were 
obliged  to  put  forth  every  energy  for 
the  propagation  and  defence  of  a  new 
faith.  They  had  no  time,  for  instance, 
to  prepare  general  and  abstract  pieces 
of  devotion,  as  many  of  the  Psalms  are; 
or  books  of  maxims  and  apothegms,  like 
the  Proverbs ;  or  highly  wrought  moral 
dialogues,  like  the  Book  of  Job.  They 
had  no  time  to  descant  on  matters  of 
speculative  morality,  the  prudence  of 
life,  and  the  diversified  ways  of  Provi- 
dence. Religion  —  religion,  as  a  matter 
of  evidence  and  experience  —  was  the 
great,  engrossing  theme.  And  hence 
they  have  spoken  of  that  divine  influ- 
ence and  superintendence,  which  really 
extend  to  all  things,  —  they  have  spoken 
of  them,  I  say,  especially  and  chiefly 
in  relation  to  religion.  But  it  would 
be  as  unjustifiable  and  unsafe,  from  this 
circumstance,  to  limit  the  doctrine  of 
divine  influence  to  religious  matters, 
as  it  would  be,  from  consulting  the  an- 
cient records,  to  limit  it  to  outward 
nature  and  the  common  affairs  of  life. 
The  only  safe  rule,  whether  in  reason- 
ing or  for  devotion,  is  to  extend  it  to  all 
things. 

In  all  this,  I  am  aware  that  I  am  as- 
serting nothing  that  is  new.  I  am  only 
attempting  to  free  the  subject  from  those 
difficulties  that  have  arisen  from,  the  pe- 
culiarity of  the  New  Testament  commu- 
nications. I  repeat  it,  that,  in  the  prin- 
ciples, there  is  nothing  new  or  peculiar. 
All  good  Christians  have  believed,  and 
must  believe,  that  the  wise  counsel  and 
holy  providence  of  God  extend  to  every- 
thing. We  must  all  believe,  in  some 
sense,  in  eleciioti  and  divine  influence. 
The  principal  difficulty  and  danger  to 
most  minds,  I  suspect,  have  arisen  from 
their  attaching  too  much  peculiarity  to 


the  counsel  and  influence  of  the  Almighty 
in  the  matters  of  religion.  They  have 
said,  "  If  I  am  elected,  I  shall  certainly 
be  saved  ;  and  if  I  am  not,  it  is  in  vain 
for  me  to  try.  And  if  God's  Spirit  works 
within  me  the  work  of  faith,  I  have  noth- 
ing to  do  myself."  Now,  let  them 
extend  their  views  of  this  subject  ;  and 
they  will  be  safe,  and  ought  to  be  satis- 
fied. But,  at  any  rate,  they  will  be  safe. 
They  will  be  effectually  guarded  from 
the  abuse  of  these  doctrines.  For  as  no 
one  will  expect  to  be  a  physician,  or  a 
philosopher,  without  study,  because  he 
hopes  or  imagines  that  he  is  foreor- 
dained, or  will  be  supernaturally  assisted, 
to  gain  eminence  in  these  professions; 
so  neither  will  any  similar  hope  of  being 
a  Christian,  and  being  saved,  lessen  the 
exertions  that  are  suitable  to  that  end. 
With  these  views  of  the  doctrines  in 
question,  conimon  sense  may  be  trusted 
to  guard  them  from  perversion. 

I  said  that  the  danger  was  of  attaching 
too  much  peculiarity  to  that  counsel  and 
influence  of  God  which  are  connected 
with  our  salvation.  Nevertheless,  j-<7w^- 
thing  of  this  nature,  I  apprehend,  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  them.  I  distrust  single  views 
of  subjects.  It  arises,  I  believe,  from  the 
imperfection  and  weakness  of  our  minds, 
that  our  whole  mental  vision  is  apt  to 
be  engrossed  with  seeing  a  truth  in  one 
point  of  light.  Separate  views  must  be 
combined  to  form  a  just  and  well-pro- 
portioned faith.  This,  above  all  things, 
is  liable  to  be  forgotten  amidst  the  bi- 
ases of  controversy.  We  may  take  the 
larger  view  of  the  subjects  before  us,  and 
yet  we  may  admit  that  God  does  espe- 
cially interpose  in  behalf  of  religious 
beings,  weak  and  tempted  as  we  are. 
And  we  may  admit  that  it  has  especially 
pleased  him,  that  it  is  a  counsel  most 
agreeable  to  his  nature,  to  bring  good 
out  of  evil,  to  bring  good  men  out  of  this 
world  of  temptations.  I  believe  both 
It  does  not  perplex  nor  disturb  me,  but  it 
calms  and  it  comforts  me,  to  believe  that 
the  good  and  merciful  Spirit  of  God  is 
all  around  me,  and  can  interpose  for  me 
and  assist  me   in  my  times   of  trouble 


ON    FUTURE   PUNISHMENT. 


387 


and  temptation  and  peril.  And  it  does 
not  pain  me,  but  it  imparts  satisfaction  to 
my  mind  to  believe,  that  the  counsel, 
which  has  designed  the  highest  good  to 
its  obedient  offspring  is  an  eternal 
counsel  ! 

If  now,  on  the  whole,  it  be  said  that 
these  views,  which  have  been  offered, 
lessen  the  importance  or  the  reality  of 
God's  counsel  and  providence,  we  main- 
tain, on  the  contrary,  that  they  assert 
i.hem  in  the  highest  degree  ;  that  they 
carry  them  into  all  things,  and  thus  di- 
rectly lead  to  devotion  ;  that  they  serve, 
therefore,  the  grandest  purpose  of  relig- 
ious instruction,  by  bringing  God,  in  his 
power  and  his  mercy,  near  to  us  ;  by 
impressing  a  sense  of  our  dependence 
on  him,  and  our  unspeakable  obligations 
to  him,  at  every  moment  and  every  step, 
for  every  attainment  and  blessing  of  life. 
This  is  the  religious  frame  of  spirit  that 
we  most  need  to  gain  :  to  feel  that  God 
is  near  to  us,  that  he  upholds  and  blesses 
us  ;  that  he  is  near  to  us  always ;  that 
all  things  are  filled  with  his  presence  ; 
that  the  universe  around  us  is  not  so 
much  a  standing  monument  as  a  living 
expression  of  his  goodness  ;  that  all 
which  we  enjoy  is  not  so  much  benevo- 
lence sending  down  its  gifts  from  afar 
to  us,  as  it  is  the  energy  of  his  love  work- 
ing within  us. 

This,  then,  is  the  practical  result  of 
our  reflections:  that  God  is  all  in  all; 
that  His  ever-living  mercy  and  His 
ever-working  power  pervade  all  things ; 
that  they  are  in  all  height  and  in  all 
depth,  in  what  is  vast  and  what  is 
minute,  in  the  floating  atom  and  tlie 
rolling  world,  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow 
to  the  ground  and  in  the  great  system 
of  the  universe,  in  the  insect's  life  and 
in  the  soaring  spirit  of  the  archangel. 

It  is  in  Him  that  each  of  us  lives  and 
moves  and  has  his  being.  If  we  have 
gained  any  blessings  of  life,  and  if  we 
iiave  made  any  acquisition  of  knowledge, 
it  is  from  Him.  And  especially,  if  we 
have  made  any  attainments  in  piety; 
if  we  are  learning  the  great  lesson  of 
life,   and    that    which   prepares   us   for 


another  and  a  better  ;  if  we  are  learning 
to  be  devout  and  pure  in  heart,  to  be 
affectionate  and  forbearing  and  patient 
and  penitent  and  forgiving;  if  tlie  dew 
of  a  heavenly  influence  is  descending 
upon  us,  and  the  fruits  of  virtue  and 
goodness  are  springing  up  within  us  ; 
if  tlie  universe  is  ministering  to  our  de- 
votion; if  religion,  witli  every  kind  and 
gracious  power,  has  visited  us,  and  has 
become  our  friend  and  guide  and  com- 
forter,—  the  employment  and  happiness 
and  end  of  our  being :  Oh  !  this  is  an 
emanation  from  the  Divinity,  a  beam  of 
heaven's  own  light,  an  expression  of 
God's  mercy,  that  demands  our  highest 
and  tenderest  gratitude.  Thus,  if  we 
would  come  to  the  great  practical  result 
of  all  religious  truth,  let  us  be  con- 
vinced, and  feel,  that  ''God  is  all  in  all." 
Of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to 
Him,  are  all  things;  and  to  Him,  —  to 
Him  who  made  us,  and  blesses  us,  and 
guides  us  to  heaven,  —  to  Him  be  glory 
for  ever  and  ever. 


IV. 


ON   FUTURE   PUNISHMENT. 

I  HAVE  hesitated  about  introducing 
this  subject  in  the  present  course  of  ob- 
servations, because  there  is  no  question 
upon  it  that  does,  accurately  speaking, 
divide  Orthodox  and  Liberal  Christians. 
The  great  question  about  the  duration 
of  future  punishment  has  been  brought 
very  little  into  debate  between  the  par- 
ties, and  it  has  no  particular  connection 
with  any  of  the  speculative  questions 
that  are  in  debate.  If  Universalism  — 
considered  as  a  denial  of  all  future  pun- 
ishment—  has  more  afifinity  with  any 
one  theological  system  than  another,  it 
undoubtedly  is  Calvinism  ;  and  it  is  a 
well-known  fact,  that  it  originally  sprung 
from  Calvinism,  and  existed  in  the  clos- 
est connection  with  it. 

Still,  however,  since  it  is  latterly  urged, 
by  tiie  Orthodox,  that  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  them  and  their  oppo- 


388 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS 


nents  on  this  subject,  and  since,  as  I 
apprehend,  a  ditieience  does  exist  in 
their  general  views  and  speculations, 
and  one  that  deserves  to  be  discussed, 
I  have  thought  proper  to  bring  it  into 
the  course  of  my  remarks. 

As  the  subject  has  been  very  little 
discussed  among  us,  I  shall  treat  it, 
not  so  much  in  the  form  of  controversy 
as  with  that  calm  and  dispassionate 
disquisition  which  more  properly  be- 
longs to  a  theme  so  solemn  and  weighty. 

1.  The  retribution  of  guilt  is  serious 
in  the  contemplation,  and  must  be  se- 
vere in  the  endurance.  The  penal  suf- 
fering of  a  gtiilty  mind,  wherever  and 
whenever  it  cotnes,  must  be  great.  This, 
to  me,  is  the  first  and  clearest  of  all 
truths  with  regard  to  the  punishment 
of  sin.  Even  experience  teaches  us 
this;  and  Scripture,  with  many  words 
of  awful  warning,  confirms  the  darkest 
admonitions  of  experience.  If  sin  is 
not  repented  of  in  this  life,  then  its 
punishment  must  take  place  in  a  future 
world. 

Of  the  miseries  of  that  future  state,  I 
do  not  need  the  idea  of  a  direct  inflic- 
tion from  God  to  give  me  a  fearful  im- 
pression. Of  all  the  unveiled  horrors 
of  that  world,  nothing  seems  so  terrific* 
as  the  self-inflicted  torture  of  a  guilty 
conscience.  It  will  be  enough  to  fill 
the  measure  of  his  woe,  that  the  sinner 
shall  be  left  to  himself;  that  he  shall  be 
left  to  the  natural  consequences  of  his 
wickedness.  In  the  universe,  there  are 
no  agents  to  work  out  the  misery  of  the 
soul  like  its  own  fell  passions  ;  not  the 
fire,  the  darkness,  the  flood,  or  the  tem- 
pest. Nothing  within  the  range  of  our 
conceptions  can  equal  the  dread  silence 
of  conscience,  the  calm  desperation  of 
remorse,  the  corroding  of  ungratified 
desire,  the  gnawing  worm  of  envy,  the 
bitter  cup  of  disappointment,  the  blight- 
ing curse  of  hatred.  These,  pushed  to 
their  extremity,  may  be  enough  to  de- 
stroy the  soul ;  as  lesser  sufferings,  in 
this  world,  are  sometimes  found  to  de- 
stroy the  reason. 

But  whatever  that  future  calamity  will 


be,  I  believe  it  is  the  highest  idea  we 
can  form  of  it  to  suppose  that  it  is  of 
the  sinner's  own  procuring;  that  the 
burden  of  his  transgressions  will  fall 
upon  him,  by  its  own  weight,  —  not  be 
hurled  upon  him  as  a  thunderbolt  from 
heaven.  If  we  should  suppose  a  wicked 
man  to  live  always  on  earth,  and  to  pro- 
ceed in  his  career  of  iniquit}',  adding 
sin  to  sin,  arming  conscience  with  new 
terrors,  gathering  and  enhancing  all  hor- 
rible diseases  and  distempers,  and  in- 
creasing and  accumulating  the  load  of 
infamy  and  woe,  —  this  might  give  us 
some  faint  idea  of  the  extent  to  which 
sin  may  go  in  another  world. 

This,  then,  is  not  a  subject  to  be  treat- 
ed lightly,  nor  with  any  heat  or  passion  ; 
but  should  be  taken  home  to  the  most 
solemn  contemplation  and  deep  solici- 
tude of  every  accountable  being. 

II  My  second  remark  is,  that  the 
Scriptural  representations  of  future  pun- 
ishment are  not  literal  nor  definite. 

That  they  are  not  literal  is  manifest 
from  the  consideration,  that  they  are 
totally  inconsistent  if  taken  literally.  If 
there  is  a  lake  of  fire,  there  cannot  be 
a  gnawing  worm.  If  it  is  blackness  of 
darkness,  it  cannot  be  a  flaming  del- 
uge of  fire  If  it  is  death  and  destruc- 
tion, literally,  it  cannot  be  sensible  pain. 
If  it  is  the  loss  of  the  soul,  it  cannot  be 
the  suffering  of  the  soul.  And  yet  all 
these  representations  are  used  to  de- 
scribe the  future  misery.  It  is  plain, 
therefore,  that  all  cannot  be  literally 
true.  To  suppose  them  literal,  indeed, 
would  be  to  make  t!ie  future  world 
like  the  present;  for  they  are  all 
drawn  from  present  objects.  Neither 
are  these  representations  definite.  It  is 
not  a  definite  idea,  but  "  a  certain  fear- 
ful looking-for  of  judgment,"  that  is 
given  to  us,  in  the  present  state.  We 
know  nothing  about  the  particular  place, 
or  the  particular  circumstances,  of  a 
future  punishment.  If  these  things 
are  not  literally  described,  it  follows, 
indeed,  that  they  are  not  definitely.  For 
the  moment  these  descriptions  cease  to 
be  literal,  they  cease  to  furnish  ideas  of 


ON    FUTURE   PUNISHMENT. 


389 


anything   that  is  tangible,  of   anything 
that  can    belong    to   place    or  circum- 
stance,   of     anything    that    has   dimen- 
sions, shape,  or  elements.     That  is  to 
say,   they  are    figurative.      They   serve 
but  to  throw  a  deeper  shadow  over  the 
dark  abyss  ;  and  leave    us,   not  to  pry 
into  it  with  curiosity,  but  to  tremble  with 
fear.      Indeed,  the    very    circumstance, 
that  \.\\t  future  ivoe  is  unknown,  is,  in 
itself,  a  most  awful  and  appalling  circum- 
stance.    It  may  be  that  the  revelation 
of  it  comes  to  us  in  general  and  ambig- 
uous   terms    for    this     very     purpose. 
There  is  really  something  more  alarming 
in  a  certain  fearful  looking-for  of  judg- 
ment than  in  the  definite  knowledge  of  it. 
Neither,  as  I  believe,  are  those  terms 
which   describe  the   duration  of  future 
misery    definite.     Indeed,    why   sliould 
they  be  more   definite  than  those  which 
relate  to   place  or    circumstance.''      In 
passages    where  all    else   is   figurative, 
and  that  in  so  very  high   a  degree,  why 
may  it  not   be  suspected   that  what  re- 
lates   to  the  time  may   be    figurative  ? 
This  suspicion,  drawn  from  the  connect- 
ed phraseology,  may  derive    additional 
strength   from  the  subject  about  which 
the  language  in  question   is    employed. 
It  is  the  future,  the  indefinite,  the  un- 
known state.     Whatever  stretches  into 
the  vast  futurity  is  to   us  eternal.      We 
can    grasp    no    thought   of   everlasting, 
but  that  it  is  indefinite.     You  may  bring 
this   argument  home  to   your  own  feel- 
ings, if  you  suppose  that  you  had  been 
called  to    describe    some    future     and 
awful  calamity,  which  was  vast,  indefi- 
nite, unknown,  terrible  ;  if  you  consider 
whether  you  would  not,  with  these  views, 
h;ive  adopted  phraseology  as  strong,  as 
unhmiled,  as  you  find  in  the  Scriptures 
on  this  subject.     If,  then,  our   idea  of 
future  punishment  extends  so  far  as  to 
provide  for  the  full  strength  of  the  lan- 
guage used  ;    if  our  theory  provide    for 
the    terms  to  be  explained  by  it,  —  is  it 
not  sufficient  ?  does  it  not  fjo  far  enough  .' 
To   these"  considerations,   relating  to 
the  language   and  the   principles  of  in- 
terpretation that  ought  to  be  applied  to 


it,  let  it   be  observed,  in  addition,   that 
tlie  Oriental  style    was    habitually   and 
very  highly  metaphorical,  and  is   to  be 
explained    by    the    impression  it  would 
naturally  make  on  those    wlio  were  ac- 
customed to  it;     and   that  even  among 
us,    with  our  cooler   imaginations,    the 
terms  in  question,  such  as  '•  forever,"  &c. 
are    used   figuratively,    are    applied  to 
limited  periods,    and  this  on  the  most 
common   occasions    and    subjects.     To 
take  one  instance  for  all,  as   being  the 
strongest  of  all :   there  is  no  higher  or 
more  unqualified  description  of  the  en- 
durance'of    future    misery     than    that 
which  says,  "  Their  worm  dieth  not,  and 
the  fire  is  not  quenched."     Now,  it  has 
been  very  plausibly  argued  thus  :  that 
"if  ever  the    time     comes    when    their 
worm     shall     die,   if    ever    there    shall 
be  a  quenching  of  the   fire  at  all,   then 
it     is    not    true    that  their  worm    dieth 
not,    and    the    fire  is  not    quenched."* 
And  the  argument  might  be  as  conclu- 
sive as  it  is  plausible,  were  it  not  for 
a  single  passage  in  the  Old  Testament, 
which   applies  the  same  language  to  a 
punishment  confessedly  temporary.     It 
is  the  closing  passage  of  Isaiah  :    '■  And 
they  shall  go  forth,''  —  that  is  from  Jeru- 
salem,   and    probably  to    the  Valley  of 
Jehoshaphat,    where,  it  is  well  known, 
that  carcasses  were  thrown,  and  an  al- 
most   perpetual  fire   kept     to  consume 
them, —  "  And  they  shall  go  forth,  and 
shall  look  upon  the  carcasses  of  the  men 
who  have  trangressed  against  me  ;  for 
their  worm  shall    not  die,  neither  shall 
their  fire  be  quenched,  and  they   shall 
be  an  abhorring  to  all  flesh." 

I  shall  only  remark  further,  upon  tlie 
Scripture  representations,  that  there  is 
an  ambiguity,  a  generality,  a  vastness,  a 
terror  about  them,  that  seems  fitted  to 
check  our  confident  reasonings.  It  is 
enouq;h  for  us  to  fear.  To  speculate 
much  seems  not  our  wisdom.  Yet  if 
we  will  speculate  :  if  we  can  dispute  on 
such  a  subject  ;  if  we  can  wrangle  about 
texts  and  interpretations,  and  claim  the 
full  amount  and  force  of  every  passage 

*  Jonathan    Edwards. 


390 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS 


and  statement,  it  may  be  well  for  us  to 
be  reminded  that  we  shall  only  confound 
ourselves,  in  our  haste,  and  destroy  the 
positions  we  take,  in  our  eagerness  to 
defend  them.  For  if  any  one  shall  insist 
on  the  full  force  of  those  declarations 
that  denovmce  everlasting  misery,  his 
adversary  may  as  fairly  take  his  stand  on 
the  opposite  texts,  which  declare  that  God 
will  have  all  jnen  to  be  saved;  that  Jesus 
came  to  destroy  death ;  that  death  is 
swallowed  up  of  life.  Or  if  any  one  shall 
confine  himself  to  the  words  eternal,  un- 
quenchable, &c.,  and  will  allow  them  no 
modification,  I  see  not  how  he  can  fairly 
deny  to  his  adversary  the  equal  right  of 
adhering  to  the  representations  of  death, 
destruction,  loss  of  the  soul,  or,  in  other 
words,  of  annihilation,  which  are  applied 
to  the  same  subject.  Nay,  the  latter  will 
seem  to  have  the  advantage  in  the  argu- 
ment;  for  annihilation  \s  2in  ei'erlasti/ig 
calamity.  But  not  to  dwell  on  this  :  the 
ambiguity  mentioned  furnishes  an  an- 
swer to  an  important  objection  to  our 
views.  It  is  said,  if  future  misery  is  not 
literally  eternal,  what  reason  is  there  to 
think  that  future  happiness  is  so  ?  for 
the  same  terms  are  brought  to  describe 
both.  I  answer  that  neither  of  them 
depend  on  general  terms  ;  tliat  we  are  to 
look  for  our  belief  on  all  these  subjects 
to  the  scope  and  tenor  of  the  sacred  writ- 
ings ;  and  that,  in  particular,  the  prom- 
ises of  future  happiness  are  all  consist- 
ent, and  leave  no  obscurity  nor  doubt. 
It  is  life,  peace,  rest ;  knowledge,  per- 
fection ;  glorv,  blessedness.  But  the 
threatenings  of  future  evil  are  ambiguous, 
dark,  obscure,  and,  if  taken  literally,  in- 
consistent. It  is  life,  and  death  ;  being 
tormented,  and  being  destroyed.  It 
leaves  therefore  a  vague  but  fearful  im- 
pression. And  such,  it  seems  to  me, 
were  the  Scriptures  intended  to  leave,  — 
the  impression  of  some  vast  and  tremen- 
dous calamity,  without  precisely  inform- 
ing us  what  it  is. 

I  cannot  close  this  topic  without  offer- 
ing one  or  two  observations,  independent 
of  the  Scripture  arguments,  which  seem 
to  me  of  great  weight. 


There  is  one  tremendous  bearing  of  the 
doctrine  of  literally  eternal  punishment, 
the  bare  statement  of  which  seems  to  me 
almost  enough  to  decide  the  question. 
Take  the  instance  of  a  child,  one  who  has 
just  begun  to  be  a  moral  agent ;  let  the 
age  be  what  it  may  ;  we  need  not  now 
decide  :  suppose  that  it  has  just  come  to 
the  capacity  of  being  sinful  or  holy  ;  that 
it  has  possessed  this  capacity  one  hour 
or  one  day  ;  that  during  this  brief  pe- 
riod it  has  been  selfish,  passionate,  un- 
holy, —  a  case  not  uncommon,  I  fear; 
that  in  short  it  has  possessed,  during 
this  brief  jDeriod  of  its  probation,  a  char- 
acter which  the  gospel  does  not  approve, 
which  it  condemns,  which  it  threatens,  — 
and  can  you  believe  that  this  child,  in 
ignorance,  in  imbecility,  in  temptations  ; 
with  passions  unconsciously  nurtured 
in  the  sleep  of  infancy,  which  are  now 
breaking  forth  ;  with  scarcely  any  force 
of  reason  to  restrain  them  ;  with  but  a 
slight  knowledge  of  God,  with  not  a 
thought  of  futurity,  —  that  this  child,  the 
creature  of  weakness  and  ignorance, 
is  actually,  and  in  one  single  day,  setting 
the  seal  to  a  misery  that  is  eternal,  and 
eternally  increasing  ;  to  a  misery  which 
must  therefore,  in  the  -event,  infinitely 
surpass  all  that  the  world,  in  all  the  pe- 
riods of  its  duration,  has  suffered  or  will 
suffer  ?  Yet  this  is  the  doctrine  ;  this  is 
one  essential  form  of  the  doctrine  of  lit- 
erally eternal  punishment ;  and  if  you 
cannot  believe  this,  as  I  am  persuaded, 
if  you  feel  the  case,  you  cannot,  you 
cannot  believe  the  doctrine  at  all,  in  any 
form. 

There  is  another  observation  which 
seems  to  me  equally  conclusive.  The 
doctrine,  as  it  appears  to  me,  destroys 
the  natural  proofs  of  the  goodness  of 
God.  Let  it  be  observed  that  every 
question  about  this  subject  may  be  re- 
solved into  this  :  Is  human  life  a  bless- 
ing? If  not,  to  what  purpose  is  all  that 
can  be  said  about  the  order,  beauty, 
richness,  and  kindly  adaptations  of  this 
earthly  system  ?  What  is  it  to  me  that 
the  heavens  are  glorious  to  behold,  that 
the  earth  is  fair  to  look  upon  ;  what  to 


ON   FUTURE   PUNISHMENT. 


391 


me  that  I  dwell  in  a  splendid  mansion, 
if  on  the  whole  I  have  more  reason  to  be 
sorrowful  than  to  be  happy  ;  if  I  have 
more  to  fear  than  to  hope  ;  if  life  is  more 
to  be  lamented  than  desired  ;  if  it  is  a 
subject  more  of  regret  than  gratitude  ? 
Is  human  life,  then,  a  blessing?  To 
deny  it  is  impiety.  To  deny  it  is  to  take 
away  all  grounds  of  religious  trust  and 
devotion,  all  grounds  of  believing  in  the 
Sacred  Scriptures  and  in  Jesus.  For 
if  God  is  not  good,  we  can  have  no  con- 
fidence in  his  rectitude  or  veracity.  If 
God  is  not  good,  we  cannot  know  but 
he  may  deceive  us,  with  even  miraculous 
proofs  of  falsehood.  Our  life,  then,  is 
a  blessing  ;  that  is,  it  is  a  thing  to  be 
desired.  Now  the  question  is,  whether, 
—  when  it  is  so  difficult  to  form  the  char- 
acter which  is  required  for  future  hap- 
piness, when  it  is  so  possible  to  fail, 
when  the  unerring  Scriptures  are  so  full 
of  awful  warnings,  —  whether  any  rational 
being  would  desire  existence  on  the  ter- 
rible condition  that,  if  he  did  once  fail, 
he  would  fail  forever  ;  that  if  he  did  fail 
in  this  short  life,  he  must  sink  to  a  help- 
less, remediless,  everlasting  woe.  The 
word  "  eternity  "  passes  easily  from  our 
lips  ;  but  consider  what  it  imports,  con- 
sider it  deeply,  and  then  say,  who  would 
think  it  a  favor  to  take  so  tremendous  a 
risk  ?  Could  any  one  of  us  have  been 
brought  into  being,  for  one  moment,  in  the 
maturity  of  his  faculties,  to  decide  on 
such  a  proposal,  to  decide  whether  he 
should  take  such  a  hazard,  surely  he 
would  make  the  refusal,  with  a  strength 
of  emotion,  with  a  horror  of  feeling,  that 
would  be  enou::jh  to  destroy  as  it  passed 
over  him.  "No  !  no  1 "  he  would  exclaim  ; 
"  save  me  from  that  trial ;  let  me  be  the 
nothing  that  I  was  ;  there  at  least  is 
safety  ;  save  me  from  the  paths  of  life, 
that  conduct  such  multitudes  —  and  why 
not  me  ?  —  down  to  everlasting  and  ever- 
living  death  ! "  Now,  let  us  ask,  can  it 
be  that  the  all-powerful  and  infinitely  be- 
nevolent God  has  brought  beings  into 
existence  in  circumstances  that  deserve 
to  be  thus  regarded  ;  that  he  has  given 
them  life  so   fated,  so  perilous,  that  — 


if  they  could  comprehend  it,  if  it  were 
not  for  their  ignorance,  they  would  abhor 
the  gift  as  an  infinite  curse  ? 

There  are  various  degrees  and  shades 
of  religious  belief,  and  much  that  is 
called  such  is  so  low  upon  the  scale  as 
scarcely  to  differ  from  downright  scepti- 
cism. And  I  have  often  been  ready  to 
ask,  when  I  have  surveyed  the  aspects 
of  life  around  me,  whether  men  do  really 
believe,  on  this  subject,  what  is  written 
in  theircreed.  There  are  those,  I  know, 
who  have  found  a  great  difference  be- 
tween asserting  and  believing  in  this 
case ;  who,  when  they  came  to  be  im-* 
pressed  with  this  doctrine,  felt  as  if  all 
the  cheerfulness  of  life  was  the  most 
horrible  insensibility ;  and  as  if  all  the 
light  that  was  around  them,  the  light 
that  rested  on  the  fair  scenes  of  nature, 
was  turned  into  darkness  and  gloom  ; 
felt  as  if  all  that  is  bright  and  gladden- 
ing, in  the  general  aspects  of  society  and 
of  the  world,  was  the  most  treacherous 
and  terrible  illusion !  And  is  it  not  so, 
if  the  popular  doctrine  be  true  ?  I  see  a 
busy,  toiling,  and  oftentimes  joyous,  mul- 
titude thronging  the  villages  and  cities 
of  the  world;  hundreds  of  millions  of 
human  beings,  to  whom  happiness  is 
more  than  life,  and  misery  more  than 
death.  I  see  childhood,  lovely  childhood, 
with  its  opening  moral  faculties,  in  ten 
thousand  bosoms,  throbbing  with  new 
and  glad  existence.  I  see  the  whole 
world  dwelling  in  an  ignorance,  or  a 
moral  unconsciousness,  almost  like  that 
of  childhood  ;  and  are  they,  all  around 
me,  every  hour  by  hundreds  and  by 
thousands,  dropping  into  a  region  of 
woes  and  agonies  and  groans  never  to 
be  relieved  or  terminated?  Gracious 
heaven  !  if  one  tenth  part  of  the  human 
race  were  the  next  year  to  die  amidst  the 
horrors  of  famine,  that  evil,  light  as  it  is 
in  the  comparison,  would  cover  the  earth 
with  a  universal  mourning  ! 

How  evident  is  it,  then,  that  men  have 
nothing  approaching  to  a  belief  of  what 
the  popular  creed  avers  on  this  awful 
subject.  I  do  not  bring  this  as  an  argu- 
ment against  the  doctrine  it  lays  down. 


392 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE 


But  I  do  maintain  that  men  should 
believe  what  they  say,  before  they  con- 
demn those  who  cannot  say  so  much  ; 
that  they  should  feel  the  trial  of  faith, 
before  they  decide  on  the  propriety  of  a 
doubt. 

I  may  be  told  that  what  I  have  been 
saying  is  not  Scripture,  but  reasoning. 
I  know  it  is  reasoning.  I  have  already 
shown,  as  I  think,  that  the  Scriptures 
do  not  warrant  the  doctrine  that  is  com- 
monly deduced  from  them  ;  and,  to  my 
mind,  the  reasoning  I  have  used  strongly 
enforces  the  rejection  of  it. 

III.  But  I  hasten  to  my  final  remark: 
which  is,  that  the  Scriptures  reveal  our 
future  danger,  whatever  it  be,  for  the 
purpose  of  alarming  us  ;  and  therefore, 
that  to  speculate  on  this  subject,  in  or- 
der to  lessen  our  fear  of  sinning,  involves 
the  greatest  hazard  and  impiety.  There 
is  a  high  moral  use,  and  it  is  the  only  use, 
for  which  tiie  awful  revelation  of  "the 
powers  of  the  world  to  come  "  was  in- 
tended, and  most  evidently  and  eminently 
fitted  ;  and  that  is  to  awaken  fear.  What- 
ever else  the  language  in  question  means, 
it  means  this.  About  other  topics  relat- 
ing to  it,  there  may  be  questions  ;  about 
this,  none  at  all.  And  after  all  that  has 
been  said,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  add, 
that  we  are  in  no  danger  of  really  believ- 
ing too  much,  or  fearing  too  much.  And 
this  is  my  answer,  if  any  should  object 
to  the  moral  tendency  of  the  views  that 
have  been  oflfered  :  I  maintain  that  a  man 
should  fear  all  that  he  can,  and  I  actu- 
ally hold  a  belief,  that  affords  the  fullest 
scope  for  such  a  feeling.  It  is  not  of  so 
much  consequence  that  any  one  should 
use  fearful  words  on  this  subject,  and 
even  violently  contend  for  them,  as  that 
he  should  himself  fear  and  tremble. 

And  I  repeat,  that  there  is  reason. 
For  if  we  adopt  any  opinion,  short  of 
the  most  blank  and  bald  Universalism, 
it  cannot  fail  to  be  serious.  Will  you 
embrace  the  idea  of  a  literal  destruction  ? 
Imagine,  then,  if  possible,  what  it  is  to 
be  no  more  forever  !  Look  down  into 
the  abyss  of  dark  and  dismal  annihila- 
tion.     Think    with   yourself,    what     it 


would  be,  if  all  which  you  call  yourself, 
your  mind,  your  life,  your  cherished 
being,  were  to  fall  into  the  jaws  of  ever- 
lasting death  !  There  is  something 
dreadful  beyond  utterance  in  the  thought 
of  annihilation  :  to  go  away  from  the 
abodes  of  life,  to  quit  our  hold  of  life 
and  being  itself  ;  to  be  nothing  —  noth- 
ing, forever  !  while  the  glad  universe 
should  go  onward  in  its  brightness  and 
its  glory,  and  myriads  of  beings  should 
live  and  be  happy  ;  and  all  their  dwellings 
and  all  their  worlds  should  be  overspread 
with  life  and  beauty  and  joy  !  Imagine 
it  if  you  can.  Think  that  the  hour  of 
last  farewell  to  all  this  had  come  ;  think 
of  the  last  moment,  of  the  last  act,  of 
the  last  thought,  —  and  that  thought 
annihilation  !  Oh  !  it  would  be  enough 
to  start  with  its  energy  your  whole  be- 
ing into  a  new  life  ;  methinks  you  would 
spring  with  agony  from  the  verge  of 
the  horrible  abyss,  and  cry  for  life,  for 
existence,  —  though  it  were  woe  and 
torment.  Shall  we  then  prefer  the 
hope  of  long  and  remedial  suffering  ? 
Then  carry  forward  your  thoughts  to 
that  dark  world,  where  there  shall  be 
"  no  more  sacrifice  for  sin,"  no  more 
Saviour  to  call  and  win  us,  no  more 
mild  and  gentle  methods  of  restoration  : 
where  sin  must  be  purged  from  us.  if 
at  all,  "so  as  by  fire."  Carry  forward 
your  thoughts  to  that  dark  struggle 
with  the  powers  of  retribution,  where 
every  malignant  and  hateful  passion 
will  wage  the  fearful  war  against  the 
soul  ;  where  habit,  too,  will  have  bound 
and  shackled  the  soul  with  its  everlast- 
ing chains  of  darkness  ;  and  its  com- 
panions, fiends  like  itself,  shall  only 
urge  it  on  to  sin.  When  will  the  strug- 
gle cease  ?  If  sin  cannot  be  resisted 
now,  in  this  world  of  means  and  mo- 
tives and  mercies,  how  shall  it  be  re- 
sisted then?  When  or  how  shall  the 
miserable  soul  retrieve  its  steps  ? 
From  what  depth  of  eternity  shall  it 
trace  back  its  way  of  ages  ?  God  only 
knows.  To  us  it  is  not  given.  But 
we  know  that  the  retribution  of  a  sinful 
soul  is  what  we  ought  above  all  things 


MODES   OF   ATTACK   UPON    LIBERAL  CHRISTIANITY. 


393 


to  fear.  For  thus  are  we  instructed  : 
"  Fear  not  them  that,  after  they  have 
killed  the  body,  have  no  more  that  tliey 
can  do;  but  fear  him  who  is  able  to  de- 
stroy both  soul  and  body  in  hell ;  yea,  I 
say  unto  you,  fear  him."  We  know  not 
what  it  is  ;  but  we  know  that  such 
terms  and  phrases  as  we  read,  —  "  the 
wrath  to  come  ;  the  worm  that  dieth  not ; 
the  fire  that  is  not  quenched  :  the 
blackness  of  darkness  ;  the  fiery  indig- 
nation,"—  that  these  words  not  only 
import  what  is  fearful,  but  were  in- 
tended to  inspire  a  salutary  dread.  We 
know  not  what  it  is  ;  but  we  have  heard 
of  one  who  lifted  up  his  eyes,  being  in 
torment,  and  saw  the  regions  of  the 
blessed  afar  off,  and  cried  and  said, 
'•'  Father  Abraham,  have  mercy  on  me  ! 
for  I  am  tormented  in  this  flame."  We 
know  not  what  it  is  ;  but  we  know  that 
the  finger  of  inspiration  has  pointed 
awfully  to  that  world  of  calamity.  We 
know  that  inspired  prophets  and  apos- 
tles, when  the  interposing  veil  has  been, 
for  a  moment,  drawn  before  them,  have 
shuddered  with  horror  at  the  spectacle. 
We  know  that  the  Almighty  himself 
has  gathered  and  accumulated  all  the 
images  of  earthly  distress  and  ruin,  not 
to  show  us  what  it  is,  but  to  warn  us  of 
what  it  may  be ;  that  he  has  spread 
over  this  world  the  deep  shadows  of 
his  displeasure,  leaving  nothing  to  be 
seen,  and  everything  to  be  dreaded ! 
And  thus  has  he  taught  us,  what  I  would 
lay  down  as  the  moral  of  these  observa- 
tions, and  of  all  my  reflections  on  this 
subject,  that  it  is  not  our  wisdom  to 
speculate,  but  to  fear  ! 


CONCLUSION. 

THE  MODES  OF  ATTACK  UPON  LIBERAL 
CHRISTIANITY  THE  SAME  THAT  WERE 
USED  AGAINST  THE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE 
APOSTLES   AND   REFORMERS. 

In   being   assailed   as   it   is,    Liberal 
Christianity   meets    but   with    the   fate 


that  naturally  attends,  and  actually  has 
attended,  all  improvement.  Whether 
our  theology  be  a  real  progress  of  truth 
or  not,  this  general  statement  will  not 
be  questioned.  Every  great  advance- 
ment in  science,  in  the  arts,  in  politics, 
has  had  to  encounter  this  hostility.  No 
cause  has  been,  or  is,  more  bitterly  op- 
posed than  the  cause  of  political  liberty. 
So  it  has  been  with  religion.  Chris- 
tianity had  to  struggle  long  with  the 
hostility  of  the  world.  Its  doctrines 
were  opposed  and  its  friends  reproached. 
And  when  it  declined  from  its  purity ; 
when  it  was  corrupted  through  its  popu- 
larity, through  its  prevalence,  through 
its  very  orthodoxy,  I  may  say ;  when  a 
revival  of  its  true  doctrines  was  needed. 
—  the  men  who  stood  forward  in  that 
work,  the  Refonners,  found  that  inno- 
vation was  still  an  offence,  that  dissent 
was  heresy,  that  truth  was  accounted  no 
better  than  ruinous  and  fatal  error. 

I  say  these  things,  in  the  general 
and  at  the  outset,  not  to  prove  —  nor 
would  I  anywhere  pretend  to  prove 
by  such  an  argument  —  that  our  the- 
ology is  right,  but  to  show  that  op- 
position to  it  is  no  evidence  of  its 
being  wrong  ;  to  show  that  a  doctrine 
may  be,  like  primitive  Christianity, 
"everywhere  spoken  against,"  and  yet 
be  a  true  doctrine.  For  there  are  many 
who  feel,  from  the  bare  circumstance 
that  a  system  is  so  much  reproached, 
as  if  it  must  be  wrong  or  questionable  ; 
and  there  are  many  more  who  suffer 
their  opinions  to  float  on  the  current  of 
popular  displeasure,  without  inquiring 
at  all  into  their  justice  or  validity.  Let 
such  remember  that  no  new  truths  ever 
did,  nor  till  men  are  much  changed  ever 
can,  enter  into  the  world  without  this 
odium  and  hostility;  and  let  them  not 
account  that  whicli  may  be  the  very  seal 
of  truth  to  be  the  brand  of  error. 

I  will  now  proceed  to  notice  some  of 
the  particular  modes  of  attack  to  which 
Liberal  Christianity  is  subject,  to  meet 
these  assaults  and  objections,  and  to 
show  that,  in  being  subjected  to  these  as- 
saults, it  suffers  no  new  or  singular  fate. 


394 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE 


I.  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  is  com- 
mon to  charge  upon  new  opinions  all 
the  accidents  attending  their  progress  ; 
to  blend  with  their  main  cause  all  the 
circumstances  that  happen  to  be  con- 
nected with  it.  This  is  perhaps  not 
unnatural,  though  it  be  unjust.  Men 
hear  that  a  new  system  is  introduced, 
that  a  new  sect  is  rising.  They  know 
nothing  thoroughly  about  it;  but  they 
are  inquiring  what  it  is.  In  this  state 
of  mind  they  meet,  not  with  a  Unita- 
rian book,  but  more  likely  with  a  pas- 
sage from  a  book,  taken  from  its  con- 
nection,—  culled  out,  it  is  probable,  on 
purpose  to  make  a  bad  impression  ;  and 
forthwith  this  passage  is  made  to  stand 
for  the  system.  Whenever  Unitarian- 
ism  is  mentioned,  the  obnoxious  para- 
graph rises  to  mind,  and  settles  all 
questions  about  it  at  once.  Or,  per- 
haps, some  act  of  behavior  of  some  indi- 
vidual in  this  new  class  of  religionists  is 
mentioned ;  and  this  is  henceforth  con- 
sidered and  quoted  as  a  just  representa- 
tion, not  only  of  the  whole  body,  but  of 
their  principles  also.  Thus  an  impedi- 
ment in  Paul's  speech  was  made  an 
objection  to  Christianity,  —  an  objection 
which  he  thought  it  necessary  gravely 
to  debate  with  the  church  in  Corinth. 

I  have  introduced  this  sort  of  objec- 
tion first,  not  only  because  it  arises 
naturally  out  of  a  man's  first  acquaint- 
ance with  Unitarianism,  but  because 
it  gives  me  an  opportunity  to  say,  be- 
fore I  proceed  any  further,  hoiv  much 
of  what  passes  under  this  name  it  is 
necessary,  as  I  conceive,  to  defend. 
I  say,  then,  it  is  not  necessary  to  defend 
everything  that  passes  under  this  name, 
everything  that  every  or  any  Unitarian 
has  written  or  said  or  done.  So  ob- 
vious a  disclamation  might  seem  to  be 
scarcely  needful ;  but  it  will  not  seem  so 
to  any  who  have  observed  the  manner 
in  which  things  of  this  sort  are  charged 
upon  us.  What  is  it  to  me  that  such 
and  such  persons  have  said  or  written 
this  or  that  thing?  What  is  it  to  the 
main  cause  of  truth,  which  we  profess 
to  support,  or  to  the  great  questions  at 


issue?  In  the  circumstances  of  the 
Unitarian  body,  in  the  novelty  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  of  their  opinions,  in  the  vio- 
lent opposition  they  meet  with,  I  see 
exposures  to  many  faults  ;  to  excesses 
and  extravagances,  to  mistakes  and 
errors.  I  could  strike  off  half  of  the 
opinions  and  suggestions  that  have 
sprung  up  from  this  progress  of  in- 
quiry, and  still  retain  a  body  of  unspeak- 
ably precious  truth.  There  are  several 
things,  and  some  things  of  considerable 
practical  moment,  which  I  seriously 
doubt  whether  we,  as  a  denomination, 
have  yet  come  to  view  rightly.  The 
violence  of  opposition  has,  undoubtedly, 
in  some  respects,  carried  us  to  an 
extreme  in  some  points  of  opinion 
and  practice.  And  certainly  I  find 
things  in  our  writings  which,  in  my 
judgment,  are  indefensible.  What  less 
can  be  said,  if  we  retain  any  indepen- 
dence, or  sobriety,  or  discrimination 
about  us?  What  less  can  be  said  of 
any  faUible  body  of  men,  —  of  any  body, 
comprising,  as  all  denominations  do,  all 
sorts  of  men,  all  sorts  of  writers  and 
thinkers  ?  If  they  are  not  inspired,  they 
must  be  sometimes  wrong. 

Nay,  to  bring  this,  nearer  home,  it 
were  folly  for  any  one  of  us  to  contend 
that  everything  //^  has  said  or  written  is 
right,  or  even  that  it  is  done  with  a  right 
spirit.  Here  is  a  conflict  of  opinions, 
the  eagerness  of  dispute,  the  perverting 
influence  of  controversy.  Here  is  an 
eiTervescence  of  the  general  mind.  The 
moral  elements  of  the  world  are  shaken 
together,  if  not  more  violently,  yet  more 
intimately  perliaps,  than  they  ever  were 
before.  If  any  man  can,  with  a  severe 
calmness  and  a  solemn  scrutiny,  sit 
down  and  meditate  upon  those  things 
which  agitate  so  many  minds;  if  he  can 
separate  the  true  from  the  false,  and  say 
a  few  things,  out  of  many,  that  are  ex- 
actly right,  and  a  few  things  more  that 
are  helping  on  to  a  right  issue,  —  it  is, 
perhaps,  all  that  he  ought  to  expect. 
How  much  dross  there  may  be  in  the 
pure  gold  of  the  best  minds,  "  He  that 
sitteth  as  a  Refiner  "  only  can  know. 


MODES   OF  ATTACK    UPON   LIBERAL   CHRLSTIANITY. 


395 


This,  I  confess,  is  my  view  of  our 
controversies,  and  of  all  human  contro- 
versies. I  have  no  respect  in  this 
matter  for  authorities,  for  infallible  sen- 
tences, or  for  the  reverence  and  weight 
that  are  given  to  sentences,  because  they 
are  uttered  by  some  leader  in  the  church, 
or  because  they  are  written  in  a  book. 
I  have  no  respect  for  the  spirit  of  quo- 
tation, that,  having  brought  forward  a 
grave  proposition  from  some  synod,  or 
council,  or  book,  or  body  of  divinity, 
holds  that  to  be  enough.  All  men  err  ; 
all  synods,  and  councils,  and  consisto- 
ries, and  books,  and  bodies  of  divinity  ; 
which  is  only  saying  that  they  all  do 
that  in  the  aggregate  and  in  form  which 
they  do  individually  and  necessarily. 
And  if  this  be  true,  if  these  views  be 
just,  how  unreasonable  is  it  to  catch 
up  sentences  here  and  there,  from  any 
class  of  writings,  and  erect  them  into 
serious  and  comprehensive  charges  ! 

The  real  and  proper  question  is  about 
principles.  Let  these  be  shown  to  be 
wrong,  and  the  denomination  that  abides 
by  them  must  fall.  On  this,  the  only 
tenable  ground  for  any  reasonable  man, 
I  take  my  stand.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
our  leading  principles  are  true  ;  and  it 
would  not,  in  the  slightest  degree,  dis- 
turb this  faith,  if  there  could  be  shown 
me  ten  volumes  of  indefensible  extracts 
from  our  writings.  Whether  half  a  vol- 
ume of  such,  out  of  the  hundred  that 
have  been  written,  can  be  produced,  I 
leave  not  to  the  candor  of  our  oppo- 
nents to  decide,  but  to  their  ingenuity 
to  make  out,  if  they  are  able.  The  con- 
stant repetition  of  three  or  four  stale 
extracts,  garbled  from  the  writings  of 
Priestley  and  Belsham,  would  seem  to 
show  that  the  stock  of  invidious  quota- 
tions is  very  small.  In  fact,  I  do  con- 
sider Unitarians,  in  comparison  with 
any  other  religious  body,  as  having 
written  with  great  general  propriety, 
soberness,  and  wisdom.  But  if  they  have 
not.  or  if  any  one  thinks  they  have  not, 
it  will  very  little  affect  the  general  truth 
of  their  principles. 

And  how  ill,   let  me  ask,  could  any 


other  body  of  Christians  bear  this  sort 
of  scrutiny  ?  How  easy  would  it  be  to 
select  from  Orthodox  writings,  and  even 
from  those  of  great  general  reputation, 
a  mass  of  extracts  that  would  make  the 
whole  world  cry  out ;  one  part  with  hor- 
ror at  their  enormity,  and  anotiier  with 
indignation  at  their  being  presented  for 
the  purpose  of  showing  what  orthodoxy 
is  !  It  would  be  unjust,  I  confess.  It 
would  disturb  no  independent  believer 
in  that  system,  and  as  little  ought  such 
things  to  disturb  us. 

I  have  now  noticed  the  first  feeling 
of  objection  which  naturally  arises 
against  a  new  system ;  that  which  pro- 
ceeds from  confounding  the  main  cause 
with  the  circumstances  that  attend  it. 

II.  But  another  objection,  and  that 
perhaps  which  is  first  put  in  form,  is 
against  the  alleged  newness  of  the  sys- 
tem. It  is  said  that  this  religion  is  a 
new  thing;  that  it  is  a  departure  from 
the  faith  of  ages ;  that  it  unsettles  the 
most  established  notions  of  things,  and 
breaks  in  upon  the  order  and  peace  of 
the  churches.  I  state  this  objection 
strongly  for  the  sake  of  our  opponents, 
and  indeed  much  more  strongly  than  it 
deserves  to  be.  For  Unitarianism  pro- 
fesses, so  far  from  being  a  new  thing,  to 
be  the  old,  pure,  primitive  Christianity. 
It  does  not  profess,  even  in  comparison 
with  orthodoxy,  to  be  essentially  a  new 
thing,  but  only  so  in  certain  speculative 
doctrines  ;  and  still  less  is  it  the  friend 
or  promoter  of  disorder  and  disunion. 
Nevertheless,  it  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a 
new  thing,  and  it  occasions,  through  the 
objections  made  to  it,  much  disturb- 
ance. 

And  can  these,  I  ask.  be  valid  or 
weighty  objections  in  the  mouths  of 
Christians  and  Protestants?  Christian- 
ity was  once  a  new  thing.  The  Athenian 
philosophers  said  to  Paul,  no  doubt  with 
as  much  contempt  as  any  modern  ques- 
tioner could  feel,  "We  would  know 
what  this  new  doctrine,  whereof  thou 
speakest,  is."  And  others  said,  "  These 
men  that  have  turned  the  world  upside 
down   have   come   hither  also."      Yes, 


396 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE 


troublesome,  "pestilent  fellows,"  "mov- 
ers of  sedition,"  devisers  of  mischief, 
and  "doers  of  evil,"  were  the  first  prop- 
agators of  Christianity  accounted,  and 
were  not  ashamed  thus  to  suffer  in  imi- 
tation of  their  slandered  Master.  And 
the  Reformers  of  Christianity  in  the 
sixteenth  century  trod  in  the  same 
steps,  and  in  like  manner  had  their 
"  names  cast  out  as  evil."  And  espe- 
cially was  it  objected  to  them,  that  they 
departed  from  the  faith  of  ages,  and 
invaded  the  repose  of  time-hallowed 
doctrines  and  institutions.  And  in  the 
strong  confidence,  ay,  the  strong  argu- 
ment of  the  majority,  the  same  things 
were  said  about  the  truth  as  are  now 
said  ;  the  same  cry  of  "the  church  is  in 
danger  "  was  raised  ;  the  same  anathe- 
mas were  pronounced  against  dangerous 
heresies  and  the  denying  of  the  faith. 
The  whole  scene  was  acted  over,  that  is 
now  witnessed,  of  an  exclusive  and 
hostile  orthodoxy,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
a  firm  and  unyielding  dissent  on  the 
other ;  only  that  orthodoxy  could  then 
command  the  inquisition  and  the  rack, 
and  now  it  only  sets  its  tribunal  on  the 
reputation  of  men,  and  subjects  the  mind 
to  trials,  that  in  some  instances  scarcely 
fall  short  of  the  tortures  of  the  rack. 
This  has  always  been  the  fate  of  innova- 
tion, and.  perhaps,  it  always  must  be. 
And  to  those  who,  for  conscience'  sake, 
draw  upon  themselves  this  hostility  to 
whatever  is  new,  I  would  say:  think  it 
not  strange  concerning  this  fiery  trial, 
as  though  any  strange  thing  happened 
to  you.  It  is  the  same  that  has  hap- 
pened to  the  reformers  of  faith,  to  the 
witnesses  for  truth,  in  all  ages.  Be  not 
astoni.shed  or  disheartened  at  this.  Only 
bear  it  patiently.  No  assault,  no  detrac- 
tion, can  injure  you,  if  you  bear  them 
with  the  spirit  of  Christ.  Rather  will 
they  benefit  you  unspeakably  and  for- 
ever, benefit  you  in  awakening  that  love, 
and  meekness,  and  humility,  the  trying 
of  which  is  more  precious  than  that  of 
gold  which  perisheth.  "  If  ye  be  re- 
proached for  the  name  of  Christ,"  —  if 
ye  be  reproached  for  laboring  to  rescue 


his  name  and  his  reh'gion  from  mistake 
and  injury, —  "happy  are  ye;  for  the 
spirit  of  glory  and  of  God  resteth  on 
you ! " 

III.  Another  method  of  attack  upon 
Liberal  Christianity  is  to  awaken  senti- 
ments of  pity  and  horror  against  it.  I 
am  not  about  to  deny  that  this  is  very 
honestly  done;  but  I  do  say  that  it  is 
an  unworthy  mode  of  assault  ;  that  it 
appeals  not  to  the  judgment,  but  to  the 
passions,  and  that  it  is  very  apt  to  be 
the  strongest  in  the  weakest  hands.  To 
put  on  a  solemn  countenance,  to  speak 
in  sepulchral  tones  of  awe  and  lamenta- 
tion, to  warn  men  against  this  doctrine, 
is  easy.  But,  alas  for  the  weakness  of 
men  !  if  it  is  an  instrument  easily  wielded, 
it  is  also  an  instrument  of  terrible  power 
with  the  superstitious,  the  timid  and  un- 
reflecting. A  considerate  man,  a  man 
who  respects  the  minds  and  consciences 
of  those  he  has  to  deal  with,  will  be 
cautious  how  he  takes  hold  of  such  a 
weapon  as  this,  —  a  weapon  which  pre- 
vails chiefly  with  human  weakness,  which 
strikes  the  very  part  of  our  nature  that 
most  needs  to  be  supported,  which 
wounds  only  the  infirm,  and  overwhelms 
only  the  prostrate.  Fori  need  not  say, 
that  it  is  precisely  with  minds  in  this 
situation  that  tones  of  pity  and  horror 
have  the  greatest  influence.  A  man  of 
independent  thought  and  vigorous  under- 
standing, who  could  better  afford  to  bear 
this  sort  of  influence,  is  the  very  person 
who  will  not  yield  to  it.  He  will  say 
indignantly,  "That  is  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose. That  does  not  satisfy  me.  I  did 
not  ask  you  to  warn  me,  but  to  enlighten 
me.  I  did  not  ask  you  to  weep,  but  to 
reason.  No  doubt  you  feel  as  you  say, 
and  very  sincerely  feel  thus  ;  it  is  not 
your  sincerity  that  I  question,  but  your 
argument.  You  degrade  my  understand- 
ing when  you  attempt  to  work  upon  it 
in  this  manner.  I  was  made  to  think. 
The  Lord  of  conscience  has  given  me 
liberty  to  inquire,  and  I  will  not  be  sub- 
ject to  any  other  influence.  God  has 
called  me  to  liberty,  and  man  shall  not 
lay  me  under  bondage." 


MODES   OF   ATTACK   UPON    LIBERAL   CHRISTIANITY. 


397 


Nor  is  this  all.  Pity  and  horror 
prove  nothing,  indeed;  but  it  is  more- 
over a  matter  of  history  that  truth  has 
always  made  its  progress  amidst  the 
pity  and  horror  of  men.  Yes,  it  has 
come  thus  ;  amidst  sighings  and  doubt- 
ings,  and  shakings  of  the  head,  and 
warnings  of  danger,  and  forebodings  of 
evil.  Yes,  it  has  held  its  way  through 
tokens  like  these  ;  with  dark  counte- 
nances about  it,  and  loud  denunciations, 
and  woful  anathemas.  It  has  stood  up 
and  spoken  in  the  person  of  its  great 
Teacher  ;  and  men  have  "  gnashed  their 
teeth  and  rent  their  garments  "  at  its 
voice.  It  has  gone  forth  into  the 
world  with  its  devoted  Apostles,  and 
been  accounted  "  the  offscouring  of 
all  things."  It  has  "  prophesied  in 
sackcloth  "'  with  its  faithful  witnesses, 
and  borne  the  cross  of  ignominy  and 
reproach.  The  angry  Sanhedrim,  the 
bloody  Inquisition,  the  dungeon,  the 
rack,  the  martyr's  stake,  have  testified 
to  the  abhorrence  of  tnen  against  the 
truth  ! 

I  do  not  say  that  the  truth  I  hold  is 
worthy  of  this  glorious  fellowship.  But 
I  say  that  its  being  joined  in  any  meas- 
ure to  this  fellowship  does  not  prove  it 
false.  And  if  it  be  true,  as  I  solemnly 
believe  it  is,  then  let  not  its  advocates 
claim  entire  exemption  from  the  trials 
of  their  elder  brethren.  It  will  go  on, 
and  men  will  speak  evil  of  it,  and  they 
will  struggle  against  it,  and  they  will 
lament  and  weep ;  but  it  will  be  as 
if  they  lifted  up  their  voice  to  withstand 
the  rolling  seasons,  or  struggled  against 
the  chariot  wheels  of  the  morning,  or 
poured  out  vain  tears  upon  the  mighty 
stream  that  is  to  bear  all  before  it.  I 
say  this  more  in  sorrow,  I  hope,  than  in 
scorn.  I  am  sorry  for  those  who  can- 
not see  this  matter  as  I  think  they 
ought  to  see  it.  I  am  sorry  for  the  un- 
happiness,  for  the  honest  grief  which  a 
misplaced  pity  and  an  uncharitable  zeal, 
and  a  spirit  of  reproach  and  condemna- 
tion, give  them.  But  their  grief,  save 
for  its  own  sake,  moves  me  not  at  all. 
I  consider  it  as  a  penance  for  their  mis- 


taken hostility  to  truth,  rather  than  a 
fair  admonition  of  error.  I  believe,  and 
can  believe  no  less,  that  this  unhappi- 
ness  is  simply  the  fruit  of  error.  Un- 
charitableness  must  be  unhappy  ;  anger 
must  be  painful ;  exclusion,  and  anathe- 
matizing, and  dooming  sincere  brethren 
to  perdition,  must  be  works  of  bitterness 
and  grief.  I  wonder  not  that  a  man 
should  weep  while  he  is  doing  them  ; 
my  only  wonder  is  that  he  can  ever  do 
them  and  not  weep  ! 

IV.  But  I  shall  now  proceed  to  con- 
sider one  or  two  objections  of  a  graver 
character.  It  is  said  that  the  religion 
which  Unitarianism  teaches  does  not 
meet  the  wants  of  human  nature  ;  that 
it  does  not  satisfy  the  mind;  that  it 
fails  as  a  support  and  comfort  to  the 
soul.  I  recur  again  to  the  observation, 
that  it  is  perfectly  natural  that  this  ob- 
jection should  be  brought  against  new 
views  of  religion  ;  simply  because  they 
are  new,  and  whether  they  are  true  or 
not ;  and  therefore  that  no  strange 
thing  happens  to  them  when  tliey  are 
thus  regarded.  If  you  take  away  some 
j  parts  of  a  religion  on  which  men  have 
relied,  you  take  away  some  part  of  their 
reliance  ;  and  they  cannot  feel  for  a 
time  as  if  anything  else  would  be  such 
a  support  and  satisfaction  to  them. 
This  will  be  especially  true  if  you  intro- 
duce simpler  and  more  rational  ideas 
of  religion.  The  Jew  could  say  to  the 
Christian,  "  How  many  feasts  and  holy- 
days,  and  sabbaths,  and  new  moons, 
and  rites,  and  ordinances,  on  wliich  my 
soul  relied,  have  you  removed  from 
me  !  "  The  Catholic  could  say  of 
the  Protestant,  '•  Where,  alas  !  are  the 
masses,  and  the  confessionals,  and  the 
comfortable  absolutions,  and  the  inter- 
cessions of  saints,  for  him  f''  And 
things  of  the  same  import  concerning 
the  more  doctrinal  aspects  of  religion 
may  the  Calvinist  say  to  the  Unitarian. 
But  the  Christian  and  the  Protestant 
could  reply  to  their  respective  oppo- 
nents, "We  have  a  reliance  as  sure  and 
satisfactory  as  yours ;  and  more  sound 
and  spiritual,  as    we   judge."     And  so 


398 


CURSORY   OBSERVATIONS   ON   THE 


may  the  Unitarian  say  to  the   Calvin- 
ist. 

But  let  us  go  into  the  real  merits  of 
the  case.  What  is  a  foundation  and  a 
support  in  religion,  and  whence  does 
true  comfort  arise  ?  Our  Saviour  speaks 
of  a  foundation  when  he  says,  "  He  that 
heareth  my  words  and  doeth  them,  I 
will  liken  to  a  wise  man,"  whose  "  house 
fell  not,  because  it  was  foitiided  on  a 
rock."  Surely,  Unitarians  do  not  re- 
ject this  foundation.  "  But  our  own 
endeavors  and  virtues  are  not  sufficient 
of  themselves."  Certainly  not;  and 
Unitarians  may  rely  as  unfeignedly  as 
their  brethren  on  the  mercy  of  God, 
and  they  sincerely  profess  to  do  so. 
This  satisfies  them.  To  say  that  it 
does  not  satisfy  the  demands  of  a  differ- 
ent theology  is  only  saying  that  the 
speculations  of  the  two  classes  differ. 
'•But,"  it  may  be  contended,  "it  does 
not  satisfy  the  wants  of  human  natiii-e.'''' 
This  is  a  matter  of  which  every  one 
must  judge  from  the  feelings  of  his  own 
mind.  As  the  Unitarian  experiences 
human  nature,  he  would  say  that  the 
simple  promise  of  God's  mercy  and  aid 
to  his  humble  endeavors  does  give  all 
needful  satisfaction.  A  certain  theory 
of  the  divine  government  may  not  be 
satisfied  ;  the  superstitious  wants  of  hu- 
man nature  may  not  be  satisfied;  but 
the  Unitarian  believes  that  its  real 
wants  are. 

But  I  go  farther;  though  I  would  say 
what  I  am  about  to  say  with  all  reason- 
able and  fair  qualifications.  I  feel 
obliged  to  use  increasing  caution  in 
all  general  representations.  There  are 
men  too  intelligent  and  good  in  every 
class  of  Christians  to  be  very  much 
affected  by  a  formal  creed.  Neverthe- 
less, I  have  not  a  doubt  that  there  are 
many  to  whom  the  popular  religion 
furnishes  grounds  of  support  and  satis- 
faction which  are  not  right  and  rational 
grounds.  The  regular  plan  and  process 
of  religious  experience,  the  defined  steps 
and  dates  ;  an  exact  time  and  moment 
of  conversion,  and  the  certainty  of  sal- 
vation after  that  ;  the  efficacy  of  the  act 


of  faith,  distinguished  as  it  often  is  from 
the  general  efficacy  of  a  holy  life  ;  "the 
view  of  Christ  "  and  of  the  atonement 
as  relieving  the  sinner  from  his  burden  ; 
"  the  rolling  off  of  tlie  burden  of  sin," 
as  it  is  often  called  ;  the  notions  of  a 
foundation,  and  a  hope,  and  a  joy,  dis- 
connected as  tliey  are  from  the  result  of 
long-tried  virtue  and  piety  ;  tlie  idea  of 
the  Holy  Spirit  as  alone  doing  the 
"  effectual  work  "  of  salvation  in  man, 
doing  it  by  a  special  interposition  after 
all  the  sinner's  efforts  are  over,  and  he 
is  brought  to  despair  of  himself;  these 
views,  as  I  believe,  furnish  a  falla- 
cious support  and  comfort  and  relief 
to  many.  I  wotild  lay  a  weight  upon 
man's  responsibility,  which  is,  no 
doubt,  disagreeable  to  him.  I  would 
tell  a  sinful  man  that  anxiety  is  more 
becoming  to  him  than  confidence  and 
repose.  He  is  indeed  to  confide  and 
repose  in  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  in- 
terposition of  Christ ;  but  these  no  more 
avail  him  than  to  tell  him  that  there  is 
wealth  in  store  for  his  industry.  So  far 
as  his  own  part  is  concerned,  it  is  indus- 
try, it  is  working,  continual  working, 
daily  accumulation,  that  is  to  make  him 
rich  towards  God.  I  would  tell  him 
that  believing  is  virtually  the  same  as 
doing  ;  and  that  it  is  this  doing,  this 
constant  doing,  and  this  alone,  that  can 
roll  away  the  burden  of  sin.  In  short, 
I  would  say  that  for  a  sinful  man  to 
attain  to  the  favor  of  God  and  to  heaven, 
is  the  same  as  for  an  intemperate  man 
to  attain  to  sobriety  and  virtue  ;  that  it 
is  what  he  must  do,  every  day  and  hour, 
day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  striving, 
watching,  guarding,  praying,  keeping 
himself  under  perpetual  restraint,  till  he 
is  redeemed  from  his  iniquity.  In  other 
words,  I  would  strive  to  represent  this 
matter  rationally;  and  would  say  that 
the  sinner  is  to  become  a  holy  man, 
just  as  the  ignorant  is  to  become  a 
learned  man,  by  little  and  little,  by  con- 
stant accumulations,  by  gaining  one 
truth  to-day  and  another  to  morrow,  by 
perpetual  progress. 

Now,  I  do  not  deny  that  these  things, 


MODES   OF   ATTACK    UPON    LIBERAL   CHRISTIANITY. 


399 


in  the  general,  are  tauglit  by  Calvinists  ; 
but  then  I  maintain  that  they  are  com- 
monly taught  in  such  a  way,  that  they 
are  so  mixed  up  with  certain  doctrines, 
as  that  their  pressure  upon  the  soul  is 
relieved  :  so  that  a  man  does  not  feel 
that  he  is  to  become  a  Christian  just  as 
he  is  to  become  a  rich  man,  or  a  skilful 
or  a  wise  man.  He  does  not  feel  this 
pressure  of  necessity  upon  him  every 
iiiornin<i,  and  lie  down  with  this  anxiety 
every  night,  as  the  seeker  of  learning  or 
wealth  does.  Alas  !  few  feel  this  as 
they  ought  to  feel  it !  But  this  is  what 
we  should  strive  to  make  men  feel.  And 
we  ought  to  sweep  away  all  doctrines 
that  stand  in  the  way  of  this.  We  should 
allow  of  no  peace  ;  we  should  hear  of  no 
summary  method,  no  parcelling  out  of 
the  matters  of  religious  experience,  that 
will  make  it  a  different  thing  from  the 
daily,  pliin,  practical,  unwearied  doing 
of  everything  a  man  ought  to  do.  No 
believing  of  creeds,  no  paying  of  contri- 
butions, no  regular  and  stated  prayers, 
no  oft-repeated  confessions,  proper  as 
these  are  in  their  place  ;  no  atonement, 
nor  election,  nor  special  grace,  nor  per- 
severance, true  as  they  are  when  truly 
explained,  should  save  a  man  from  the 
pressure  of  this  instant  necessity. 

I  conceive  that  the  reason  why  Cal- 
vinism offers  more  support  to  many 
minds  is,  that  it  is  a  more  artificial  sys- 
tem, and  approaches  less  nearly  to  the 
simple  truth.  It  is  too  much  a  religion 
of  seasons  and  times,  of  fixtures  and 
props,  ot  reliefs  and  substitutions,  of 
comforts  and  confidences.  And  I  am 
persuaded  that  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
ligion would  much  better  answer  the  pur- 
pose of  supporting  and  satisfying  minds, 
in  the  state  now  supposed.  There  have 
been,  not  long  since,  some  distinguished 
converts  in  Germany  to  the  Catholic 
faith.  I  could  easily  conceive  of  one  of 
them  as  saying:  "  Here  at  last  I  find  rest ; 
I  find  certainty  and  refuge  in  the  infalli- 
bility and  absolution  of  the  Holy  Churcli. 
This,  too,  is  the  accumulated  support 
of  ages,  built  on  the  virtues  and  suffer- 
ings of  fathers  and  confessors  and  mar- 


tyrs. How,  also,  am  I  affected  with  the 
real  presence  of  the  body  of  Christ  in 
the  sacrament,  with  the  guardianship  of 
saints,  and  the  interceding  tenderness 
of  the  Holy  IVIother  !  I  never  was  so 
impressed  with  any  religion  as  this.  I 
never  found  such  joy  and  peace  in  any. 
This  is  the  religion  for  a  sinner !  This 
is  what  my  depraved  and  burdened  na- 
ture wanted  ! '' 

"  Yes,"  replies  the  sound  Protestant  ; 
"but  it  would  not  move  inc^  nor  support 
nor  comfort  me.  The  impressiveness  ot 
a  religion  does  not  depend,  altogether, 
upon  its  truth  or  falsehood,  but  very 
much  on  the  state  of  the  mind  that  re- 
ceives it."  And  this  is  what  we  answer 
to  the  Calvinist.  We  say  that  Calvinism 
would  make  no  kindly  nor  renewing  im- 
pression on  us.  And  as  to  comfort  and 
support,  it  seems  to  us,  in  some  of  its 
features,  the  most  cheerless  and  deso- 
late of  all  systems. 

V.  But  I  must  hasten  to  the  last  ob- 
jection that  I  intended  to  notice.  It  is 
said  that  there  is  a  fatal  coldness  in  the 
Unitarian  system,  that  there  is  no  ex- 
citement in  it,  no  reality,  no  seriousness, 
no  strictness;  that  it  is  fitted  to  gratify 
the  proud,  the  philosophic,  the  worldly, 
and  the  vicious. 

I  must  again  remind  the  reader,  in  the 
first  place,  that  this  is  just  what  new 
views  of  religion  may  expect,  and  what 
they  have  always  in  fact  encountered. 
It  is  no  strange  thing  that  strangers  to 
the  practical  sense  of  our  principles 
should  not  confess  their  power.  All  this 
cry  was  raised  against  the  Reformation, 
as  loudly  as  it  is  raised  against  us. 

Nay,  it  may  be  admitted,  in  the  second 
place,  without  any  prejudice  to  the  cause 
I  maintain,  that  new  views  in  religion 
will  be  most  likely  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  those  who  are  least  prejudiced 
in  favor  of  the  old ;  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
less  religious ;  and  of  persons,  too,  who 
have  been  less  religious,  in  many  in- 
stances, for  the  very  reason,  that  they 
could  not  bear  the  errors  of  the  popular 
faith.  Nay,  more  :  it  may  be  admitted 
that  new  views  of  religion,  however  true, 


400 


CURSORY    OBSERVATIONS. 


will  probably  do  injury  to  some.  There 
are  some  most  extraordinary  confessions 
to  this  effect  from  the  lips  of  the  Re- 
formers. New  views  are  liable  to  unset- 
tle the  minds  that  hastily  receive  them ; 
and  some  that  are  averse  to  all  religion 
and  to  all  self-denial  may  vaguely  hope 
that  another  doctrine  would  be  more 
indulgent  to  their  vices.  Yes,  and  they 
may  make'  it  so  ;  for  what  good  thing 
has  not  been  abused  ?  This  great  sub- 
ject, in  fact,  has  been  so  treated  and 
taught,  that  in  religion,  most  of  all,  men 
are  apt  to  show  themselves  superficial 
and  weak  creatures.  And  it  is  not  strange 
that  those  who  have  dwelt  long  in  dark- 
ness should  be  dazzled  and  bewildered 
and  led  astray  by  the  light,  or  that  lib- 
erty should  be  a  dangerous  thing  to  the 
enslaved.  What  if  Christianity  had  been 
judged  by  the  state  of  the  Corinthian 
church  ? 

And  yet  Christianity  came  as  a  reli- 
gion of  power  and  strictness,  and  so  I 
maintain  that  it  still  is  found  to  be  in 
the  form  in  which  we  hold  it.  If  others 
who  are  experimentally  ignorant  of  it 
may  testify  against  it,  we  who  have  felt 
what  it  is  maybe  excused  if  we  testify 
in  its  favor.  And  I  know  that  I  speak 
the  language  of  hundreds  and  thousands, 
when  I  say  that  religion  to  us  is  the  one 
theme  of  interest,  —  of  unspeakable,  un- 
dying interest.  We  would  not  exchange 
the  sense  we  have  of  it  for  thrones  and 
kingdoms.  To  take  it  away  would  be 
to  take  from  us  our  chief  light,  blessing, 
and  hope.  We  have  felt  the  power  of 
the  world  to  come ;  and  no  language 
can  tell  what  that  power  is,  can  tell  the 
value  of  an  immortal  hope  and  prospect. 
We  have  heard  the  great  and  good 
teacher,  and  we  feel  that  "  never  man 
spake  like  this  man  "  By  him,  we  trust 
that  we  have  been  brought  nigh  to  God  ; 
and  this  nearness  consummates  the  infi- 
nite good  which  we  embrace  in  our  reli- 
gion. On  all  this  I  might  dwell  long  and 
abundantly  ;  but  I  will  not  trust  myself  to 
say  what  I  feel  that  I  might  say  for  many, 
lest  I  be  accused  of  "the  foolishness 
of  boasting."     And  if  even  for  what  1 


do  say  1  ant  so  accused,  I  must  adopt 
the  Apostle's  justification,  and  say,  I 
have  been  "compelled."  For  how  can 
men,  who  feel  that  religion  is  the  great 
resort  of  the  mind,  and  the  living  inter- 
est, and  the  animating  hope,  consent  to 
the  charge,  that  all  on  this  subject  is 
cold  and  cheerless  as  death  among  them  ! 
We  should  be  ungrateful  for  the  first  of 
blessings,  if  we  could  be  silent.  We 
have  communed  with  religion  in  sorrow, 
and  it  has  comforted  us  ;  in  joy,  and  it 
has  blessed  us  ;  in  difficulty  and  trouble, 
and  it  has  guided  and  calmed  us  ;  in 
temptations,  and  it  has  strengthened  us  ; 
in  conscious  guilt  and  error,  and  this 
religion  has  encouraged  and  comforted 
and  forgiven  us ;  and  we  must  testify 
our  sense  to  its  value.  It  is  here  that 
we  have  treasured  up  the  joy  and  hope 
of  our  being;  it  is  here  that  we  have 
poured  out  the  fulness  of  our  hearts  ; 
and  if  this  is  to  be  cold  and  dead,  we 
ask,  in  the  name  of  sense  and  truth,  what 
is  it  to  feel  ?  If  this  is  philosophy,  God 
give  us  more  of  this  philosophy.  Yes, 
it  is  philosophy,  divine  and  heaven-de- 
scended; it  is  truth  immortal;  it  is  reli- 
gion, which,  if  it  can  be  carried  on  within 
us,  will,  we  are  persuaded,  through  God's 
mercy,  lead  us  to  heaven. 

I  have  now  completed  the  views  which, 
in  conclusion,  I  intended  to  give  to  some 
ot  the  popular  objections  to  Unitarian 
Christianity.  Let  me  warn  every  man, 
in  close,  to  beware  of  taking  any  light 
and  trifling  views  of  the  religion  on  which 
he  founds  his  hope.  If  any  views  that 
ever  enter  our  minds  tend  to  slacken  the 
obligations  of  virtue,  or  to  let  down  the 
claims  of  piety,  let  us  discard  those  views 
at  once  and  forever.  Let  us  take  a  vi- 
per to  our  bosom  sooner  than  lay  a  flat- 
tering unction  to  the  soul  that  will  make 
it  easier  in  sin.  Sin  is  the  sting  of  death, 
and  it  will  kill  and  destroy  all  that  is 
dear  and  precious  to  an  immortal  crea- 
ture. Religion  only  is  life  and  peace  ; 
and  it  is  also  zeal,  and  fervor,  and  joy, 
and  hope,  and  watchfulness,  and  strict- 
ness, and  self-denial,  and  patience  unto 
the  end. 


THE   ANALOGY    OF   RELIGION   WITH   OTHER   SUBJECTS.         401 


THE  ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION   WITH    OTHER 
SUBJECTS   CONSIDERED. 


I  Cor.  X.  15  :  "I  speak  as  to  wise  men  :  judge  ye 
what  I  say." 

It  was  an  observation  of  an  eminent 
expounder  of  the  science  of  jurispru- 
dence,* that  "  the  reason  of  the  law 
is  the  life  of  the  law ;  for  though  a 
man,"  says  he,  "  can  tell  the  law,  yet  if 
he  know  not  the  reason  thereof,  he  shall 
soon  forget  his  superficial  knowledge. 
But  when  he  findeth  the  right  reason  of 
the  law,  and  so  bringeth  it  to  his  nat- 
ural reason  that  he  comprehendeth  it  as 
his  own,  this  will  not  only  serv^e  him  for 
the  understanding  of  that  particular  case, 
but  of  many  others." 

This  comprehensive  reason  is  as 
necessary  in  religion  as  in  the  law ; 
which,  rightly  considered,  indeed,  is 
but  a  part  of  the  science  of  religion  or 
rectitude.  The  great  danger  to  the  mind, 
indeed,  in  pursuing  every  science,  is 
that  of  being  narrow  and  technical,  and 
so  of  losing  truth  while  it  is  gaining 
knowledge.  For  truth  is  universal  ;  it 
is  the  conclusion  derived  from  those 
facts  the  possession  of  which  we  call 
knowledge.  Truth,  I  say,  is  universal  ; 
and  religious  truth  possesses  this  char- 
acter as  much  as  any  other.  What  is 
true  in  religion  is  true  in  everything  else 
to  which  such  truth  is  capable  of  being 
applied;  true  in  the  law,  true  in  moral 
philosophy,  true  in  the  prudence  of  life, 
true  in  all  human  action. 

From  this  position  results  the  use  of  an 
instrument  for  religious  investigation,  to 
which  I  wish  to  invite  your  attention. 
The  instrument  I  refer  to  is  comparison. 
1  invite  you  to  compare  religion  with 
other  things,  to  which  it  is  analogous. 
Fairly  to  put  this  instrument  into  your 
hands,  to  give  some  examples  of  its  use 
and  application,  will  require  a  course  of 

*  Lord  Littleton. 


three  or  four  lectures,  which  I  shall  give 
on  Sunday  evenings. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  there  is 
anything  new  in  this  mode  of  investi- 
gation. On  the  contrary,  it  is  so  famil- 
iar that  it  enters  more  or  less  into 
almost  every  religious  discourse.  It  is 
justified  by  the  practice  of  all  sorts  of 
religious  and  moral  teachers.  It  is 
the  only  instrument  used  in  that  great 
work  of  Bishop  Butler  entitled  his 
Analogy.  All  I  wish  to  do  is,  for  a 
little  time,  to  fix  attention  upon  it. 

It  is  not  pretended  that  this  instru- 
ment is  infallible.  The  degree  of  proof 
to  be  gathered  from  any  comparison 
depends  on  the  closeness  of  the  analogy. 
To  this  point,  the  closeness  of  the  an- 
alogy, the  main  point  in  this  kind  of  in- 
quiry, I  shall  give  the  most  discriminat- 
ing attention  that  I  am  capable  of,  and 
shall  wish  my  hearers  constantly  to 
judge,  as  wise  men,  what  I  say.  The 
instrument,  I  confess,  is  liable  to  abuse. 
To  give  an  instance  of  this  :  I  have 
heard  preachers  liken  the  case  of  the 
unconverted  sinner  to  that  of  a  man  in 
a  burning  house,  or  in  a  pestilence,  or  in 
peril  of  shipwreck  ;  and  they  have  advo- 
cated and  defended  the  utmost  extrava- 
gance of  spiritual  fear  and  effort,  on 
the  ground  that  the  sinner  is  in  still 
greater  danger.  Here  is  comparison, 
indeed,  but  no  analogy.  There  is  no 
analogy,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  precise 
point  on  which  the  argument  depends. 
There  is  analogy,  indeed,  in  the  danger, 
but  not  in  the  nature  of  the  danger.  In 
a  burning  house,  or  in  a  shipwreck,  the 
peril  is  instant  ;  all  that  can  be  done 
for  escape  must  be  done  in  an  hour  or 
a  moment;  and  men  are  justified  in  act- 
ing almost  like  distracted  men  at  such  a 
moment.  But  spiritual  danger  is  of  a 
different  character  :  it  is  not  all  accumu- 
lated upon  a  given  instant ;  it  is  not  one 


36 


402 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION 


stupendous  crisis  in  a  man's  life,  but  it 
spreads  itself  over  his  whole  being.  It 
is  not,  like  the  whelming  wave,  or  the 
already  scorching  fire,  to  bring  fright 
and  agony  into  the  mind  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, the  special  characteristics  of  spirit- 
ual fear  should  be  reflection,  calmness, 
and  intense  thoughtfulness.  That  is  to 
say,  it  is  to  be  tlie  action  of  the  spirit- 
ual, and  not  of  the  animal,  nature.  You 
perceive,  therefore,  that  the  instrument 
I  am  about  to  recommend  to  you  is  to 
be  used  with  great  caution,  with  a  wise 
discretion.  In  the  use  of  it  I  shall  con- 
stantly hold  myself  amenable  to  that 
judgment  of  good  sense  to  which  the 
apostle  himself,  in  my  text,  appealed. 
Bishop  Butler,  in  the  great  work  before 
alluded  to,  limited  the  uses  of  analogy 
entirely  to  the  purpose  of  defence.  He 
maintained  and  showed  that  certain  facts 
in  nature  and  in  life  were  analogous  to 
certain  doctrines  in  the  Bible  ;  and  his 
argument  was,  not  that  the  existence  of 
the  facts  proved  the  truth  of  the  doc- 
trines, but  simply  that  they  took  away 
all  fair  and  philosophical  objection  from 
those  doctrines.  Thus,  if  the  conse- 
quences of  a  single  sin  often  follow  a 
man  through  life,  if  this  is  actually  a  part 
of  God's  administration  of  the  affairs  of 
this  world,  then  there  is  no  objection  to 
that  doctrine  of  our  Scriptures  which 
■declares  that  the  consequences  of  a  life 
of  sin  shall  follow  the  offender  into  an- 
other  state.  With  Bishop  Butler's  views 
of  what  the  doctrines  of  revelation  are, 
I  have  nothing  here  to  do.  I  have  only 
to  say,  that  I  am  willing  to  be  governed 
by  a  similar  caution.  I  wish  to  present 
to  you  certain  rational  views  of  religion, 
as  they  appear  to  me,  and  these  mainly 
of  practical  religion  ;  and  against  the 
common  allegations  of  insufficiency, 
shallowness,  or  untruth,  in  these  views, 
I  wish  to  appeal  to  what  men  allow  to 
be  sound  and  satisfactory  and  thorough 
in  other  departments  of  human  action 
and  feeling. 

There  is,  however,  one  objection  to 
this  method  of  inquiry  itself  which  I 
must  consider  before  I  enter  upon  it.    It 


is  said  that  religion  is  God's  work  in  the 
soul, — a  peculiar,  if  not  a  supernatural 
work;  and  hence  it  is  inferred  that  re- 
ligion is  not  to  be  judged  of  on  princi- 
ples common  to  it  with  other  subjects 
and  qualities.  I  answer  that  the  conclu- 
sion does  not  follow  from  the  premises. 
I  might  deny  the  premises,  perhaps,  in 
the  sense  in  which  they  are  put ;  but 
for  the  purposes  of  the  proposed  inquiry 
I  need  not  deny  them.  I  may  allow  that 
religion  is  the  special  work  of  God  in 
the  soul,  which  it  is  in  a  certain  sense, 
and  yet  I  may  fairly  maintain  that  it  is 
to  be  judged  of  like  other  principles  in 
the  soul.  For  all  Christians  of  a  sound 
and  reasonable  mind  are  now  accus- 
tomed to  admit  that  God's  work  in  the 
soul  does  not  violate  the  laws  of  the 
soul ;  that  the  influence  of  the  Infinite 
Spirit,  whatever  it  be,  is  perfectly  com- 
patible with  the  moral  constitution  of 
the  being  influenced.  But  how  is  man 
influenced  in  other  things  ?  The  an- 
swer is,  by  considerations,  by  reasons 
and  motives,  by  fears  and  hopes.  So 
is  he  influenced  in  religion.  All  moral 
influence,  whether  derived  from  Scrip- 
ture, from  preaching,  from  reflection,  or 
from  conscience,  is  one  great  and  per- 
fectly rational  appeal  to  man's  moral 
nature;  and  the  result  is  to  be  judged 
of  accordingly.  What  religion  is  true  ; 
and  what  is  true  in  the  views  presented 
of  the  received  religion  ;  what  are  proper 
and  just  exhibitions  of  it  :  what  are  the 
due  and  right  means  and  methods  of 
cultivating  it  ;  and  what  are  its  claims 
upon  us,  —  all  these  matters  are  to  be 
considered  as  we  consider  other  obli- 
gations, truths,  developments  of  char- 
acter, and  methods  of  improvement.  It 
is  no  argument  for  unreasonableness, 
for  impropriety  of  conduct  or  manners, 
for  extravagance,  fanaticism,  or  folly, 
that  the  subject  is  religion,  or  that  re- 
ligion is  the  work  of  God  in  the  soul. 
This,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  strongest 
of  reasons  for  insisting  that  religion 
should  be  perfectly  and  profoundly 
sober,  rational,  and  wise.  That  which 
comes  from  the  fountain  of  reason,  and 


WITH   OTHER   SUBJECTS. 


403 


as  its  gift  to  a  rational  nature,  will  not, 
we  may  be  sure,  contradict  the  laws  of 
that  reason  and  that  nature. 

This  is  a  point  to  be  insisted  on,  and 
the  proposed  discussion  may  have  spe- 
cial advantages  in  (his  view.    Indeed,  I 
know  of  no  other  way  in  which  the  worst 
practical  errors  are  to  be  removed  from 
the  church,  but  by  the  application  of  the 
test  in  question  ;  by  carrying  religion  en- 
tirely out  from  the  walls  of  conventicles, 
and  the  pale  of  technical  theology,  and 
from  all  the  narrow  maxims  of  peculiar 
religious    coteries   and   sects,    into   the 
broad  field  of  common-sense  and  sound 
judgment.     The  advocates,  whether  of  a 
speculative  system  or  of  a  practical  econ- 
omy in   religion,  can   never  tell  how  :t 
looks,  till  they  see  it  in  this  open  light, 
and  in  its  relation  to  the  whole  surround 
ing   world   of   objects.      Kept  witliin   a 
certain  circle  and  never  looking  beyond 
it,  and  holding  that  things  may  be  true 
in  that  circle  which  are  true   nowhere 
else,  men  may  reason  in  that  circle,  and 
reason  strongly,  and  reason  forever,  and 
never  advance  one  step  towards  broad, 
generous,  universal  truth.     Thus  it  has 
always   been    that   mistake,  fanaticism, 
practical  error  in  religious  matters,  have 
rested  their  claims  on  tlie  peculiar,  un- 
usual supernatural  character  of  the  sub- 
ject.     Religious  extravagance  of  every 
sort    has    always     had    its    stronghold 
within   barriers   that  have  shut  out  the 
common    judgment   and    sense   of    the 
world.     Nay,  I  may  add,  since  I  have 
spoken  of  comparing  religion  with  other 
qualities  of  the  mind,  that  there  are  many 
by  whom  it  is  yet  to  be  learned  that  re- 
ligion is  a  quality  of  the  mind.    They  are 
apt  to  consider  it  as  a  gift  and  an  influ- 
ence, rather  than  as  a  quality,  principle, 
and  part  of  the  soul.      They  consider  it 
as    something   superinduced,    bestowed 
upon  human  nature,  rather  than  as  the 
great   and    just   result   of   that   nature. 
They  do  not  feel  as  if  it  were  something 
dear    to   that    nature  ;    something    not 
forced    upon    its   reluctant   acceptance, 
not   sustained  in   its  rebellious  bosom, 
Iput   cherished  within  it,  craved  by  it. 


welcome  and  precious  lo  all  its  strong- 
est affections  and  noblest  faculties.  So 
the  vtany,  I  say,  are  not  accustomed  to 
regard  it.  They  do  not  see  it  as  the 
great  development  of  the  soul :  but  they 
see  it  as  a  communication.  And  seeing 
it  as  a  communication,  —  as  coming,  in 
some  supernatural  manner,  from  God, 
—  they  are  apt  to  set  it  apart  from  other 
qualities  and  pursuits.  They  do  not  deal 
freely  with  it.  If  they  do  not  feel  as  if 
.\\.  were  something  above  reason,  they  at 
least  feel  as  if  it  were  something  with 
which  reason  may  not  strongly  and  fear- 
lessly grapple  ;  as  if  it  were  too  ethereal 
an  essence  for  the  plain  dealing  of  com- 
mon-sense. To  this  plain  dealing,  how- 
ever, it  must  be  brought.  To  this  we 
are  justified  in  bringing  it,  by  the  clearest 
principles  of  all  rational  theology  ;  for 
all  such  theology  admits  that  God  does 
no  violence  to  the  laws  of  human  nature 
when  he  works  within  it  both  to  will  and 
to  do  according  to  his  good  pleasure. 
And  I  say  and  repeat  that  to  this  test 
of  sober  and  judicious  comparison  re- 
ligion must  come,  if  it  is  ever  to  be  dis- 
abused of  the  errors  that  have  burdened 
and  enslaved  it.  How  otherwise  could 
you  proceed,  if  you  had  to  deal,  for  in- 
stance, with  the  absurdities  of  Hindoo 
superstition  ?  You  might  try  to  approach 
it  in  other  ways  ;  as,  for  instance,  with 
solemn  tones  and  solemn  asseverations  ; 
but  you  would  find,  at  length,  that  you 
could  do  nothing  else  with  it  but  to 
bring  it  into  comparison  with  other  prin- 
ciples and  manifestations  of  human  na- 
ture and  human  life.  You  would  say, 
"  This  penance  of  yours,  this  hanging 
yourself  from  a  tree  in  a  burning  sun  to 
die,  is  absurd,  useless,  uncalled  for  by 
the  Deity.  Who  ever  thought  of  seek- 
ing happiness  or  securing  tlie  friendship 
of  any  other  being  in  this  wav  ?  "  And 
if  he  were  to  answer  that  religion  is  un- 
like every  other  principle  in  its  exactions, 
and  that  God  is  not  to  be  pleased  as 
other  beings  are,  you  would  undertake 
to  show  him  that  the  principle  of  good- 
ness is  everywhere  the  same  ;  that  God, 
whose    nature   is   goodness,    cannot   be 


404 


THE  ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION 


pleased  with  pain  for  its  own  sake;  that 
he  desires  no  sacrifice  which  can  effect 
no  good  end.  That  is  to  say,  you  would 
endeavor  to  reason  with  the  superstitious 
devotee,  upon  general  principles,  —  upon 
principles  applicable  alike  to  religion 
and  to  every  other  analogous  subject. 

This  is  what  I  shall  now  attempt  to  do 
with  religion,  by  proceeding  to  some 
particular  instances.  The  instances, 
which  I  shall  take  up  in  the  remainder 
of  this  discourse,  belong  to  the  depart- 
ment of  first  principles  ;  and  in  them  I 
shall  chiefly  address  the  religious  sceptic. 

I.  In  the  first  place,  let  us  look  at  the 
very  elements  of  religion.  By  some  it 
is  denied  that  there  are  any  such  ele- 
ments. They  say  that  religion  is  alto- 
gether 'a  matter  of  institution  and  ap- 
pointment. They  say  that  it  has  been 
imposed  upon  mankind  by  priests  and 
by  governments  ;  and  but  for  these  ex- 
ternal influences,  they  say  that  there 
never  would  have  been  such  a  thing  as 
rehgion  in  the  world.  Let  us  look  at 
these  assumptions  in  the  light  of  a  com- 
prehensive philosophy. 

Now,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  the  basis 
of  every  other  science  and  subject  in  the 
world  is  laid  in  certain  indisputable  first 
principles.  In  other  words,  there  are 
certain  undeniable  facts,  either  in  nature 
or  in  the  mind,  on  which,  as  a  founda- 
tion, every  system  of  truth  is  built  up. 
Thus  in  the  natural  sciences,  in  min- 
eralogy, in  chemistry,  and  botany,  and 
astronomy,  there  are  certain  facts  in  na- 
ture which  are  received  as  the  basis. 
These  facts  are  generalized  into  laws, 
and  these  laws  are  formed  into  systems. 
Newton  saw  the  apple  fall,  and  from  this 
fact  he  proceeded  till  he  had  estabhshed 
the  laws  of  planetary  motion,  and  the 
sublime  system  of  the  universe.  So  in 
the  abstract  science  of  geometry,  certain 
unquestionable  truths  or  axioms  are  laid 
down  ;  and  so  in  the  science  of  the  mind, 
certain  irresistible  emotions  and  acts  of 
the  mind  are  taken,  as  the  ground  of 
each  of  these  departments  of  philosophy. 
Even  the  department  of  taste  has  its  un- 
deniable first  truths.   Now,  the  science  or 


subject  of  religion  has,  in  the  same  way, 
its  indisputable  first  truths.  In  the  mind 
there  are  certain  religious  facts  as  clearly 
manifested  as  any  metaphysical  facts,  or 
any  emotions  of  taste.  But  how  do  we 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  these  latter 
classes  of  facts  ?  I  answer,  by  expe- 
rience, and  by  nothing  else.  And  how 
do  we  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  re- 
ligious facts  in  the  mind  ?  I  answer,  by 
tlie  same  means,  and  no  other. 

What,  then,  is  the  conclusion  ?  Why, 
that  religion  has  a  foundation  in  our 
nature  as  truly  as  mental  philosophy. 
A  man  may  deny  this  ;  he  may  resort 
to  his  presumptuous  assertions  and  say 
that  religion  is  nothing  but  an  imposi- 
tion, a  dogma,  and  a  fancy.  But  he 
might  just  as  well  assert  that  reason  is 
nothing  but  an  imposition,  and  a  dogma, 
and  a  fancy.  He  may  point  to  the  di- 
versities of  religion  and  tell  us  that 
everything  is  denied  by  one  party  or 
another,  and  thence  infer  that  nothing 
can  be  true.  But  he  might  as  well  draw 
the  same  inference  from  the  diversified 
forms  in  which  the  principle  of  reason 
has  presented  itself,  —  whether  in  the 
absurd  conduct  of  hfe  or  in  the  strange 
history  of  opinions. 

What  then,  I  repeat,  .is  the  conclu- 
sion ?  It  is  this  :  religion  is  true.  I  do 
not  say  that  every  religion  is  true  ;  but 
I  say  that  religion  in  general  is  a  true 
principle  of  human  nature.  I  say  that 
there  is  a  real  science  of  religion,  a 
deep-founded  and  unquestionable  phi- 
losophy of  religion,  as  truly  as  there  is 
any  other  science  or  philosophy  in  the 
world.  If  experience  is  the  test  of  truth, 
religion  is  true.  If  universality  is  the 
test  of  truth,  religion  is  true.  There  > 
never  was  a  nation  nor  tribe  found  on 
earth  in  which  the  feelings  of  conscience 
and  of  adoration  were  not  found  ;  and 
he  who  is  ever,  at  any  momemt,  shaken 
in  his  primary  religious  convictions  by 
the  bold  assaults  of  scepticism,  may 
justly  rally,  and  fairly  and  fearlessly  say 
to  his  assailant,  if  anything  in  the  world 
is  true,  religion  is  true. 

II.  So,  then,  do  we  lay  the  foundations 


WITH   OTHER   SUBJECTS. 


405 


of  the  religious  principle ;  and  now  let 
us  proceed  to  consider,  in  the  light  pro- 
posed, the  evidences  of  that  religion 
which  we  receive  as  bearing  the  special 
sanction  of  Heaven.  And  the  observa- 
tion to  be  made  is,  that  the  evidences  of 
Christianity  are  to  be  weighed  as  other 
evidences  are  weighed.  And  they  are, 
in  fact,  just  such  proofs  as  may  be  ren- 
dered familiar  to  us  by  what  passes  in 
every  court  of  justice.  In  the  first  place, 
there  are  the  Christian  witnesses  ;  and 
such  witnesses,  indeed,  as  were  never 
produced  in  any  other  cause  ;  men  not 
only  of  unimpeachable  character,  of 
great  and  acknowledged  virtue,  but  who 
have  given  in  their  writings  the  most 
extraordinary  example  of  the  absence 
of  all  enthusiasm  that  the  world  can 
show;  men,  I  say,  and  such  men,  who 
spent  laborious  and  painful  lives  and 
suffered  bloody  deaths  in  attestation, 
not  of  some  fancy  or  imagination  in 
their  own  minds,  not  of  their  belief  that 
they  were  inspired  merely,  but  in  at- 
testation of  certain  manifest  and  miracu- 
lous facts.  And  then  in  the  comparison 
of  their  testimonies  we  have  the  strong- 
est corroboration  of  their  honesty  and 
truth.  On  the  one  hand  there  are  a 
few  slight  discrepancies  between  them, 
just  sufficient  to  show  that  there  could 
have  been  no  collusion  ;  and  on  the 
other  hand  numerous  and  evidently  un- 
designed coincidences,  both  with  them- 
selves and  with  contemporary  profane 
writers,  which  put  the  strongest  stamp 
of  verisimilitude  upon  their  narrations. 
And  then,  again,  the  moral  character  of 
these  productions  is  such  as  to  set  their 
authors  above  all  suspicion  of  disinge- 
nuity  ;  such  as  to  show  that  dishonest 
and  bad  men  could  not  have  given  birth 
to  them  ;  and  such,  in  fact,  as  to  consti- 
tute a  strong  independent  argument  for 
their  divine  origin.  But  I  confine  my- 
self now  to  this  one  branch  of  the  evi- 
dence,—  the  testimony;  and  I  say  that 
if  such  a  weight  of  testimony  were  pro- 
duced in  a  court  of  justice,  all  the 
records  of  judicial  proceedings  could 
show  nothing  stronger  or  more  satisfac- 


tory. I  say  that  men  are  every  day 
deciding  and  acting  upon  a  tithe  of  the 
evidence  that  is  offered  to  support  the 
Christian  religion.  What  if  there  is 
not  anything  amounting  to  the  force  of 
mathematical  demonstration  ?  The  case 
does  not  admit  it ;  and  in  the  ordinary 
affairs  of  life  men  do  not  demand  it. 
Why  shall  they  not  in  religion,  as  in 
other  things,  act  upon  the  evidence  they 
have  ?  Suppose  that  it  is  less  clear  to 
some  than  to  others.  Suppose  that  it 
amounts  with  them  only  to  a  strong 
probability.  Suppose  that  they  have 
doubts.  Do  doubts  paralyze  them  in 
other  cases  ?  Does  not  a  man  make 
all  sorts  of  sacrifices,  become  an  exile, 
tread  dangerous  coasts,  breathe  tainted 
climes,  for  a  distant  and  uncertain  for- 
tune ?  But  has  anybody  /^/<^him  that  the 
weaUh  he  seeks  waits  for  him  ?  Has 
any  miracle  been  wrought  before  his 
eyes  ?  Has  God  assured  him,  beyond 
any  doubt,  of  the  fruition  of  his  hopes  ? 
Yet  he  ventures  much,  ventures  all,  for 
the  chance  of  worldly  fortune  :  can  he 
venture  nothing  for  the  hope  of  heaven  ? 
Let  him  walk  in  the  way  of  the  Christian 
precepts.  That  cannot  harm  him,  wheth- 
er there  be  a  future  life  or  not.  Let  his 
conduct  follow  the  weight  of  evidence. 
No  reasonable  being  can  gainsay  or 
condemn  him  for  being  governed  by  the 
strongest  probability.  This  is  the  only 
safe  or  wise  course.  "  Let  him  do  the 
will  of  God,  and  he  shall  know  of  the 
doctrine  whether  it  be  from  God."  If 
he  will  not  do  this,  if  he  is  averse  to  the 
strictness  of  Christian  virtue,  he  has 
cause  enough  to  suspect  the  source  of 
his  scepticism.  Nay,  more ;  we  have 
a  right,  in  accordance  with  what  is  fairly 
claimed  on  other  sul)jects,  to  demand  of 
him  who  would  investigate  the  Christian 
evidences  a  religious  spirit  and  a  virtu- 
ous temper.  He  who  should  undertake 
to  pronounce  upon  a  great  work  of  gen- 
ius, a  poem,  or  a  painting,  without  any 
cultivation  or  congeniality  of  taste,  would 
be  looked  upon  as  an  unqualified  and 
presumptuous  judge.  By  the  same  rule, 
he  who   would  fairlv  e.xamine  the  evi- 


4o6 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION 


dences  of  a  pure  system  of  religion 
must,  in  reason,  be  a  good  and  devout 
man  ;  else  his  investigation  is  notiiing 
worth.  Have  infidels  often  considered 
this  ?  Have  they  generally  approached 
the  Christian  evidences  in  this  spirit  ? 

But  let  us  take  some  notice,  in  the 
third  place,  and  finally,  of  the  Christian 
records.  I  say,  then,  that  our  Christian 
books  are  to  be  regarded  in  some  impor- 
tant respects  as  other  books  are.  Men, 
for  instance,  are  not  to  take  up  the  Bible 
and  read  it  as  if  they  expected  it  to  do 
them  good  or  give  them  light  in  any 
unusual  or  unknown  way.  They  are 
not  to  expect  any  illumination  in  perus- 
ing the  Scriptures  other  than  that  of 
reason  and  piety.  Some  other  may  be 
given  in  extraordinary  cases,  but  they 
are  not  to  require  miracles.  They  are 
not  to  expect  to  understand  this  book 
because  it  is  the  Bible,  in  any  other  way, 
or  upon  any  other  principles  of  inter- 
pretation, than  they  would  use  to  gather 
the  meaning  of  any  ancient  book.  And 
as  many  portions  of  the  Bible  —  the 
speculative  and  controversial  parts  par- 
ticularly —  are  clothed  in  the  polemic 
phraseology  of  an  ancient  age,  and  have 
taken  their  hue  and  form  from  ancient 
disputes,  states  of  mind,  customs  of  so- 
ciety, &c.  ;  as  all  this  is  true  of  some 
portions  of  Scripture,  the  unlearned 
reader  cannot,  without  more  informa- 
tion than  most  persons  possess,  reason- 
ably expect  to  understand  those  parts  at 
all.  Suppose  that  a  plain  reader,  totally 
unacquainted  with  the  systems  of  Plato 
or  Aristotle,  or  with  the  Manichean 
philosophy,  should,  in  perusing  an  an- 
cient book,  meet  with  a  passage  crowded 
with  the  terms  and  modes  of  thought 
borrowed  from  either  of  these  systems. 
Can  you  doubt  that  with  the  aid  of  any 
common-sense  he  would  at  once  say, 
"  I  do  not  understand  this  "  1  Would 
he  not  justly  conclude  that  he  must  read 
other  books,  and  make  himself  more  ac- 
quainted with  the  speculations  of  that 
ancient  period,  before  he  could  under- 
stand the  passage  which  had  fallen  under 
his  notice  1 


So  he  would  judge  of  ancient  profane 
writings,  and  so  he  ought  to  judge  of 
ancient  sacred  writings.  The  wisdom 
that  speaks  in  the  two  cases  is  different; 
but  the  method  of  interpreting  that  wis- 
dom is  the  same  in  both.  But  so  most 
Christian  readers  do  not  judge.  They 
read  the  Bible  as  if  it  were  a  modern 
book.  Or  they  feel  as  if  it  would  dis- 
honor the  Bible  to  suppose  that  any 
part  of  it  were  necessarily  obscure  or 
unintelligible  to  the  unlearned  reader. 
They  look  upon  the  Scriptures  as  a  di- 
rect revelation,  or  as  the  immediate  and 
express  word  of  God  himself,  rather 
than  as  a  series  of  messages  declaring, 
after  the  manner  of  the  times,  the  will 
of  God.  And,  entertaining  the  former 
of  these  impressions,  they  rightly  argue 
that  a  book,  purporting  to  be  a  revela- 
tion to  mankind,  unless  all  men  can 
readily  understand  it,  is  no  revelation. 
But  there  can  be  no  doubt,  I  presume, 
that  this  impression  is  a  mistaken  one. 
The  sacred  writers  were  commissioned 
to  declare  certain  truths ;  and  they  were 
left  to  declare  them  after  their  own 
manner,  and  the  manner  of  the  age ; 
and  it  is  no  more  easy  to  understand 
the  Bible,  than  it  is  to -understand  ajiy 
ancient  book.  This  co7iclusion  must  be 
admitted,  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
the  reasoning.  Explain  the  doctrine 
of  inspiration  as  we  may,  it  is  an  un- 
questionable truth,  and  every  enlight- 
ened student  of  the  Bible  must  know  it, 
that  there  are  considerable  portions  of 
it,  which  cannot  be  understood  without 
much  study,  and  without,  to  say  the 
least,  some  learning,  which  the  body  of 
the  people  do  not  possess.  Every  sen- 
sible man  who  has  really  studied  his 
Bible,  must  know  that  this  is  the  case 
with  considerable  portions  of  the  Proph- 
esies and  Epistles.  The  people  at  large 
are  reading  these  continually,  and  think 
to  derive  benefit  from  them,  and  do,  no 
doubt,  affix  to  them  some  vague  mean- 
ing ;  but  they  do  not  and  cannot  under- 
stand them.  They  comprehend  what  is 
practical  for  the  most  part,  and  all  that 
'  is  essential ;  but  much  of  what  is  spec- 


WITH   OTHER   SUBJECTS. 


407 


ulative  and  controversial,  I  repeat  it, 
with  their  present  knowledge,  they  do 
not  and  cannot  understand. 

This  may  be  a  hard  saying  to  many  ; 
but   I  believe   it   ought  not,   being  un- 
questionably true,  to  be  withhoklen.     It 
may  be  an  unpopular  doctrine,  but  that 
circumstance,  I  hope,  does  not  prove  it 
unimportant.     There  certainly  is  a  mis- 
take on  this  subject ;  and  the  greatness 
of  the  error  is  but  the  greater  reason  for 
correcting  it.     Besides,  the  error  is  far 
from   being  harmless.      This   constant 
reading  of   what  is    not   well    compre- 
hended ;    this    attempt   to   grasp   ideas 
which  are  perpetually  escaping  through 
ancient    and     unintelligible    modes     of 
thought  and  phraseology ;    this   formal 
and  forced  perusal  of  obscure  chapters 
with  a  sort  of  demure  reverence,  tends 
to  throw  dulness,  doubt,  and  obscurity 
over   all   our    conceptions    of   religion. 
The  Bible,  too,  instead  of  being  a  bond 
of    common     faith    and    fellowship    to 
Christians,  is  made  an  armory  for  po- 
lemics.    And  there  are  some  controver- 
sies   among    the    body    of    Christians 
which   can    never  be   intelligently  and 
properly  settled  till  they  qualify  them- 
selves in  a  better  manner  to  understand 
the  Scriptures.     And  yet  multitudes  of 
men  and  women  are  confidently  decid- 
ing controversies  on  the  most  difficult 
questions  of  philology  and    interpreta- 
tion, who  never  read  —  not  Hebrew  nor 
Greek  —  but  who  never  read  a  book  on 
criticism,    who   never   read  a  book   on 
ancient  customs,  who  never  read  a  book 
on  the  circumstances  of  the  primitive 
age,    on   the    difficulties    and    disputes 
prevailing,  on  the  Jewish  prejudices  or 
the  Gentile  systems  of  philosophy  ;  and 
if  I  were  asked  what  I  would  give  for 
the  critical  judgment  of  these  men  and 
women,  I  answer  not/iiii<r — jiotking  at 
all.      I  derogate  nothing  from  their  gen- 
eral intelligence.     And    their  judgment 
may  be  good,  even  on  the  point  in  ques- 
tion, as  far  as  their  common  sense  will 
carry  them  ;  and  upon  the  general  strain 
of  the  Scriptures  they  may  judge  well, 
and  may  come,  on  the  whole^  to  a  right 


conclusion.  But  upon  deep  questions 
of  criticism  they  ought  not  to  pretend 
to  judge.  I  give  that  credit  to  the 
modesty  of  many  among  us,  as  to  pre- 
sume that  they  do  not  undertake  to 
decide  upon  matters  of  this  sort ;  and 
to  those  who  have  not  this  modesty,  it 
may  be  fairly  recommended  as  the  first 
step  of  a  good  and  sound  judgment. 

I  would  particularly  guard  what  I 
have  said  on  this  subject  from  injurious 
misapprehensions.  I  certainly  do  not 
discourage  the  reading  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. I  only  urge  the  needful  prepa- 
ration for  it  in  regard  to  those  parts 
which  are  hard  to  be  understood.  I  do 
not  say  that  unlearned  Christians  can- 
not understand  their  religion;  for  their 
religion,  in  substance,  is  contained  in 
passages  that  are  level  to  the  humblest 
apprehension.  I  do  not  disparage  the 
Bible.  Its  value  consists  in  the  body 
of  its  undisputed  truths  and  revelations. 
Besides,  be  the  case  as  it  may,  it  can 
be  no  disparagement  of  the  sacred 
volume  to  state  what  it  is.  And  that 
it  does  require  study  and  learning  to 
understand  portions  of  it  ;  what  do  all 
the  labors  of  learned  men,  what  do  in- 
numerable volumes  of  commentaries, 
and  whole  libraries  of  sacred  criticism 
show,  if  they  do  not  show  this  1  Why 
all  these  studies,  let  us  ask,  if  unlearned 
men  can  understand  the  difficult  and 
doubtful  passages  of  their  Bibles  ? 

The  truth  is,  in  my  judgment,  that 
the  body  of  mankind  never  ought  to 
have  been  disturbed  with  those  theoloo-- 
ical  disquisitions  which  involve  or  re- 
quire a  deep  knowledge  of  criticism, 
any  more  than  they  are  with  the  subtil- 
ties  of  the  law,  or  with  the  abstruse 
speculations  of  philosophy,  the  disputes 
of  anatomists,  metaphysicians,  and  men 
of  science.  General  readers,  not  to  say 
those  who  read  not  at  all,  are  just  as 
unable  to  understand  one  as  the  other. 
There  are  questions  in  religion,  un- 
doubtedly, which  are  proper  for  the  gen- 
eral mass  of  readers.  And  there  are 
points,  doubtless,  connected  with  every 
question,  which  are  suitable  for  popular 


4o8 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


discussion.  There  must  be  discussion  ; 
and  since  men  cannot  agree,  there  must 
be  dispute.  Let  there  be  controversy, 
then  ;  and  let  it  range  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest  subjects.  All  I  would 
contend  for  is,  that  those  controversies 
which  are  addressed  to  the  body  of  the 
people,  be  such  as  the  people  are  pre- 
pared to  understand;  and  that  more 
curious  questions  be  confined  in  relig- 
ion, as  in  other  things,  to  the  learned. 
This  reasonable  discrimination  would 
have  cut  off  many  disputes  which, 
among  the  mass  of  the  people,  are  per- 
fectly useless,  and  might  have  saved  us 
from  some  of  our  unhappy  dissensions. 

In  fine,  and  to  sum  up  my  observa- 
tions, let  Religion — I  do  not  say  now 
as  a  matter  of  experience  and  practice 
—  but  let  Religion,  in  its  words,  its  sub- 
jects, and  its  controversies,  be  treated 
as  other  things  are ;  as  the  Law,  Medi- 
cine, or  any  of  the  sciences.  Let  what 
is  practical,  what  is  easily  understood, 
what  the  simple  and  sound  judgment  of 
a  man  can  compass,  be  commended  in 
religion  as  in  science,  to  all  who  can 
and  will  read  it.  Let  what  is  abstruse, 
what  is  hard  to  be  understood,  what 
belongs  to  the  department  of  profound 
criticism,  be  left  for  those  who  have 
opportunity,  time,  and  learning  for  it. 
Let  others  read  their  writings  as  much 
as  they  please  ;  but  let  them  not  judge 
till  they  read  ;  let  not  their  confidence 
outrun  their  knowledge.  I  think  this 
is  safe  advice.  I  cannot  conceive  of 
any  possible  harm  it  can  do.  I  believe 
it  would  do  much  good.  I  believe  that 
it  would  tend  to  the  promotion  of  a 
practical  and  affectionate  piety  among 
us  ;  and  I  think,  moreover,  that  it 
would  do  this  special  good  :  it  would 
lead  men  to  rest  their  religious  hopes 
and  fears,  not  on  matters  of  doubtful 
disputation,  but  on  those  essential, 
moral,  plain,  practical  grounds,  which 
are  the  great  foundations  of  piety  and 
virtue. 

I  have  now  presented  in  a  single  light, 
the  light  of  analogy,  the  first  princi- 
ples of  religion,  and  the  evidences  and 


records  of  that  particular  dispensation 
of  religion  which,  as  Christians,  we  have 
embraced.  In  my  next  lecture  I  shall 
proceed  to  examine,  in  the  same  way, 
what  is  usually  considered  as  the  begin- 
ning of  religion,  or  rather  of  religious 
character,  in  the  human  mind  ;  in  other 
words,  the  doctrine  of  conversion. 


IL 


ON   CONVERSION. 

John  iii  3  :  "  Except  a  man  be  born  again,  he  can- 
not see  the  kingdom  of  God." 

It  will  help  us  to  understand  the  sub- 
ject of  Conversion,  and  will  prepare  us 
to  pursue  the  analogy  proposed  in  this 
series  of  discourses,  to  take  a  brief  his- 
torical view  of  that  language  by  which, 
among  theologians,  the  doctrine  has 
been  most  commonly  expressed :  I 
mean  that  language  which  is  founded 
on  the  figure  of  a  new  birth.  Three 
views  are  to  be  taken  of  it :  first,  of  its 
signification  among  the  Jews  ;  secondly, 
of  its  use  among  the  early  Christian 
teachers  ;  and  thirdly,  of  its  application 
to  modern  Christian  communities.  And 
corresponding  to  this  distinction,  there 
are  three  kinds  of  conversion  to  be  con- 
sidered :  the  Jewish,  the  ancient  Chris- 
tian conversion,  and  that  which  is  to  be 
urged  among  men  already  Christian  in 
their  education  and  general  belief. 

Let  me  observe,  in  passing,  that  the 
phrases,  "born  again,"  "new  creation," 
&c.,  are  not  the  only  expressions  in  the 
New  Testament  which  are  applied  to  the 
same  subject :  for  men  were  required  to 
be  changed,  to  be  turned  from  the  er- 
ror of  their  ways,  —  were  said  to  have 
passed  from  darkness  to  light,  from  the 
power  of  sin  and  Satan  to  the  service  of 
God  and  the  wisdom  of  the  just.  In 
short,  a  very  great  variety  of  language 
was  used  to  describe  the  process  of  be- 
coming a  good  man  and  a  follower  of 
Christ. 

But  the  figurative  expressions  just  re- 
ferred   to    have   been   most    constantly 


CONVERSION. 


409 


used,  in  modern  times,  to  express  that 
change  which  is  meant  by  conversion. 
The  reason  for  this,  I  suppose,  is  ob- 
vious. There  has  been  a  striking  and 
manifest  disposition,  ever  since  the 
primitive  simpHcity  departed  from  re- 
ligion, to  regard  and  treat  it  as  a  mys- 
tery ;  and  therefore  the  most  obscure 
and  mysterious  expressions  have,  in 
preference,  been  adopted  to  set  it  forth. 
The  figure  in  question,  I  shall  soon  have 
occasion  to  observe,  is  less  adapted  to 
set  forth  the  spiritual  nature  of  religion 
than  almost  any  of  the  representations 
that  are  current  in  the  New  Testament. 

On  every  account,  therefore,  it  is  de- 
sirable that  tliis  language  should  be 
explained,  and  that  the  explanation 
should  be  fixed  in  our  minds,  even 
though  it  should  require  some  repetition 
to  do  it. 

What,  then,  is  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase,  "  being  born  again"  ? 

I.  When  our  Saviour  said  to  the  in- 
quiring Nicodemus,  "  Except  a  man  be 
born  again,"  we  may  well  suppose  that 
he  did  not  use  language  either  new  or 
unintelligible  to  him.  Nor  would  it  com- 
port with  a  proper  view  of  our  Saviour's 
character  to  suppose  that  he  used  the 
language  of  mystery.  Nicodemus,  in- 
deed, affected  to  think  it  mysterious, 
saying,  "  How  can  a  man  be  born  when 
he  is  old  ?  "  It  was  not,  however,  be- 
cause he  did  not  understand,  but  because 
he  did  understand  it.  For  the  language 
in  question  was  familiar  at  that  day ;  it 
was  in  the  mouth  of  every  Jew,  much 
more  in  that  of  a  master  in  Israel.  We 
learn  from  the  Jewish  writers  of  that 
day  that  the  phrase  "born  again"  was 
at  that  time,  and  had  been  all  along, 
applied  to  proselytes  from  paganism. 
A  convert,  or  a  proselyte  to  the  Jewish  re- 
ligion, was  currently  denominated  "one 
born  again,"  a  '-new-born  child,"  "a 
new  creature."  This  language  they 
adopted,  doubtless,  to  express  what 
they  considered  to  be  the  greatness  of 
the  distinction  and  favor  implied  in 
being  a  Jew.  It  was  nothing  less  than 
a   "new   creation."      In    the    apparent 


misapprehension  of  Nicodemus,  there- 
fore, 1  see  nothing  but  the  astonish- 
ment natural  to  a  Jew  on  being  told 
that  he,  favored  of  God,  as  he  had 
thought  himself;  that  he,  one  of  the  cho- 
sen people,  must  himself  pass  through 
another  conversion,  another  proselyt- 
ism,  in  order  to  see  the  kingdom  of 
God. 

But  to  revert  to  the  phrases  which 
conveyed  to  Nicodemus  this  unwelcome 
truth  ;  I  say  that  they  referred  originally 
to  proselytism  to  the  Jewish  religion. 
This  was  the  known  signification  of 
these  phrases  at  the  time.  There  can 
be  no  dispute  or  question  on  this  point. 
Something  like  this  use  of  these  phrases 
was  common  among  other  nations  at 
that  period,  as  among  the  Romans  the 
change  from  slavery  to  citizenship  was 
denominated  "a  new  creation."  It  ap- 
pears, then,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
that  this  expression  is  not  the  best 
adapted  to  set  forth  the  spiritual  nature 
of  religion,  since  it  was  originally  used 
to  describe  a  visible  fact,  an  outward 
chancre. 

II.  But  let  us  proceed  from  the  Jew- 
ish use  of  this  language  to  the  adoption 
of  it  among  the  first  teachers  of  Chris- 
tianity. It  was  natural  that  the  Christian 
teachers,  in  calling  men  from  an  old  to 
a  new  dispensation,  from  the  profession 
of  an  old  to  the  reception  of  a  new  re- 
ligion, should  take  up  those  expressions 
which  before  had  been  applied  to  an 
event  precisely  similar.  There  was  a 
visible  change  of  religion  required  both 
of  Jews  and  Pagans,  the  adoption  of  a 
new  faith  and  worship.  It  was  an  event 
publicly  declared  and  solemnized  by  the 
rite  of  baptism. 

Far  be  from  me  to  say  that  the  gospel 
required  nothing  but  an  outward  pro- 
fession and  proselytism.  This  was  too 
true  of  Judaism,  though  without  doubt 
there  were  devout  individuals  among  the 
Jews  who  had  more  spiritual  views.  But 
it  was  too  true  of  that  nation  of  for- 
malists, that  they  desired  little  more 
than  to  make  proselytes  to  their  rites 
and  ceremonies.     And  on  this  account 


4IO 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


our  Saviour  upbraids  them  in  that  severe 
declaration,  "  Ye  compass  sea  and  land 
to  make  one  proselyte,  and  when  he  is 
made,  ye  make  him  twofold  more  a 
child  of  hell  than  yourselves  ;  "  ye  pros- 
elyte him  to  your  own  proud,  Pharisai- 
cal, and  conceited  system  of  cabalistic 
notions  and  dead  formalities.  But  sure- 
ly if  there  ever  were  upon  earth  teachers 
who  most  strenuously  insisted  upon  a 
spiritual  renovation,  they  were  Jesus  and 
his  apostles.  Still,  however,  we  are  not 
to  forget  that  their  language  in  refer- 
ence to  the  change  required  implied 
an  outward  proselytism,  as  well  as  a 
spiritual  renovation  ;  implied  the  recep- 
tion of  a  new  religion,  considered  as  a 
matter  of  speculation,  faith  and  visible 
worship,  as  well  as  the  adoption  of  in- 
ward feelings,  accordant  with  the  spirit 
and  precepts  of  this  religion.  Both  of 
these  things  they  must  have  demanded 
by  their  very  situation,  as  teachers  of 
Christianity. 

III.  The  way  is  now  prepared  to  con- 
sider what  meaning  the  language  of  our 
text  is  to  have,  when  applied  to  mem- 
bers of  Christian  communities  in  mod- 
ern times.  And  the  discrimination  to 
be  made  here  is  perfectly  evident.  One 
part  of  the  meaning,  anciently  attached 
to  this  language,  fails  entirely  :  the  other 
stands  in  the  nature  of  things,  and  must 
stand  forever.  What  fails  is  what  re- 
lates to  the  outward  change.  There 
can  be  no  proselytism  to  a  new  faith 
among  us  ;  no  conversion  to  a  new  wor- 
ship ;  no  adoption  of  a  new  system,  nor 
adherence  to  a  new  sect.  All  the  con- 
version, therefore,  that  can  now  take 
place  is  of  a  purely  moral  or  spiritual 
nature.  It  is  a  change  of  heart,  a 
change  of  character,  of  feelings,  of  hab- 
its. Where  the  character,  the  feelings, 
and  habits  are  wrong,  and  in  such  pro- 
portion as  they  are  wrong,  this  change 
is  to  be  urged  as  the  very  condition  of 
salvation,  of  happiness,  of  enjoying  peace 
of  conscience,  God's  forgiveness,  and 
the  reasonable  hope  of  heaven.  "  Ex- 
cept a  man  be  born  again,  he  cannot 
see  the  kingdom  of  God." 


The  subject,  in  this  view  of  it,  would 
seem  to  be  exceedingly  plain.  Conver- 
sion is  no  mysterious  doctrine.  It  is 
no  peculiar  injunction  or  precept  of  the 
Christian  religion.  It  is  the  injunction 
and  precept  of  every  religion.  The  bad 
man  must  become  a  good  man  ;  the  sin- 
ful must  repent  ;  the  vicious  must  re- 
form ;  the  selfish,  the  passionate  and 
sensual  must  be  pure  and  gentle  and* 
benevolent;  or  they  cannot  be  happy 
here  or  hereafter.  This,  I  say,  is  no 
mysterious  doctrine.  It  is  what  every 
man's  conscience  preaches  to  him. 
Strange  would  it  be,  if,  in  a  religion 
so  simple  and  reasonable  as  ours,  that 
on  which  everything  in  our  moral 
welfare  hangs  should  be  a  mystery  ; 
strange,  if  a  stumbling-block  should  be 
placed  at  the  very  entrance  to  the  way 
of  religion. 

But  simple,  obvious,  and  unquestion- 
able as  these  views  of  conversion  are, 
there  is  no  little  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing for  them  a  general  assent,  or  in 
causing  them  to  be  fully  carried  out  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  embrace  them. 
The  true  and  natural  view  of  the  sub- 
ject is  confounded  with  the  ancient 
features  of  it.  We  are  thinking  of 
something  like  a  proselytism,  of  a 
time  and  an  epoch,  and  a  great  experi- 
ence, and  a  sudden  change.  We  have, 
perhaps,  been  taught  all  this  from  our 
youth  up.  We  have  heard  about  ob- 
taining religion,  as  if  it  were  something 
else  than  obtaining  inward  habits  of  de- 
votion and  self-government,  and  disin- 
terestedness and  forbearance  and  all 
goodness,  which  it  takes  a  life  fully  to 
acquire  and  confirm.  We  have  heard 
about  obtaining  religion,  or  obtaining  a 
change,  or  obtaining  a  hope,  as  if  it 
were  the  work  of  a  month,  or  a  day,  or  a 
moment.  It  demands  years,  or  a  life, 
to  obtain  a  great  property,  or  to  obtain 
learning,  or  to  build  up  a  distinguished 
reputation  ;  while  the  far  greater  work 
of  gaining  a  holy  mind,  a  pure  and  good 
heart,  you  would  suppose,  from  what 
you  often  hear,  could  be  accomplished 
in  a  single  week  or  hour. 


CONVERSION. 


411 


I  do  not  forget  that  religion  has  its 
beginning  ;  and  if  the  language  in  com- 
mon use  was,  that  at  such  a  time  a  man 
began  to  be  religious  instead  of  having 
become  so,  I  siiould  have  no  objection 
to  it.  I  do  not  deny  that  there  are 
epochs  in  religious  experience,  times  of 
deeper  reflection,  of  more  solemn  im- 
pression and  more  earnest  prayer  ;  times 
of  arousing  to  the  moral  faculties,  of 
awakening  to  the  conscience,  of  concern 
and  solicitude  about  the  interests  of  the 
soul  ;  and  I  would  to  God  these  times 
were  more  frequent  in  the  experience  of 
us  all  !  It  was  in  conformity  with  this 
view  that  Whitfield  said  that  "  he 
wished  he  could  be  converted  a  thou- 
sand times  every  day."  I  do  not  deny, 
then,  that  there  are  epochs  in  religious 
feeling.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  that 
the  whole  progress  of  every  mind  and 
of  every  life  may,  to  a  considerable  ex- 
tent of  its  history,  be  dated  from  cer- 
tain epochs.  A  man  will  find  it  to  have 
been  so  in  his  mind  and  in  his  studies. 
Certain  impressions  have  been  made 
upon  him  at  certain  periods,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  he  has  taken  up  some 
new  study,  or  pursued  the  old  with 
greater  zeal ;  certain  impressions  which 
have  given  a  bias  and  character  to  his 
whole  mind.  And  those  who  are  pur- 
suing more  visible  acquisitions  than 
those  of  the  mind,  may  have  found  it 
so  with  them.  At  some  certain  period 
they  began  this  work  ;  and  at  other 
periods  they  have  been  stimulated  to 
new  diligence ;  they  have  resolved  to 
use  greater  economy,  industry,  and 
method.  There  is  a  beginning,  then, 
and  there  are  epochs  in  every  pursuit  ; 
but  who  ever  thought  of  confounding, 
as  men  do  in  religion,  the  beginning 
with  tlie  end,  the  epoch  with  t!ie  pro- 
gress, the  starting  place  with  the  goal 
of  attainment.?  Who  ever  thought  of 
calling  the  first  enthusiasm  of  the  youth- 
ful student,  leaniifig ;  or  the  first  crude 
essays  of  the  young  artist,  skill  ? 

Does  it  seem  to  any  one  that  I  do  in- 
justice to  the  popular  impressions  about 
religion  ?   Am  I  reminded  that,  although 


men  do  say  that  they  get  religion  at  a" 
certain  time,  yet  that  they  are  taught, 
also,  that  they  must  grow  in  this,  that 
they  have  acquired  only  the  first  ele- 
ments, and  must  go  on  to  perfection? 
Still  I  say,  that  the  language  is  wrong  : 
the  language  which  implies  that  he  wiio 
has  acquired  the  first  elements  of  such 
a  thing  has  acquired  the  thing  itself,  is 
wrong.  But,  I  say  more.  I  say  it  is  a 
language  that  leads  to  wrong.  A  man 
who  uses  it  will  be  apt  to  think  he  has 
obtained  more  than  he  really  has  ob- 
tained. He  will  be  apt  to  think  more 
highly  of  himself  than  he  ought  to 
think.  His  language  implies  too  much, 
and  of  course  it  is  liable  to  pufT  him  up 
with  pride  ;  to  make  him  think  well  of 
himself,  and  speak  slightly  of  others, 
rather  than  to  awaken  in  him  a  proper 
and  true  humility  ;  and  to  inspire  a  rash 
confidence  and  a  visionary  joy,  rather 
than  a  just  sobriety  and  a  reasonable 
self-distrust.  And  I  say  still  farther, 
and  repeat,  that  there  are  false  impres- 
sions about  religion  itself  derived  from 
these  notions  of  conversion.  Religion 
is  not  felt  to  be  that  result  of  patient 
endeavor  which  it  is.  It  is  made  a 
thing  too  easy  of  acquisition.  He  who 
in  one  week,  in  one  day,  in  one  hour, 
nay,  in  one  moment,  can  pass  through 
a  change  that  insures  heaven  to  him, 
has  reduced  the  mighty  work  to  a  light 
task  indeed.  He  may  boast  over  those 
who  are  taking  the  way  of  patient  and 
pains-taking  endeavor  ;  he  may  charge 
them  with  the  guilt  of  insisting  much 
on  a  good  moral  life  ;  but  certainly  he 
should  not  boast  of  his  own  way  as  the 
most  thorough  and  laborious. 

But  I  must  dwell  a  little  more  partic- 
ularly, in  regard  to  conversion,  on  that 
comparison  which  I  proposed  to  make 
between  religion  and  other  acquisitions 
of  the  mind.  And  the  special  point  to 
be  considered,  the  only  one,  indeed,  about 
which  there  is  any  difference  of  opinion, 
is  the  alleged  suddenness  of  conversion. 
I  have  already  said  that  this  is  a  feature 
of  the  change  in  question,  which  is  bor- 
rowed from  the  ancient  conversion,  and 


412 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


borrowed,  too,  from  the  outward  and  vis- 
ible part  of  it.  I  now  say  that  it  cannot 
appertain  to  what  is  inward  and  spiritual. 
No  change  of  the  inward  mind  and  char- 
acter can  be  sudden.  The  very  laws  of 
the  mind  forbid  it. 

But  I  must  not  fail  to  show  you  that 
the  comparison  I  am  about  to  make  is 
founded  on  the  strictest  analogy.  It  will 
be  said,  I  know,  that  the  change  we  are 
speaking  of  is  unlike  any  other,  and 
therefore  that  the  ordinary  processes  of 
the  mind  furnish  no  analogy  for  it.  But 
in  what  is  it  unlike  .''  It  is  a  change  ;  a 
change  of  heart ;  a  change  in  the  affec- 
tions, dispositions,  habits  "bf  the  soul. 
Moreover,  it  is  a  change  effected  in  view 
of  motives.  A  man  becomes  a  good  man, 
not  blindly,  not  irrationally,  but  for  cer- 
tain reasons.  He  feels  that  the  evil 
course  is  dangerous,  and  therefore  he 
resolves  to  turn  from  it.  He  believes 
that  there  is  happiness  in  religion,  and 
therefore  he  seeks  it.  More  than  all,  he 
feels  that  he  ought  to  be  a  good  man, 
and  therefore  he  strives  to  be  so.  But 
still  it  may  be  said,  there  is  a  difference ; 
and  that  the  difference  consists  in  this  : 
that  conversion  is  wrought  in  the  soul  by 
the  special  act  of  God  ;  that  the  work  is 
supernatural  ;  that  the  change  is  a  mir- 
acle. Grant  that  it  be  so.  Suppose  it 
to  be  true,  perhaps  it  is  true,  that  the 
secret  reluctance  of  the  mind  to  resist 
its  wrong  tendencies,  and  to  restrain  its 
evil  passions,  is  such  that  a  special  act 
of  God  is  always  exerted  to  put  it  in  the 
right  way.  But  will  God,  who  made 
the  soul,  who  formed  every  part  of  its 
curious  and  wonderful  mechanism,  de- 
range the  operations  of  that  soul  in  or- 
der to  save  it  ?  Let  any  one  say,  if  he 
pleases,  that  it  is  a  dead  soul,  a  mech- 
anism without  any  motion,  and  that 
nothing  but  a  special  impulse  from  its 
Former  can  ever  set  it  in  motion.  But 
when  it  does  move,  will  it  not  move  in 
obedience  to  the  laws  of  its  nature  ? 
This,  be  it  observed,  is  all  that  we  say, 
to  make  out  the  assumed  analogy.  Let 
the  cause  of  its  operations  be  what  it 
will,  we  say  that  the  laws  of  its  opera- 


tions will  be  always  the  same  ;  in  other 
words,  that  the  religious  action  of  the 
soul  takes  place  after  the  same  manner, 
follows  the  same  processes,  as  all  other 
action  of  the  soul.  This,  certainly,  is 
the  testimony  of  all  experience.  No  one 
finds  himself  becoming  religious  under 
any  other  influence  than  that  of  motives 
of  some  sort.  No  man  finds  it  an  easier 
or  speedier  work  to  become  a  Christian, 
than  to  pass  from  ignorance  to  learning, 
from  indolence  of  mind  to  activity,  from 
low  to  lofty  tastes,  or  from  any  one 
state  of  mind  to  any  other.  Our  con- 
clusion, then,  is  based  on  facts  ;  it  is 
therefore  the  dictate  of  philosophy  ;  and 
it  certainly  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  doc- 
trine of  all  rational  theology. 

The  processes  of  religious  experience, 
therefore,  are  to  be  judged  of  like  the 
processes  of  all  other  experience.  Sup- 
pose, then,  that  you  knew  a  man  who 
was  indolent  in  spirit  and  infirm  of  pur- 
pose ;  and  that  you  had  sought  and 
found  the  means,  at  some  favoring  mo- 
ment, to  arouse  him  from  his  lethargy, 
and  to  put  him  in  the  path  of  action. 
Would  you  say  that  in  the  hour  of  his 
first  impression,  of  his  first  resolution, 
he  had  become  a  man  of  energy  and  firm- 
ness ?  Nay,  how  long  would  it  probably 
be  before  he  could  be  justly  said  to  bear 
that  character  ?  Or  suppose  that  you 
knew  a  parent  who  neglected  the  care  of 
his  children,  and  that,  inviting  him  some 
day  to  your  apartment,  you  had,  by  many 
reasonings,  so  impressed  his  mind  with 
the  dangers  of  this  course  of  neglect, 
that  he  had  resolved  to  amend  ;  and  sup- 
pose that  by  the  aid  of  many  such  im- 
pressions and  resolutions,  he  should,  at 
length,  become  a  good  parent.  Would 
you  say  that  you  had  sent  him  from  your 
house  that  day  a  good  parent?  If  you 
did  so,  I  am  sure  that  your  sober  neigh- 
bors would  hold  your  language  to  be 
very  strange,  and  would  not  a  little  sus- 
pect you  of  being  no  better  than  a  cred- 
ulous enthusiast.  Or  suppose,  once 
more,  that,  having  a  friend  who  was  de- 
void of  all  taste,  you  should  suddenly 
open  a  gallery  of  pictures  and  statues  to 


CONVERSION. 


413 


him,  and  thus  rouse  the  dormant  faculty. 
Would  you  say,  on  the  strength  of  that 
first  impulse  to  improvement,  he  had 
become  a  man  of  taste  ?  Why,  then, 
shall  it  be  said,  that  a  bad  man,  in  bare 
virtue  of  one  single  hour  of  religious  im- 
pressions, has  become  a  good  man  ? 
Religious  affections  have  no  growth 
peculiar  to  themselves,  no  other  growth 
than  all  other  affections. 

The  phrase  most  frequently  used  to 
describe  the  suddenness  of  conversion 
\^  \.\\2iio{  obtaiiiiiig  religion.  It  is  said 
that  at  a  certain  time,  a  man  has  "  ob- 
tained religion."  Now  I  am  persuaded 
that  if  we  should  separate  religion  into 
its  parts,  or  view  it  under  its  practical 
aspects,  no  such  phrase  could  be  found 
at  any  given  moment  to  apply  to  it. 
What  would  be  thought  of  it,  if  it  were 
said  that  at  any  one  moment,  a  man  had 
obtained  devotion,  or  a  gentle  disposi- 
tion !  Let  a  man  undertake  the  contest 
with  his  anger  ;  and  how  long  will  it 
take  to  subdue  that  passion  to  gentleness 
and  meekness  ?  How  long  will  it  be 
before  he  will  stand  calm  and  unmoved 
when  the  word  of  insult  breaks  upon 
his  ear,  or  the  storm  of  provocation 
beats  upon  his  head  ?  Or  let  him  en- 
deavor to  acquire  a  habit  of  devotion ; 
and  how  many  times  will  he  have  oc- 
casion bitterly  to  lament  that  his  thoughts 
of  God  are  so  few  and  cold  ;  that  he  is 
so  slow  of  heart  to  commune  with  the 
all-pervading  presence  that  fills  heaven 
and  earth  !  Perhaps  years  will  pass  on, 
and  he  will  feel  that  he  is  yet  but  begin- 
ning to  learn  this  great  wisdom,  and  to 
partake  of  this  unspeakable  joy.  Or,  to 
take  a  word  still  more  practical  ,  what 
would  you  think  of  a  man  who  should 
say  that,  at  a  certain  time,  he  had  ob- 
tained virtue  ?  "  What  idea,"  you  would 
exclaim,  "has  this  man  of  virtue?  Some 
strange  and  visionary  idea,  surely,"  you 
would  say,  "  something  different  from 
the  notion  which  all  other  men  have  of 
virtue."  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  this 
instance  detects  and  lays  open  the  whole 
peculiarity  of  the  common  impression 
about   a   religious   conversion.      Virtue 


implies  a  habit  of  feeling  and  a  course 
of  life.  It  is  the  complexion  of  a  man's 
whole  character,  and  not  one  particular 
and  constrained  posture  of  the  feelings. 
Virtue  is  not  a  thing  that  walks  the 
stage  for  an  hour  with  a  crowd  around 
it;  it  walks  in  the  quiet  and  often  lonely 
paths  of  real  life.  Virtue,  in  short, 
is  a  rational,  habitual,  long-continued 
course  of  feelings  and  actions.  And 
just  as  much  is  religion  all  this.  Re- 
ligion is  just  as  rational,  habitual,  abid- 
ing. What  do  I  say  ?  Religion  and 
virtue  are  the  same  thing  in  principle. 
Religion  involves  virtue  as  a  part  of  it- 
self. And  in  that  part  of  it  which  relates 
to  God,  it  is  still  just  as  rational,  surel}-, 
and  habitual  and  permanent  in  the  mind, 
as  in  that  part  of  it  which  relates  to  man. 
That  is  to  say,  piety  is  just  as  much  so 
as  virtue.  And  it  is  therefore  as  great 
and  strange  a  mistake  for  a  man  to  say 
that  he  obtained  religion  at  a  certain 
time,  as  it  would  be  to  say  that  at  a  cer- 
tain time  he  obtained  virtue.  Neither 
of  them  can  be  obtained  so  suddenly. 

To  sum  up'  what  I  have  said  ;  con- 
version originally  meant  two  things,  an 
outward  proselytism  and  an  inward 
change.  It  was  the  former  of  these 
only  that  was,  or  could  be,  sudden  and 
instantaneous.  An  idolater  came  into 
the  Christian  assembly  and  professed 
his  faith  in  the  true  God,  and  in  Jesus 
as  his  messenger.  This,  of  course,  was 
done  at  a  particular  time.  But  this 
meaning  of  the  term  has  no  application 
to  Christian  communities  at  the  present 
day.  Or  there  was  a  certain  time  when 
the  Pagan  or  the  Jew  became  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion, 
and  therefore  embraced  it  as  his  own. 
And  hence  it  was  that  faith,  rather  than 
love,  became  the  grand  representative 
and  denomination  of  Christian  piety. 
This  faith,  like  every  result  in  mere 
reasoning,  might  have  its  birth  and 
its  complete  existence  on  a  given  and 
assignable  day,  when  some  miracle  was 
performed  before  its  eyes,  or  some  ex- 
traordinary evidence  was  presented. 
But  these  ideas  evidently  cannot  apply 


414 


THE   ANALOGY    OF   RELIGION. 


to  nations  brought  up  in  the  forms  and 
faith  of  Christianity. 

Anciently,  then,  conversion  was  sud- 
den. It  was  so  from  the  very  neces- 
sity of  the  case.  But  from  the  same 
necessity  of  the  case  it  cannot  be  so 
now.  That  which  was  sudden  in  con- 
version, the  change  of  ceremonies,  of 
faith,  of  worship,  of  religion  as  a  sys- 
tem, fails  in  its  ai^plication  to  us  ;  while 
that  which  remains,  the  spiritual  renova- 
tion of  the  heart,  is  the  very  reverse  of 
sudden  ;  it  is  the  slowest  of  all  pro- 
cesses. 

The  notice  of  one  or  two  objections 
that  may  be  made  to  the  views  now 
stated,  will,  I  think,  clear  up  all  further 
difficulties  with  the  subject  ;  and  with 
this  I  shall  conclude  my  discourse. 

In  the  first  place,  if  the  bad  man, 
when  he  resolves  and  begitis  to  be  a 
good  man,  is  not  a  good  man  and  a 
Christian,  it  may  be  asked,  what  is  he  .-* 
and  what  is  to  become  of  him,  if  he 
dies  in  this  neutral  state  .''  That  is  to 
say,  if  as  a  bad  man  he  is  not  to  be  con- 
demned to  misery,  nor  as^  a  good  man 
to  be  raised  to  happiness,  what  is  the 
disposition  to  be  made  of  his  future 
state  ? 

To  the  first  question,  what  is  he  ? 
I  answer,  that  he  is  just  a  man  who  re- 
solves and  begins  to  be  good,  and  that 
is  all  that  he  is.  And  to  the  second  ques- 
tion, I  reply,  that  he  shall  be  disposed 
of,  not  according  to  our  technical  dis- 
tinctions, but  according  to  the  exact 
measure  of  the  good  or  evil  that  is  in 
him.  Let  us  bring  these  questions  to 
the  test  of  common  sense.  If  an  igno- 
rant man,  who  resolves  and  begins  to 
learn,  is  not  a  learned  man,  what  is  he, 
and  what  will  be  his  fate  ?  If  a  pas- 
sionate man,  resolving  and  beginning  to 
be  meek,  is  not  a  meek  man,  what  is  he, 
and  what  is  to  become  of  him,  in  the 
great  and  just  retribution  of  character  ? 
Do  not  these  questions  present  and 
solve  all  the  difficulties  involved  in  the 
objection  ?  They  are  difficulties  that 
belong  to  a  system  of  theology  which 
regards  all  mankind  as  either  totally  evil 


and  unregenerate,  or  essentially  regen- 
erate and  good  ;  a  system  wliich  appears 
to  me  as  much  at  war  with  common 
sense  and  common  experience,  as  would 
be  that  system  of  practical  philosophy 
which  should  account  all  men  to  Le 
either  poor  or  rich,  either  weak  or 
strong,  either  miserable  or  happy,  and 
admit  of  no  transition  state  from  one  to 
the  other. 

In  the  next  place,  it  may  possibly  be 
objected  that  the  views  which  I  have 
advanced  of  a  change  of  heart  as  slow 
and  gradual,  are  lax  and  dangeroiJs. 
Men,  it  may  be  said,  upon  this  ground 
will  reason  thus  :  "  Since  religion  is  the 
work  of  life,  we  need  not  concern  our- 
selves. The  days  and  years  of  life  are 
before  us,  and  we  can  attend  to  religion 
by  and  by."  But  because  religion  is 
the  work  of  a  whole  life,  is  that  a  reason 
for  wasting  a  fair  portion  of  the  precious 
and  precarious  season  ?  Because  relig- 
ion is  the  work  of  every  instant,  is  that 
a  reason  for  letting  many  of  them  pass 
unimproved.''  Because  the  work  of  re- 
ligion cannot  be  done  at  once,  because 
it  requires  the  long  progress  of  days 
and  years,  because  life  is  all  too  short 
for  it,  is  that  a  reason  for  never  begin- 
ning 1  Because,  in  fine,  the  promise  of 
heaven  depends  upon  a  character  which 
it  takes  a  long  time  to  form,  is  that  hold- 
ing out  a  lure  to  ease  and  negligence  ? 
I  know  of  no  doctrine  more  alarming  to 
the  negligent  than  this  :  that  tlie  Chris- 
tian virtue,  on  which  the  hope  of  heaven 
depends,  must  be  the  work  not  of  a 
moment,  but,  at  the  least,  of  a  consid- 
erable period  of  time. 

Furthermore,  that  which  is  never 
commenced  can  never  be  done.  That 
which  is  never  begun  can  never  be  ac- 
complished. Be  it  urged  upon  every 
one,  then,  that  he  should  begin.  Be  it 
urged,  with  the  most  solemn  admonition-, 
upon  the  negligent  and  delaying.  I  care 
not  with  how  much  zeal  and  earnestness 
he  enters  upon  the  work,  if  he  will  but 
remember  that  in  any  given  week  or 
month  he  can  only  begin.  I  speak  not 
against  a  sober   and    awakened   solici- 


RELIGIOUS    AFFECTIONS. 


415 


tude,   against  the  most  solemn  convic- 
tions, against   the    most  anxious  fears, 
the  most  serious  resolutions,  the  most 
earnest  and  unwearied  prayers.     Vt  is  a 
work  of  infinite  moment  that  we  have 
to  do.      It  is  an  infinite  welfare  that  is 
at  stake.     It  is  as  true  now  as  it  ever 
was,  that  "  except  a  man  be  born  again  " 
—  born    from  a  sensual    to   a    spiritual 
life,    born    from    moral    indolence   and 
sloth  to  sacred  effort  and  watchfulness 
and    faith,   born    from   a   worldly    to   a 
heavenly    hope  —  he     cannot    see    the 
kingdom    of    God.     No    matter    what 
we  call  it ;  conversion,  regeneration,  or 
amendment;  it  is  the   great    thing.      It 
is  the  burden  of  all  religious  instruction. 
Let  no  one  be  so  absurd  or  so  child- 
ish as    to   say   that   conversion   is   not 
preached  among  us  because  tlie  words 
''regeneration,"  "new  creation,"  "born 
again,"    are    not  continually    upon   our 
lips.     We   use   these   words    sparingly, 
because  they  are  constantly  misappre- 
hended.    But   the    thing  ;    the    turning 
from  sin  to  holiness,  the  forsaking  of 
all  evil  ways  by  repentance,  the  neces- 
sity  of  being   pure    in   order   to  being 
happy  here  and  hereafter ;  what  else  is 
our   preaching  and  your  faith  .'*     What 
but  this  is  the  object  of  every  religious 
institution    and    precept   and  doctrine? 
What  but  this  is  every  dictate  of  con- 
science and  every  command  of  God  and 
every  admonition  of  providence  .''     For 
what  but   this   did   Jesus  die,   and   for 
what   else  is  the  spirit  of  God  given  ? 
What  but  this,  in  fine,  is  the  interest  of 
life  and  the  hope  of  eternity  ? 

My  friends,  if  I  can  understand  any 
distinctions,  the  difference  between  the 
prevailing  ideas  of  conversion,  and  those 
which  I  now  preach  to  you  is,  that  the 
latter  are  out  of  all  comparison  the  most 
solemn,  awakening,  and  alarming.  If 
the  work  of  preparing  for  heaven  could 
be  done  in  a  moment,  then  might  it  be 
done  at  any  moment,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment ;  and  the  most  negligent  might 
always  hope.  I  cannot  conceive  of  anv 
doctrine  more  gratifying  and  quieting  to 
negligence  or  vice  than  this.     If  in  can- 


dor we  were  not  obliged  to  think  other- 
wise, it  would  seem  as  if  it  had  been 
invented  on  purpose  to  relieve  the  fears 
of  a  guilty,  procrastinating  conscience. 
But  our  doctrine,  on  the  contrary, 
preaches  nothing  but  alarm  to  a  self- 
indulgent  and  sinful  life.  It  warns  tiie 
bad  man  that  the  time  may  come  wlien, 
though  he  may  most  earnestly  desire  to 
prepare  for  heaven,  it  will  be  all  too  late. 
It  tells  him  that  no  work  of  a  moment 
can  save  him.  As  we  tell  the  student 
preparing  for  a  strict  examination,  that 
he  must  study  long  before  he  can  be 
ready,  that  no  momentary  struggle  or 
agony  will  do  it ;  so  we  tell  him  who 
proposes  to  be  examined  as  a  disciple 
of  Christ,  a  pupil  of  Christianity,  that 
the  preparation  must  be  the  work  of 
years,  the  work  of  life.  My  friends, 
I  beg  of  you  to  ponder  this  comparison. 
It  presents  to  you  the  naked  truth.  He 
who  would  rationally  hope  for  heaven, 
must  found  that  hope  not  on  the  work 
of  moments,  but  on  the  work  of  years  ; 
not  on  any  suddenly  acquired  frame  of 
mind,  but  on  its  enduring  habit ;  not  on 
a  momentary  good  resolution,  but  on  its 
abiding  result ;  not  on  the  beginning  of 
his  faith,  but  on  its  end,  its  completion, 
its  perfection. 


III. 


ON  THE  METHODS  OF  OBTAINING 
AND  EXHIBITING  RELIGIOUS 
AND   VIRTUOUS   AFFECTIONS. 

Luke  xxii.  32  :  "And  when  thou  art  converted, 
strengthen  thy  brethren." 

I  AM  to  discourse  this  evening  on 
the  methods  of  obtaining  and  of  exhib- 
iting religious  and  virtuous  affections. 
In  selecting  the  text,  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  it  covers  the  whole  ground  of 
this  twofold  subject ;  but  I  have  chosen 
it,  partly  because  I  wish  to  connect  the 
first  topic  before  us  directly  with  my 
last  discourse,  and  because  the  second 
topic,  the  methods  of  exhibiting  religion. 
is  distinctly  presented,  though  not  fully 


4i6 


THE   ANALOGY   OF    RELIGION. 


embraced  by  the  injunction,  "  Strengthen 
thy  brethren." 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  these  topics  ; 
how  we  are  to  become  religious  ;  and 
how  we  are  to  show  that  we  are  so. 
On  each  of  these  questions,  it  is  true, 
that  a  volume  might  be  written  ;  and 
you  will  easily  infer  that  I  should  not 
have  brought  them  into  the  same  dis- 
course, if  I  had  any  other  object  than 
to  survey  them  in  a  single  point  of  view. 
That  point,  you  are  apprised,  is  the 
analogy  of  religion  to  other  subjects,  or 
to  other  states  of  mind. 

To  the  question  then,  how  we  are  to 
obtain  religious  and  virtuous  affections 
and  habits,  the  answer  is,  just  as  we 
obtain  any  affections  and  habits  which 
require  attention  and  effort  in  order  to 
their  acquisition.  They  ought  to  be 
cultivated  in  childhood,  just  as  the  love 
of  nature,  or  the  habit  of  study,  or  any 
other  proper  affection  or  state  of  mind 
is  cultivated.  But  if  they  are  not  ;  if,  as 
is  too  often  the  case,  a  man  grows  up  an 
irreligious  or  vicious  man,  then  the  first 
step  towards  a  change  of  heart  is  serious 
reflection,  and  the  next  step  is  vigorous 
effort.  The  man  must  meditate,  and 
pray,  and  watch,  and  strive.  There  is 
no  other  way  to  become  good  and  pious, 
than  this.     There  is  no  easier  way. 

And  this  is  the  point  at  which  I  wished 
to  connect  the  topic  under  consideration 
with  my  last  discourse.  For  it  is  not 
only  true  that  the  demand  for  long-con- 
tinued effort,  for  a  series  of  patient  en- 
deavors, as  the  passport  to  heaven,  is 
more  strict  than  the  demand  for  a  mo- 
mentary change  ;  but  the  practical  re- 
sults of  the  difference  are  likely  to  have 
the  most  direct  and  serious  bearing  on 
the  question  before  us.  The  question 
is,  how  is  a  man  to  become  religious 
and  good  ?  To  this  question,  there  are 
two  answers.  One  is,  that  a  man  is  to 
become  religious  and  good  by  passing 
through  a  sudden  change  ;  a  change 
which,  if  not  miraculous,  has  no  prece- 
dent nor  parallel  in  all  other  human  ex- 
perience. The  other  answer  is,  that  a 
man  is  to  become  religious  and   good, 


just  as  he  is  to  become  wise  in  learning, 
or  skilful  in  art,  so  far  as  the  mode  is 
concerned  ;  that  is,  by  the  regular  and 
faithful  application  of  his  powers  to 
that  end,  by  the  repetition  of  humble 
endeavors,  by  the  slow  and  patient  form- 
ing of  habits,  by  little  acquisitions  made 
day  after  day,  by  continual  watchfulness 
and  effort,  and  the  seeking  of  heavenly 
aid.  In  the  former  case,  the  thing  that 
a  man  looks  for  is  a  sudden  and  ex- 
traordinary change  in  his  affections, 
wrought  out  by  a  special  influence  from 
above.  And  although  much  is  to  be 
done  afterwards  ;  yet,  till  this  is  done, 
nothing  is  done.  Much  is  to  be  done 
afterwards,  it  is  true,  as  a  matter  of  duty, 
but  nothing  more  is  necessary  to  make 
out  the  title  to  heaven.  There  is  to  be 
a  progressive  sanctification  as  a  conse- 
quence of  the  change  ;  but  salvation  de- 
pends on  the  change  itself.  Everything 
turns  upon  this  mysterious  point  of 
conversion. 

Now,  can  I  be  mistaken  in  thinking 
that  such  a  reference  to  this  point  must 
tend  to  derange  the  whole  system  of 
rational  motives  .-'  Must  it  not  take  off 
the  pressure  and  urgency  of  the  natu- 
ral inducements  to  act  ?.  Suppose,  to  re- 
sume the  comparison  which  I  made  in 
the  close  of  my  last  discourse,  that  a 
man  has  before  him  a  certain  study  to 
which  he  ought  to  attend.  He  is,  per- 
haps, to  be  examined  upon  it  a  year 
hence,  and  on  this  examination  is  to  de- 
pend his  introduction  into  professional 
life.  And,  to  make  the  parallel  complete, 
suppose  that  he  is  averse  to  study.  He 
is  indolent.  He  puts  off  the  matter  to- 
day, and  to-morrow  ;  one,  two,  or  three 
weeks  pass,  and  he  has  done  nothing. 
But  all  the  while  the  conviction  is  press- 
ing harder  and  harder  upon  him,  that 
this  will  never  do  ;  that  he  must  begin  ; 
and  at  length  he  does  begin,  and  proceed 
and  persevere  ;  nay,  he  comes  to  like 
his  task  ;  he  enjoys  his  industry  more 
than  ever  he  enjoyed  his  indolence  ;  he 
finishes  the  work,  and  gains  an  honor- 
able place  in  a  learned  profession.  Now 
this  man  was  placed  under  the  natural 


RELIGIOUS   AFFECTIONS. 


4'7 


and  healthful  influence  of  motives  ;  and 
it  is  under  such  influences,  I  contend, 
and  through  such  processes,  that  a  man 
is  to  become  a  Christian.  But  suppose 
that  this  man,  the  candidate  for  literary 
honors,  had  been  looking  for  some  sud- 
den and  extraordinary  change  in  his 
mind,  which  was  to  take  place,  when  or 
how  he  could  not  tell  :  it  might  be  in 
the  first  month,  or  in  the  second,  or  even 
in  the  eleventh  month  of  his  probation  ; 
a  change,  too,  without  which  notiiing 
could  avail  him,  and  with  which  all  was 
safe.  Does  not  every  one  see  that  the 
pressure  of  ordinary  motives  is  nearly 
taken  off  ?  Does  not  every  one  see 
that  a  man  so  circumstanced  is  very 
likely  to  go  on  without  ever  applying 
himself  thoroughly  and  resolutely  to 
the  work   in  hand  ? 

And  what  else,  I  am  tempted  to  ask, 
is  to  account  for  the  apathy  and  neglect 
of  multitudes  towards  the  greatest  of  all 
concerns?  Do  not  tell  me,  my  brethren, 
that  you  have  escaped  this  error,  because 
you  have  embraced  more  rational  ideas 
of  conversion.  It  is  an  error,  I  fear, 
which  has  infected  the  religion  of  the 
whole  world.  Almost  all  men  are  ex- 
pecting to  become  religious  and  devout 
in  some  extraordinary  way;  in  a  way 
for  which  the  ordinary  changes  of  char- 
acter furnish  no  analogy.  This  is  the 
fatal  barrier  of  error  that  surrounds  the 
world,  and  defends  it  from  the  pressure 
of  ordinary  motives.  Evils  and  tempta- 
tions enough,  I  know  there  are,  within 
that  barrier  ;  but  if  there  be  anything 
without  it,  if  there  be  anything  in  the 
shape  of  opinion  more  fatal  than  every- 
thing else  to  religious  attainment,  it 
must  be  that  which  interfere?  with  the 
felt  necessity  of  immediate,  urgent,  prac- 
tical, persevering  endeavor!  The  doc- 
trine of  sudden  conversion,  I  conceive, 
is  precisely  such  an  opinion.  Let  such 
a  doctrine  be  applied  to  any  other  sub- 
ject than  religion,  to  the  attainment  of 
any  mental  habit,  of  learning  or  of  art, 
and  I  am  sure  that  it  would  be  seen  to 
have  this  fatal  influence.  And  I  fear 
that  it  has  not  only  paralyzed  religious  I 

27 


exertion,  but  that  it  has  the  effect  to 
deter  many  from  all  approach  to  religion; 
that  to  many  this  extraordinary  conver- 
sion is  a  mystery  and  a  wonder  and  a 
fear.  I  apprehend  that  by  many  it  is 
regarded  as  a  crisis,  a  paroxysm,  a  fear- 
ful initiation  into  the  secrets  of  religion; 
and  that,  in  consequence,  religion  itself 
is  regarded  by  multitudes  as  the  mys- 
teries were  in  ancient  times  ;  that  is  to 
say,  as  a  matter  of  which  they  know 
nothing,  and  can  know  nothing,  till  they 
have  passed  the  gate  of  initiation;  till 
they  have  learnt  the  meaning  of  this 
solemn  password,  conversion.  Hence 
it  is  that  vital  religion  is  looked  upon 
by  the  mass  of  the  community  as  a  mat- 
ter with  which  they  have  nothing  to  do ; 
they  give  it  up  to  the  Church,  to  con- 
verts, to  the  initiated ;  and  that,  which 
should  press  down  upon  the  whole  world, 
like  the  boundless  atmosphere,  the  re- 
ligion of  the  sky,  the  religion  of  the  uni- 
verse, the  religion  of  universal  trutli  and 
all-embracing  welfare,  has  become  a 
flaming  sword  upon  the  gates  of  para- 
dise ! 

I  proceed  now  to  the  exhibition  or 
manifestation  of  religion.  And  the  rule 
here  is  that  a  man  should  manifest  his 
religious  affections  no  otherwise  than 
as  he  manifests  any  serious,  joyful,  and 
earnest  affections  he  may  possess.  This, 
I  have  no  doubt,  will  appear  to  be  the 
most  interesting  and  effective  as  well  as 
the  most  proper  display  of  them. 

Exhibition,  manifestation,  display  on 
such  a  subject,  are  words,  I  confess, 
which  are  not  agreeable  to  me;  and  on 
this  point  I  .shall  soon  speak.  That  is 
seldom  the  most  powerful  exhibition  of 
character  which  a  man  makes  on  set 
purpose.  And  therefore  I  should  say. 
even  if  it  were  contended  that  religion 
is  a  peculiar  cause  committed  to  the 
good  man,  which  he  is  bound  to  advo- 
cate and  advance  in  the  world  by  pe- 
culiar exertions,  still  that  he  will  not 
ordinarily  so  well  succeed  by  direct 
attempt  as  by  an  indirect  influence. 

But  let  us  take  up,  for  a  few  moments, 
the  general  subject.     We  are  speaking 


4i8 


THE   AXALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


of  religious  manifestation  :  and  I  say 
that  a  man's  religion  is  to  assume  no 
peculiar  appearances  because  it  is  re- 
ligion. I  do  not  say  no  appearances 
appropriate  to  itself.  All  traits  and 
forms  of  character  have,  to  a  certain 
extent,  their  appropriate  disclosures. 
So  far,  religion  may  have  them  ;  but,  in 
consistency  with  good  sense,  no  farther. 
Qur  Lord  said  to  Peter,  '-When  thou 
art  converted,  strengthen  thy  brethren." 
A  good  man  should  strengthen  his 
brethren;  but  in  order  to  do  this  to  the 
best  purpose  he  is  to  strengthen  his 
brethren  in  religion  no  otherwise  than 
he  would  strengthen  his  brethren  in 
patriotism,  in  learning,  or  in  any  other 
cause.  That  is  to  say,  he  is  to  be  gov- 
erned by  the  general  and  just  principles 
of  mutual  influence.  He  is  to  give  his 
countenance,  his  sympathy,  his  counsel, 
on  proper  occasions  ;  but  he  is  not  to 
go  about  exhorting  at  all  corners,  as- 
suming an  air  of  superiority,  speaking 
in  oracular  and  sepulcliral  tones;  if  he 
does  so  he  will  be  liable  to  be  considered 
intrusive,  impertinent,  and  disagreeable. 
1  would  speak  with  a  sacred  caution  on 
this  point.  I  would  quench  no  holy 
fire.  Our  fault  is  too  hable  to  be  re- 
serve. And  well  can  I  conceive  that 
there  may  be  times  when  a  man  may 
fitly  and  solemnly  say,  "  Stand  fast,  my 
brother,  keep  thine  integrity;"  or  emer- 
gencies of  social  temptation,  when  the 
zealous  Christian  may  say,  "  Let  us 
strengthen  each  other's  hands  and  en- 
courage each  other's  hearts  in  the  holy 
cause  of  duty."  The  same  thing  may 
be  done  in  every  other  cause,  whether 
of  justice  or  humanity.  All  that  I  con- 
tend for  is,  that  the  same  good  sense, 
the  same  courtesy,  the  same  liberality, 
shall  govern  a  man  in  one  case  as  in 
the  other. 

Undoul:)tedly  a  religious  and  good 
man  will  appear  on  many  occasions 
diflferently  from  another  man,  and  differ- 
ently in  proportion  as  he  is  religious 
and  good.  But  he  will  not  appear  so 
lalways,  nor  in  things  indifferent.  There 
may  be  nothing  to  distinguish  him  in 


his  gait,  liis  countenance  or  demeanor. 
Still  there  will  be  occasions  when  his 
character  will  come  out ;  many  occasions. 
His  actions,  his  course  of  life,  his  senti- 
ments, on  a  great  many  occasions,  will 
show  his  character.  And  these  senti- 
ments he  will  express  in  conversation, 
so  that  his  conversation  will  be  thus  far 
different.  But  still  the  disclosures  of 
his  character  will  all  be  natural.  He 
will  show  you  that  he  is  interested  in 
religion,  just  as  he  shows  you  that  he 
is  interested  about  everything  else,  by 
natural  expressions  of  countenance  and 
tones  of  voice,  by  natural  topics  of  con- 
versation and  habits  of  conduct.  In 
short,  there  will  be  an  appropriate  ex- 
hibition of  religious  character,  but  noth- 
ing singular  or  strange. 

Now,  for  multitudes  of  persons  this 
will  not  do ;  it  is  not  enough.  They 
want  something  peculiar.  There  are 
many,  indeed,  who  are  not  satisfied,  un- 
less there  is  something  peculiar  in  the 
looks  and  manners  of  a  mail  to  mark 
him  out  as  religious.  Who  does  not 
know  how  constantly  a  clergyman  has 
been,  and  still  is,  to  a  great  extent, 
known  everywhere  by  these  marks } 
And  what  is  more  common  than  for  the 
new  convert  to  put  on  a  countenance 
and  deportment  which  causes  all  his 
acquaintance  to  say,  "  How  strangely 
he  appears ! "  And  many,  I  repeat, 
would  have  it  so.  They  would  have  a 
man  not  only  belong  to  the  kingdom  of 
Christ,  but  carry  also  some  peculiar 
marks  and  badges  of  it.  They  would 
have  him  wear  his  religion  as  a  military 
costume,  that  they  may  know,  as  they 
say.  under  what  colors  he  fights.  But 
let  us  reixiember  that  many  a  coward 
has  worn  a  coat  of  mail,  and  many  a 
brave  man  has  felt  that  he  did  not  need 
one.  And  many  a  bad  man,  I  would 
rather  say  many  a  misguided  man,  has 
put  on  a  solemn  countenance  and  carried 
a  stiff  and  formal  gait,  and  got  all  the 
vocabulary  of  cant  by  heart ;  and  many 
a  good  man  has  felt  that  he  could  do 
without  these  trappings  of  a  mistaken 
and  erring  piety.     Nor  let  it  be  forgot- 


RELIGIOUS   AFFECTIONS. 


419 


ten  that  just  in  proportion  as  this  pecu- 
liaritv  of  religious  manifestation  prevails, 
hypocrisy  prevails.  It  is  easier  to  put 
on  a  costume  than  it  is  to  adopt  a  real 
character.  Religion,  for  its  own  defence 
against  pretenders  as  well  as  for  its  use- 
fulness in  the  world,  should  demand 
sobriety,  simplicity,  naturalness,  and 
truth  of  behavior,  from  all  its  votaries. 

I  do  not  mean,  in  saying  this,  to  con- 
found sanctimony  with  hypocrisy,  or 
bad  taste  with  bad  morals.  The  same 
distinctions  apply  to  tbis  as  to  every 
other  subject.  A  man  of  real  learning 
may  be  a  pedant.  A  man  of  real  skill 
may  lack  the  simplicity  which  is  its 
highest  ornament.  A  really  able  states- 
man may  practise  some  finesse.  A 
trulv  wise  man  may  put  on  an  air  of 
unnecessary  gravity,  or  be  something 
too  much  a  man  of  forms.  But  we  all 
agree  that  these  are  faults.  We  always 
desire  that  all  unnecessary  peculiarities 
should  be  laid  aside :  that  no  man 
should  obtrude  upon  others  his  gifts 
or  qualifications  :  that  he  should  leave 
them  to  speak  when  they  are  called  for. 
In  other  words,  we  demand  good  breed- 
ing in  every  other  case;  and  I  say  em- 
phatically that  good  breeding  is  equilly 
to  be  demanded  in  religion.  No  man  is 
the  worse  Christian  for  being  a  well- 
bred  man  ;  nor  is  he,  for  that  reason, 
the  less  decided  Christian. 

Next  to  the  general  manners  as  modes 
of  exhibiting  religion,  a  more  specific 
point  to  be  considered  is  religious  con- 
versation. A  man  usually  talks,  it  is 
said,  about  that  which  is  nearest  his 
heart ;  and  a  religious  man,  therefore, 
will  talk  about  religion.  Every  observ- 
ing person,  we  may  notice  in  passing, 
must  be  aware  that  there  are  many  ex- 
ceptions to  this  remark ;  that  there  are 
not  a  few  individuals  in  the  circle  of  his 
acquaintance  who  are  not.  by  any  means, 
communicative  on  the  subjects  that  most 
deeply  interest  them.  But  there  is  a 
still  more  important  distinction  in  re- 
gard to  the  subject-matter  itself. 

It  is  this.  A  man  may  talk  relig- 
iously, and  yet  not  talk  about  religion, 


as  an  abstract  subject.  A  good  and 
devout  man  will  show  that  he  is  such 
by  his  conversation  ;  but  not  neces- 
sarily by  his  conversing  upon  the  ab- 
stract subjects  of  devotion  and  good- 
ness. He  will  show  it  by  the  spirit 
of  his  conversation,  by  the  cast  and 
tone  of  his  sentiments,  on  a  great  man\- 
subjects.  You  will  see,  as  he  talks 
about  men  and  things,  about  lite  and 
its  objects,  its  cares,  disappointments, 
afflictions,  and  blessings,  about  its  end 
and  its  future  prospects,  —  you  will  see 
that  his  mind  is  right,  that  his  affec- 
tions are  pure,  that  his  aspirations  are 
spiritual.  You  will  see  this,  not  by 
any  particular  phraseology  he  uses,  not 
because  he  has  set  himself  to  talk  in 
anv  particular  manner,  not  because  he 
intended  you  should  see  it:  but  simply 
because  conversation  is  ordinarily  and 
naturally  an  expression  and  index  of 
the  character.  I  am  not  denying  that 
a  good  man  may  talk  about  religion  as 
an  abstract  subject,  or  about  religious 
experience  as  the  express  subject.  All 
may  do  this  at  times ;  some  from  the 
habit  of  their  minds  may  do  it  often. 
But  what  I  say  is,  that  this,  with  most 
men.  is  not  necessarily  nor  naturally  the 
way  of  showing  an  interest  in  religion. 

And  to  prove  this,  we  need  only  ask 
how  men  express,  by  conversation,  their 
interest  in  other  suDJects ;  how  they 
exhibit  other  parts  of  their  character 
through  this  medium,  —  this  breathing 
out  of  the  soul  in  words.  A  man  talks 
affectionately  or  feelingly;  you  see  that 
this  is  the  tone  of  his  mind  ;  you  say 
that  he  is  a  person  of  great  sensibility  : 
but  does  he  talk  about  affection  or  feel- 
ing or  sensibilitv  in  the  abstract.'  A 
man  talks  intelligently :  but  does  he 
talk  about  intelligence?  Or  is  it  neces- 
sary that  he  should  discourse  a  great 
deal  about  good  sense,  or  be  perpetually 
saying  what  a  fine  thing  knowledge  is, 
in  order  to  convince  you  that  he  is  an 
intelligent  man  ?  Here  is  a  circle  of 
persons,  distinguished  for  the  strength 
of  their  family  and  friendly  attachments. 
All  their  actions  and  words  shov/  that 


420 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


kindness  and  harmony  dwell  among 
them.  But  now,  what  would  you  think 
if  they  should  often  sit  down  and  talk 
in  set  terms  about  the  beauty  of  friend- 
ship or  the  charms  of  domestic  love  ? 
So  strange  and  unnatural  would  it  be, 
that  you  would  be  incHned  to  suspect 
their  sincerity.  You  might,  indeed,  fairly 
infer  one  of  two  things  :  either  that  love 
and  friendship  with  them  were  matters 
of  mere  and  cold  sentiment,  or  that 
these  persons  had  utterly  mistaken  the 
natural  and  proper  method  of  exhibiting 
their  affections. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  religious 
conversation,  which,  beyond  all  others, 
is  thought  to  furnish  the  clearest  evi- 
dence of  a  man's  piety;  and  that  is,  his 
conversing  much  with  thoughtless  or 
unregenerate  persons,  with  a  view  to 
jnaking  them  religious.  Now,  here  we 
are  to  keep  in  view  the  same  distinction 
that  is  applied  to  rehgion  in  general. 
A  religious  man  may  well  desire  to  make 
others  religious  by  his  conversation.  He 
may,  on  proper  occasions,  converse  with 
them  for  this  very  end.  But  to  do  this, 
he  need  not  talk  about  religion  in  the 
abstract,  nor  expressly  about  the  relig- 
ious good  of  the  persons  he  converses 
with.  There  may,  indeed,  betimes  and 
relations  in  which  this  personal  appeal 
should  be  made  ;  but  it  should  not  be 
done  as  a  matter  of  course  and  of  set  form. 
A  man  may  impress  his  acquaintances 
in  this  way,  I  know.  He  may  make 
them  feel  strangely  and  uncomfortably. 
He  may  create  in  them  a  sort  of  preter- 
natural feeling.  He  may  awaken,  ter- 
rify, distress  them.  He  may,  then,  by 
such  means,  make  an  impression  upon 
them  ;  but  it  will  not  be  a  good  impres- 
sion. It  is  planting  in  the  mind  the 
seeds  of  superstition,  which  a  whole 
life,  often,  is  not  sufficient  to  eradicate. 
It  is  through  this  process  that  religion 
is,  with  so  many  persons,  a  strange,  un- 
congenial, terrifying,  distressful,  gloomy 
thing,  to  their  dying  day.  Why  is  it  not 
apparent  to  every  one  that  this  method 
of  proceeding  is  unnatural,  unwise,  inex- 
pedient?     It  is  not  with  religion  that 


men  are  impressed  in  this  case,  so  much 
as  with  the  manner  in  which  it  is  pre- 
sented, with  its  aspects  and  adjuncts. 
And  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  with 
many  religion  itself  becomes  a  thing  of 
aspects  and  circumstances,  rather  than 
of  the  spirit;  that  it  becomes,  in  its  pos- 
sessor, a  pecuharity  rather  than  a  char- 
acter ;  a  posture,  and  often  a  distorted 
posture,  of  mind  and  feeling,  rather  than 
the  mind  and  feeling  itself.  Men  are 
not  acc2istomed  to  talk  about  abstract 
subjects,  nor  about  the  soul  as  an  ab- 
stract subject.  And  if  you  approach 
them  awkwardly,  as  you  must  do  in 
such  a  case,  and  put  such  questions  as 
"whether  they  have  obtained  religion," 
or  "  what  is  the  state  of  their  souls," 
they  will  hardly  know  what  to  do  with 
such  treatment  ;  they  will  not  know  how 
to  commune  with  you.  They  may,  in- 
deed, if  they  have  a  great  respect  for 
you,  sit  down  and  listen  to  the  awful 
communication,  and  be  impressed  and 
overcome  by  it.  But  is  this  the  way  to 
exert  a  favorable  and  useful  influence 
upon  them  ?  Do  but  consider  if  this  is 
the  way  in  which  men  are  favorably  and 
usefully  impressed  on  other  subjects. 
A  man  has  a  quarrel  with  his  neighbor. 
You  wish  to  dispose  him  to  peace  and 
reconciliation.  Do  you  begin  with  ask- 
ing him  what  is  the  state  of  his  soul? 
Do  you  ask  him  whether  he  has  ob- 
tained peace  ?  Do  you  begin  to  talk 
with  him  about  the  abstract  doctrines  of 
peace  and  forgiveness  ?  Let  a  sensible 
man  be  seen  communing  with  his  neigh- 
bor in  a  case  like  this,  and  he  will  be 
found  to  adopt  a  far  more  easy,  unem- 
barrassed, and  natural  mode  of  commu- 
nication. And  in  any  case,  whether  you 
propose  to  enlighten  the  ignorant,  to 
quicken  the  indolent,  or  to  restrain  the 
passionate,  every  one  must  know  that  a 
course  would  be  pursued  very  different 
from  that  which  is  usually  resorted  to 
for  recommending  religion. 

I  have  now  spoken  of  the  general 
manners,  and  of  conversation  in  par- 
ticular, as  modes  of  exhibiting  religion. 

But  on  the  general  subject  of  exhibit- 


CAUSES   OF   INDIFFERENCE   AND   AVERSION. 


421 


ing  religion.,  I  have  one  observation  to 
offer  in  close.  I  have  spoken  in  this 
discourse  of  exhibiting  or  manifesting 
religion,  because  I  could  find  no  other 
brief  and  comprehensive  phrase  which 
would  convey  the  idea  ;  but  I  am  afraid 
that  these  phrases  themselves  are  liable 
to  carry  with  them  an  erroneous  idea. 
If  a  man  of  high  intelligence  or  culti- 
vated taste  should  think  much  of  ex- 
hibiting his  intelligence  or  taste,  we 
should  say  that  he  is  not  very  wisely 
employed.  He  might,  indeed,  very  prop- 
erly think  of  it,  if  he  had  fallen  into  any 
great  faults  on  this  point.  But,  after  all, 
exhibition  is  not  the  thing.  And  the 
observation,  therefore,  which  I  have  to 
make,  is  this  :  that  the  more  a  man 
thinks  of  cultivating  religion,  and  the 
less  he  thinks  of  exhibiting  it,  the  more 
happy  will  he  be  in  himself,  and  the 
more  useful  to  others.  That  which  is 
within  us,  it  has  been  said,  "  will  out." 
Let  a  man  possess  the  spirit  of  religion, 
and  it  will  probablvi  in  some  way  or 
other,  manifest  itself.  He  need  not  be 
anxious  on  that  point.  On  the  contrary, 
there  are  no  persons  who  are  more  dis- 
agreeable ;  there  are  scarcely  any  who 
do  a  greater  disservice  to  the  cause  of 
virtue,  than  pattern  men  and  women. 
Hence  it  is  that  you  often  hear  it  said, 
"  We  cannot  endure  perfect  people." 
The  assumption,  the  consciousness  of 
virtue,  is  the  most  fatal  blight  upon  all 
its  charms.  Good  examples  are  good 
things  ;  but  their  goodness  is  gone  the 
moment  they  are  adopted  for  their  own 
sake.  A  noble  action  performed  for 
example's  sake  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms.  Let  it  be  performed  in  total 
unconsciousness  of  anything  but  the 
action  itself,  and  then,  and  then  only,  is 
it  clothed  with  power  and  beauty. 

I  do  not  mean  to  dissuade  any  good 
man  from  acting  and  speaking  for  the  re- 
ligious enlightenment  and  edification  of 
others  ;  I  advocate  it ;  but  that  is  effort, 
not  exhibition.  Yet  even  then  I  would 
say,  let  no  man's  religious  action  or 
speech  go  beyond  the  impulses  of  his 
heart.     Let  no  man  be  more  religious 


in  his  conversation  than  he  is  in  his 
character.  The  worst  speculative  evils 
in  the  popular  mind  about  religion,  1 
fear,  are  the  mingled  sense  of  its  un- 
reality on  the  one  hand,  and  of  its 
burdensomeness  on  the  other,  which 
spring  from  the  artificial  treatment  it 
has  received  from  its  professed  votaries. 
Away  with  set  phrases,  and  common- 
places, and  monotones,  and  drawlings, 
and  all  solemn  dulness  ;  and  let  us  have 
truth,  simplicity,  and  power  !  The  heart 
of  the  world  will  answer  to  that  call, 
even  as  the  forests  answer  and  bend  to 
the  free  winds  of  heaven  ;  while  amidst 
the  fogs  and  vapors  that  rise  from  stag- 
nant waters  it  stands  motionless,  chilled, 
and  desolate. 


IV. 


CAUSES    OF    INDIFFERENCE   AND 
AVERSION   TO   RELIGION. 

Luke  xvi.  8  :  "  For  the  children  of  this  world  are 
in  their  generation  wiser  than  the  children  of  light." 

I  AM  to  speak  in  this  discourse  of  the 
causes  of  indifference  and  aversion  to 
religion  ;  and  my  special  purpose  in  the 
analogy  which  I  am  following  out  in 
these  discussions,  is  to  inquire  whether 
the  same  causes  would  not  make  men 
indifferent  or  averse  to  any  other  sub- 
ject, however  naturally  agreeable  or 
interesting  to  them.  Let  philosophy, 
or  friendship,  or  native  sensibility  ;  let 
study,  or  business,  or  pleasure  even,  be 
inculcated  and  treated  as  religion  has 
been,  and  would  not  men  be  averse  to 
them  ? 

It  is  possible  that  I  have  a  hearer 
who  will  think  that  he  solves  the  prob- 
lem by  saying  that  men's  aversion  to 
religion  is  owing  to  the  wickedness  of 
their  hearts.  That  would  be  to  solve  a 
problem  with  a  truism.  The  aversion 
to  religion  is  wickedness  of  heart.  I 
am  sensible,  and  it  will  be  more  appar- 
ent as  we  proceed,  that  this  is  to  be  said 
with  important  qualifications.     But  still 


422 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


it  is  true  that  this  state  of  mind  is 
wrong.  And  the  question  is,  why  does 
this  wrong  state  of  mind  exist  ?  In 
other  words,  whence  is  this  aversion  to 
rehgion  ?  It  may  be  said  with  more 
pertinence,  I  allow,  that  the  cause  is  to 
be  found  in  the  depravity  of  human  na- 
ture. Tliis  is,  indeed,  assigning  a  cause. 
And  it  is,  moreover,  bringing  the  sub- 
ject to  a  point  on  which  I  wish  to  fix 
your  attention.  For  so  far  from  ad- 
mitting this  to  be  true,  I  think  it  will 
be  easy  to  show  that  men  may  be  made, 
and  are  made,  indifferent  or  averse  to 
worldly  objects,  to  objects  allowed  to  be 
congenial  to  their  nature,  by  the  same 
causes  which  make  them  indifferent  or 
averse  to  heavenly  objects,  the  objects 
of  faith  and  duty. 

I.  The  first  cause  which  I  shall  men- 
tion is  neglect.  There  are  many  sci- 
ences and  arts  and  accomplishments 
which  are  most  interesting,  and  naturally 
most  interesting,  to  those  who  cultivate 
them, but  entirely  indifferent  to  those  who 
neglect  them.  We  see  this  every  day. 
We  find  different  men  in  the  opposite 
poles  of  enthusiasm  and  apathy  on  cer- 
tain subjects  ;  and  the  reason  is,  that 
some  have  been  familiar  with  them,  and 
others  have  been  completely  estranged 
from  them.  The  most  interesting  and 
fascinating  reading  has  no  attraction  for 
those  who  have  passed  the  most  of  their 
lives  without  ever  taking  up  a  book.  It 
is,  in  short,  a  well-known  law  of  our 
minds  that  attention  is  necessary  to  give 
vividness  and  interest  to  objects  of  hu- 
man thought. 

The  first  cause  of  indifference  to  re- 
ligion, then,  is  neglect.  It  may  be  said 
that  all  are  taught ;  that  the  subject  is 
constantly  urged  upon  their  attention 
from  the  pulpit.  But  the  example  and 
daily  conversation  of  their  parents  and 
friends,  who  have  showed  no  interest  in 
religion,  have  been  more  powerful  far 
than  the  words  of  the  preacher.  The 
real  and  effective  influences  of  their 
education  have  all  tended  to  neglect. 
The  actual  course  of  their  conduct  has 
come  to   the  same  thing.     They  have 


never  attended  to  religion,  either  as  the 
merchant  attends  to  business,  or  as  the 
farmer  attends  to  soils,  or  the  mechan- 
ician to  his  art,  or,  to  come  nearer  to 
the  point,  as  the  student  attends  to  phi- 
losophy, or  as  the  virtuoso  to  matters  of 
taste,  or  even  as  the  sketching  traveller 
attends  to  scenery,  or  as  the  man  of 
pleasure  to  amusement;  or,  in  fine,  as 
any  man  attends  to  anything  in  which 
he  would  be  interested.  It  is  not  in 
this  way,  at  all,  that  they  have  thought 
of  being  religious,  but  in  some  more 
summary,  in  some  extraordinary  way : 
and  multitudes  who  would  think  it  pre- 
posterous to  expect  to  be  interested  in 
a  literature  or  language  of  which  they 
have  never  read  anything,  have  never  in 
their  lives  attentively  read  one  book 
about  religion,  not  even  the  Bible. 

I  am  quite  sensible,  while  I  make 
these  comparisons,  that  there  is  a  gen- 
eral attention  to  religion  more  important 
than  any  specific  study  of  it :  an  atten- 
tion, that  is  to  say,  to  the  monitions  of 
conscience,  to  experience,  to  the  intima- 
tions of  a  providence  all  around  us,  to 
the  great  example  of  Christ  that  ever 
shines  as  a  light  before  us.  But  it  is 
this  very  attention,  as  well  as  the  speci- 
fic study,  in  which  men  have  been  defi- 
cient. And  then,  as  to  the  specific  study, 
I  say,  it  is  to  be  advocated  on  grounds 
similar  to  those  which  recommend  it  in 
every  other  case.  A  man  may  be  re- 
ligious without  reading  books,  I  know. 
So  may  he  be  an  agriculturist  or  mech- 
anician without  reading  books.  But  the 
point  to  be  stated,  for  him  who  reads  at 
all,  is  that  he  will  read  on  the  subject  on 
which  he  wishes  to  be  informed  and  in- 
terested ;  and  so  we  may  say  that  he 
who  studies  at  all,  will  study  on  the  sub- 
ject that  is  nearest  his  heart ;  and  that 
he  who  adopts  forms  and  usages  in  any 
case,  will  avail  himself  of  forms  and 
usages  in  this.  So  that  he  into  whose 
life  no  specific  religious  action  enters, 
gives  no  evidence  of  general  attention. 

Still,  then,  I  repeat,  there  must  be  at- 
tention, both  general  and  particular. 
No  man  can  reasonably  expect   to   be 


CAUSES    OF   INDIFFERENCE   AND   AVERSION. 


423 


religious  without  it.  It  is  not  enough 
passively  to  be  borne  on  with  the  wave  of 
worldly  fashion,  now  setting  towards  the 
church,  and  now  towards  the  exchange, 
and  now  towards  the  theatre.  It  is  not 
enough  to  be  as  religious  as  chance  and 
time  and  tide  will  make  us.  There  must 
be  a  distinct,  direct  religious  action,  a 
hand  stretched  out,  an  eye  looking  be- 
yond, a  heart  breathing  its  sighs  and 
secret  prayers  for  some  better  thing. 
But  with  multitudes  this  distinct  action 
of  the  soul  has  never  been  put  forth. 
And  it  is  no  more  surprising  that  they 
are  not  Christians,  than  it  is  that  they 
are  not  astronomers  or  artists. 

II.  The  next  cause  of  indiflference  and 
aversion  to  religion  is  to  be  found  in  the 
character  with  which  some  of  its  most 
attractive  virtues  are  commonly  invested. 
Let  us  consider  a  few  of  these,  and  com- 
pare them  with  other  affections  and  sen- 
timents. 

One  of  the  Christian  virtues,  much 
insisted  on,  is  love  of  the  brethren.  The 
analogous  sentiment  is  friendship.  Now 
I  ask,  would  friendship  be  the  attractive 
quality  that  it  is,  if  it  were  inculcated 
and  represented  in  the  same  way  as  love 
of  the  brethren?  If  friendship  were 
constantly  insisted  on  as  a  test  of  char- 
acter, as  the  trying  point  on  which  all 
future  hopes  rest  ;  if  a  man  were  con- 
stantly asked  whether  he  loves  his  friends 
in  the  same  way  in  which  he  is  asked 
whether  he  loves  the  brethren,  and  thus 
were  made  to  tremble  when  that  ques- 
tion is  asked  ;  if,  then,  the  affection  of 
friendship  were  required  to  be  exercised 
with  so  little  reference  to  all  the  natural 
charms  and  winning  graces  of  charac- 
ter; if,  again,  friendship  must  find  its 
objects  within  a  sphere  so  limited,  among 
men  of  a  particular  sect,  or  among  church- 
members  only,  or  among  speculative  be- 
lievers of  a  certain  cast ;  and  if,  more- 
over, friendship  were  to  express  itself 
by  such  methods  as  brotherly  love  usually 
does,  by  set  and  precise  manners,  by 
peculiar  actions,  by  talking  of  its  elect 
and  chosen  ones,  as  Christians  have  been 
wont  to  talk  of  each  other,  —  if,  I  say,  all 


this  belonged  to  friendship,  do  you  think 
it  would  wear  to  men's  eyes  the  charm 
and  fiiscination  that  it  now  does  .''  Would 
they  rush  to  its  arms  ;  would  they  seek 
it,  and  sigh  for  it,  as  they  now  do  '^.  No ; 
friendship  itself  would  lose  its  grace  and 
beauty,  if  it  were  set  forth  as  the  love 
of  the  brethrea  usually  is.  No  wonder 
that  men  are  averse  to  such  an  affection. 
But  would  they  have  been  equally  averse 
to  it,  if  it  had  been  represented  as  but 
a  holier  friendship ;  the  friendship  of 
good  men,  which  it  is,  and  which  is  all 
that  it  is  1 

Again  ;  hope  is  a  Christian  virtue.  It 
is  also  natural  affection;  and  as  a  nat-. 
ural  affection,  it  attracts  every  human 
heart.  It  "springs  eternal  "  and  irre- 
sistible in  every  human  breast.  Its  eye 
kindles,  and  its  countenance  glows,  as 
it  gazes  upon  the  bright  future.  But 
would  it  be  this  involuntary  and  welcome 
affection,  if  it  bore  the  character  that 
evangelical  hope  has  assumed,  in  the  ex- 
perience of  modern  Christians  ?  I  say 
of  modern  Christians;  for  the  ancient 
hope  was  a  different  thing.  It  was  the 
hope  of  those  "  who  sat  in  the  region 
and  shadow  of  death,"  that  they  should 
live  hereafter  :  it  was  a  hope  full  of  im- 
mortality; full  of  the  subhmity  and  joy 
of  that  great  expectation.  But  now,  what 
is  the  modern  feeling  that  bears  this 
name,  and  how  does  it  express  itself? 
It  says  with  anxiety,  and  often  with  a 
mournful  sigh,  "  I  hope  that  I  am  a 
Christian  ;  I  hope  that  I  am  pardoned  ; 
I  hope  that  I  shall  go  to  heaven." 
Would  any  human  hope  be  attractive,  if 
this  were  its  character?  Is  it  strange 
that  men  do  not  desire  to  entertain  a 
hope  that  is  so  expressed  ? 

Once  more  ;  faith  holds  a  prominent 
place  among  the  Christian  virtues.  In 
its  natural  form,  it  is  one  of  the  most 
grateful  of  all  affections.  Confidence  ; 
confidence  in  our  friend  ;  what  earthly 
repose  is  equal  to  this  ?  The  faith  of  a 
child  in  its  parent ;  how  simple,  natural, 
irresistible  !  And  how  perfectly  intelli- 
gible is  all  this  !  But  now  do  you  throw 
one  shade  of  mystery  over  this  affection  ; 


424 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


require  it  to  assent  to  abtruse  and  un- 
intelligible doctrines  ;  require  of  it  a 
metaphysical  accuracy  ;  demand  it,  not 
as  the  natural,  but  as  some  technical  or 
mystical  condition  of  parental  favor;  re- 
solve all  this  into  some  peculiar  and  ill- 
understood  connection  with  the  laws  of 
the  divine  government  ;  <ind  the  friend, 
the  child,  would  shrink  from  it;  he  would 
forego  the  natural  affections  of  his  heart, 
if  they  must  be  bound  up  with  things  so 
repulsive  and  chilling  to  all  its  confiding 
and  joyous  sensibilities. 

I  may  observe  here,  that  these  three 
virtues,  brotherly  love,  hope,  and  faith, 
,  derive  from  the  circumstances  of  the 
early  age  a  prominence  and  a  peculiarity 
which  ought  since  to  have  passed  away. 
When  the  Christians  were  a  compara- 
tively small  and  persecuted  band,  and 
had  a  great  cause  committed  to  their 
fidelity,  it  was  natural  and  proper  that 
the  tie  between  them  should  be  peculiar. 
Hence  their  letters  to  one  another  were 
constantly  filled  with  such  expressions 
as,  "Salute  the  brethren,"  "Greet  the 
brethren."  Those  brethren  were  perhaps 
one  hundred  or  five  hundred  persons  in 
a  city  ;  known  and  marked  adherents  of 
the  new  faith ;  who  met  together  in  dark 
retreats,  in  old  ruins,  in  caves  or  cata- 
combs. But  all  this  has  passed  away. 
And  now  it  would  be  absurd  for  a  man, 
however  affectionately  and  religiously 
disposed,  in  writing  letters  to  any  town 
or  city,  to  send  salutations  and  greetings 
to  all  the  good  people  in  those  places. 
Christians  now  stand  in  the  general  re- 
lation to  one  another  of  good  men;  not 
of  fellow-sufferers,  not  of  fellow-cham- 
pions of  a  persecuted  cause.  It  is  pre- 
cisely the  difference  between  compatri- 
ots fighting  for  their  liberty,  and  fellow- 
citizens  quietly  enjoying  it. 

In  like  mnnner.  Christian  faith,  when 
it  was  necessarily  the  first  step  in  re- 
ligion, when  it  came  to  fill  the  void  of 
scepticism,  and  Christian  hope,  when 
it  sprung  from  the  dark  cloud  of  despair, 
both  derived  from  the  circumstances  a 
singular  character  and  a  signal  impor- 
tance.    And  the  circumstances  justified 


a  peculiar  manner  of  speaking  about 
them.  Hope  was  indeed  a  glorious 
badge  of  distinction  in  a  world  without 
hope  :  and  faith  was,  indeed,  a  pledge 
for  the  highest  virtue,  when  it  might 
cost  its  possessor  his  life.  But  7ww  to 
speak  of  faith  and  hope  with  a  certain 
mysterious  sense  of  their  importance,  is 
to  present  tKem  in  a  false  garb  ;  it  is  to 
clothe,  with  an  ancient  and  strange  cos- 
tume, things  that  ought  to  be  familiar ; 
and  it  is  therefore  to  cut  them  off  from 
our  natural  sympathy  and  attachment. 

III.  The  third  cause  of  indifference 
and  aversion  to  religion,  and  the  last 
which  I  shall  mention,  but  on  which  I 
shall  dwell  at  greater  length  than  I  have 
upon  the  former,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
mode  of  its  inculcation. 

To  show  that  men  may  be  made  averse 
to  objects  naturally  and  confessedly 
interesting  to  them  by  an  unfortunate 
teaching,  and  to  point  out  the  manner  of 
that  teaching,  I  shall  draw  two  illustra- 
tions from  the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 

It  will  not  be  denied,  that  for  knowl- 
edge in  general  the  human  mind  has  a 
natural  aptitude  and  desire.  But  do  the 
children,  in  the  most  of  our  schools,  love 
the  knowledge  that  is  inculcated  there  ? 
Have  they  associated  agreeable  ideas 
with  their  class-books  and  school-rooms, 
and  with  the  time  they  pass  in  them  ? 
What  is  the  occasion  of  this  insufferable 
tediousness  that  so  many  of  them  expe- 
rience in  the  pursuits  of  elementary 
learning  ?  How  is  it  that  they  so  often 
find  the  form,  on  which  they  sit,  an 
almost  literal  rack  of  torture  ;  and  the 
hours  of  confinement  lengthening  out 
like  the  hours  of  bondage  ?  Do  we  talk 
of  men's  aversion  to  religion?  Why, 
here  is  aversion  to  knowledge,  as  strong 
and  obstinate  as  that  of  hardened  vice 
itself  to  religion.  What  causes  it?  Not 
that  nature,  which  was  as  truly  made  to 
love  knowledge,  as  appetite  to  love  food ; 
but  circumstances  have  disappointed  the 
natural  want,  till  it  is  perverted  and  stu- 
pefied, so  that  it  scarcely  appears  to 
belong  to  the  nature  of  the  human  being. 
Again  ;  the  science  of  astronomy   is 


CAUSES   OF   INDIFFERENCE   AND   AVERSION. 


425 


held,  by  all  who  understand  it,  to  be  a 
most  interesting,  an  almost  enchanting 
science.  No  one  can  doubt  that,  if  prop- 
erly introduced  to  the  mind,  it  would 
prove  extremely  attractive  and  delight- 
ful. Nor  let  it  be  said,  to  destroy  the 
parallel  which  I  am  exhibiting,  that 
knowledge  has  no  natural  obstacles  in 
the  mind  to  contend  with,  while  religion 
has  many.  Religion  tinds  obstructions, 
indeed,  in  human  nature;  but  so  also  has 
knowledge  to  contend  with  the  love  of 
ease,  with  sloth,  with  physical  dulness, 
with  pleasure  and  worldly  vanity. 

Now  suppose  that  the  teacher  of  as- 
tronomy comes  forward  to  instruct  his 
pupil,  and  that  he  at  once  adopts  a  very 
unusual,  very  formal  and  repulsive  man- 
ner ;  that  he  tells  him  with  reiterated 
assurance  that  he  must  learn  this  science, 
and  yet  fails  to  show  any  very  percep- 
tible connection  it  has  with  his  interest, 
his  dignity  or  happiness.  Suppose,  fur- 
ther, that  the  teacher  informs  his  pupil 
that  he  has  the  strongest  natural  aversion 
to  the,science  in  question ;  that  this  aver- 
sion is  so  strong  as  to  amount  to  an  ac- 
tual inability  to  comprehend  it ;  that  it 
is  absolutely  certain  that  he  never  will 
learn  it  of  himself;  that  his  only  chance 
of  success  lies  in  the  interposition  of 
divine  power ;  that  all  his  exertions  to 
learn  give  him  no  claim  to  understand 
what  he  is  inquiring  after  ;  that  if  he 
succeeds,  it  will  be  no  merit  of  bis,  and 
that  if  he  fails  he  will  be  utterly  ruined, 
and  forever  miserable,  and  will  richly 
deserve  to  be  so.  Suppose,  I  say,  all 
these  influences  to  attach  themselves  to 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  sciences  ever 
commended  to  the  human  mind ;  sup- 
pose all  the  strange  instructions,  the 
fearful  agitations,  the  tremendous  excite- 
ments of  hope  and  fear,  the  unnatural 
postures  of  mind,  the  violence  to  reason, 
the  mocking  of  effort,  the  mysteries  of 
faith  and  the  extravagances  of  conduct, 
that  must  arise  from  so  extraordinary  an 
intellectual  condition  of  things;  and  do 
you  believe  that  any  object  or  pursuit 
would  be  likely  to  be  loved  in  such  cir- 
cumstances ?     Would  you  say,  in  such  a 


case,  that  the  science  in  question  had 
any  fair  chance  or  trial .'' 

But  let  us  now  come  to  the  direct 
teaching  of  religion  itself.  What  are  the 
causes  that  prevent  its  grateful  and 
hearty  acceptance  ?  What  are  the  causes, 
I  mean,  which  exist  in  the  teaching  it- 
self; for  I  am  not,  at  present,  concerned 
with  those  which  exist  in  the  perverse- 
ness  of  the  human  will.  To  this  ques- 
tion, I  shall  answer,  that  the  teaching  is 
apt  to  be  too  formal,  too  direct,  and  too 
abstract. 

First,  it  is  apt  to  be  too  formal.  The 
parent,  the  teacher,  the  friend,  does  not 
neglect  the  subject,  perhaps,  nor  does  he 
misconceive  it ;  his  views  are  rational 
and  just;  he  sees  what  religion  is,  and 
would  teach  it;  but  how  does  he  teach 
it  ?  Himself  perhaps  possessing  but 
little  of  holy  familiarity  with  its  objects, 
he  speaks  to  his  child  or  his  pupil,  with 
a  constrained  manner,  speaks  as  if  he 
were  set  to  do  it,  and  as  if  it  were  a  task. 
He  feels  the  duty  of  imbuing  with  re- 
ligious sentiment  the  mind  that  is  com- 
mitted to  him  ;  but  the  gentle  and  holy 
voice  is  not  in  his  own  heart,  and,  with- 
out intending  it,  he  adopts  an  artificial 
tone.  He  speaks  on  this  subject  as  he 
speaks  on  no  other.  His  words  want 
all  the  winning  grace  and  charm  of  nat- 
ural sensibility.  In  short,  he  is  a  for- 
malist in  religion,  and  a  formalist  in 
teaching  it.  Formal  as  all  other  kinds 
of  education  have  been,  none  has  been 
so  dreadfully  smitten  with  this  taint  as 
catechising,  and  the  inculcation  of  Bible 
lessons,  and  the  teaching  of  prayers,  and 
talking  of  God. 

Now,  everything  unnatural  in  manner 
is  repulsive  to  us.  It  is  scarce  speaking 
too  strongly,  to  say  that  we  hate  it.  We 
fly  from  it  when  we  are  children  ;  we  re- 
volt from  it  when  we  are  men.  There 
is  nothing  in  social  manners  that  is  more 
intolerable  than  affectation.  But  espe- 
cially, I  think,  is  it  the  instinct  of  chil- 
dren to  shrink  from  everything  formal  in 
manner.  Their  minds  put  forth  every 
power  of  resistance  to  it,  as  their  limbs 
would  resist  the  compression  of  some 


426 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


torturing  instrument.  Miglit  religion 
but  have  come  forth  from  all  its  artificial 
pecuHarities  and  forms  of  singularity 
and  fetters  of  restraint  ;  might  it  have 
talked  with  us  as  other  things  talk  with 
us  ;  might  it  only  have  won  us,  as  kind- 
ness, friendship,  love  win  us  ;  how  dif- 
erent  would  now  have  been  the  state  of 
religious  sentiment  and  affection,  in  the 
hearts  of  thousands  around  us  ! 

I  am  speaking  of  direct  influences  ; 
and  I  now  add,  that  they  may  be  too  di- 
rect for  the  best  impression.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  inevitable  errors 
of  the  formalist  to  make  them  so.  He 
who  is  not  heartily  and  wholly  inter- 
ested in  religion  will  be  very  apt  to 
make  the  inculcation  of  it  a  set  business  ; 
and  then  it  certainly  will  be  too  direct. 
It  will  take  the  form  of  direct  command, 
and  say,  "  You  must  do  this  or  that  ; 
you  must  love  God;"  rather  than  ex- 
press itself  in  easy  and  unrestrained  and 
unpremeditated  conversation.  I  am  in- 
clined, indeed,  to  say  that,  in  general, 
the  strongest  feelings  choose  indirect 
modes  of  manifestation.  I  remember 
once  to  have  heard  of  a  prayer  on  a  very 
affecting  occasion,  and  where  the  speaker 
was  most  of  all  interested,  in  which  it 
was  said  that  every  word  bore  reference 
to  the  occasion,  and  yet  tlie  occasion 
was  never  once  directly  alluded  to.  I 
confess  that  that  appeared  to  me  as  the 
very  highest  description  that  could  be 
given,  of  delicate  and  strong  sensibility. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  be  direct  in  order 
to  be  impressive  ;  the  very  contrary  is 
more  apt  to  be  true.  And  he  who  can 
think  of  no  way  to  impress  religion,  but 
broad,  open-mouthed,  and  urgent  exhor- 
tation or  entreaty,  understands  neither 
religion  nor  human  nature. 

The  common  fault  of  parents  cer- 
tainly is  to  do  too  little  ;  but  there  are 
ways  in  which  they  may  do  too  much. 
It  has  been  justly  said  that  nothing 
can  be  worse  than  to  be  always  point- 
ing out  the  moral  of  a  story  to  chil- 
dren They  do  it  for  themselves  :  and 
for  another  to  do  it  for  them  after  they 
have  done  it,  is  often  felt  by  them  to 


be  degrading  and  irritating.  I  think 
that  some  of  the  worst  children  and 
young  people  that  I  have  ever  known 
are  those  into  whose  ears  moralities 
and  fine  sentiments  have  been  forever 
dinned  with  wearisome  repetition  and 
minuteness.  This  accounts  for  the  false 
maxim  which  you  sometimes  hear,  that 
the  best  parents  often  have  the  worst 
children.  Such  parents,  I  know,  are 
often  what  are  called  very  good  peo- 
ple, very  exemplary  persons;  extremely 
anxious  they  are  said  to  be  for  the 
improvement  of  their  children.  And 
so  they  are  in  a  sense  ;  and  yet  1  have 
been  sometimes  tempted  to  say  that 
heartless,  formal,  wearisome  domestic 
lectures  on  religion  and  virtue  do  more 
hurt  than  any  peop'e  in  the  world. 
The  worst  and  most  abandoned  of  men 
make  vice  odious;  they  make  virtue  so. 
And  the  feelings  of  the  children,  bad 
and  insensible  as  they  are  apt  to  be- 
come, do  really  evince,  though  unhap- 
pily, the  dignity  of  human  nature;  they 
show  that  virtue  was  not  designed  to 
be  poured  into  the  ear  in  dinning  pre- 
cepts or  dull  complaints,  but  to  be  the 
offspring  of  an  inward  energy,  self- 
wrought,  self-chosen, -^influenced,  in- 
deed, by  arguments  from  without,  but 
drawing  its  own  inference,  bringing  out, 
from  communion  with  itself  and  with 
the  spirit  of  God,  its  own  free  and  glo- 
rious result. 

I  shall  not  be  thought,  certainly,  in 
these  remarks,  to  oppose  the  religious 
education  of  children.  I  am  speaking 
of  the  form  of  teaching,  and  not  of  the 
fact.  The  only  question  is  about  the 
best  mode  ;  and  into  this,  I  maintain, 
that  less  of  direct  inculcation  and  more 
of  indirect  influence  should  enter  than 
is  common.  Nay,  I  maintain  that  the 
stern  and  solemn  enforcement  of  les- 
sons and  readings  has  eflfectually  alien- 
ated many  from  religion.  It  was  the 
manner,  I  repeat,  rather  than  the  act. 
The  Bible  may  certainly  be  taught,  and 
catechisms  may  be  taught,  in  the  form 
of  direct  lessons  ;  they  may  be  suc- 
cessfully taught,  if  the  manner  be  easy 


CAUSES   OF   INDIFFERENCE   AND   AVERSION. 


427 


and  kindly;  and  I  think  that  Sunday 
schools,  where  a  large  company  of  chil- 
dren are  brought  together,  and  the  free 
and  joyous  spirit  of  childhood  pervades 
the  place,  are  likely  to  give  freedom 
and  ease  to  the  manner  of  teaching. 
Religious  teaching  is  thus  becoming 
like  common-school  teaching,  and  on 
this  account  is  doubtless  exposed  to 
some  dangers;  but  it  is  likely  to  have 
the  advantage  of  throwing  off  the  usual 
manner  of  direct,  peculiar,  superstitious 
appeal  to  the  heart,  singling  out  its 
object,  and  fixing  upon  it  the  eye  of 
authority  and  warning.  So  important 
and  critical  is  this  point  of  inanner,  that 
a  visible  and  painful  anxiety  to  have  a 
child  excel  in  anything,  even  in  virtue, 
does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  wise  ;  to 
urge  even  this  by  constant  hints  and 
exhortations,  and  especially  with  an  air 
of  dissatisfaction  and  complaint,  is  not 
expedient.  The  human  affections  are 
not  to  be  won  in  this  way.  They  are 
not  so  won  to  other  objects  ;  why  should 
we  expect  them  by  such  means  to  be 
attracted  to  religion  ? 

Finally,  as  we  teach  religion  too  for- 
mally, and  often  too  directly,  so  do  I 
think  that  we  teach  it  too  abstractly. 
There  is  one  particular  affection  on 
which  I  shall  bring  this  observation  to 
bear,  and  that  is  the  love  we  should 
cherish  towards  our  Creator.  To  this 
sentiment  I  allow  that  there  are  some 
natural  obstacles.  They  are  found  in 
the  invisibility  and  infinity  of  the  divine 
nature.  These  obstacles,  I  think,  how- 
ever, are  exaggerated;  and  they  are  by 
no  means  so  great  as  those  which  are 
created  by  our  own  mistakes. 

When  children  are  acquiring  their 
first  ideas  of  God  and  of  their  duty  to 
iiim,  I  apprehend  that  many  things  are 
taught  and  told  them,  which,  although 
true  and  right  in  themselves,  are  incul- 
cated too  abstractly,  — that  is,  too  little 
with  reference  to  the  minds  that  are  to 
receive  them.  The  parent  teaches  his 
child,  as  the  first  thing,  perhaps,  that 
God  sees  him  continually,  in  the  dark- 
ness and  in  the  light ;  and  the  thought 
of  that  awful  eye  fixed  upon  him  dis- 


tresses and  frightens  him.  Or  the  child 
is  taught,  with  too  little  explanation, 
that  God  is  displeased,  is  angry  with 
him,  when  he  does  wrong  ;  and  how 
little  does  he  understand  the  consid- 
erate and  compassionate  displeasure  of 
his  Creator!  Or  he  is  taught  to  pray, 
and  obliged  to  go  through  with  that 
formal  action  without  its  being  made  a 
sufficiently  sincere,  grateful,  and  real 
homage.  And  he  is  especially  taught 
all  this  on  Sunday.  Sunday,  he  is  told, 
is  the  Lord's  day  ;  and  it  is  made  to 
him,  perhaps,  the  most  disagreeable 
day  in  the  week.  Alas  !  how  far  does 
the  experience  of  those  tedious  hours 
penetrate  into  his  life,  and  into  the 
whole  religious  complexion  of  liis  be- 
ing !  How  often  is  that  hurtful  influ- 
ence reasoned  away,  and  how  often  does 
it  come  back  again,  and  disturb,  per- 
haps, the  most  rational  Christian,  even 
on  his  dying  bed  ! 

The  first  idea,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered, which  a  child  can  gain  at  all  of 
moral  qualities  is  from  the  experience 
of  his  own  heart.  That  is  the  un- 
doubted and  now  conceded  philosoph- 
ical truth.  There,  then,  should  begin 
the  child's  idea  of  God.  From  the  love 
within  him  he  should  be  taught  that 
God  loves  all  beings  ;  and  so,  from  the 
moral  approbation  or  displeasure  he 
feels  in  himself,  he  should  be  taught 
how  God  approves  the  good  and  con- 
demns the  bad.  Next,  his  parent  should 
be  to  him  the  image  of  God  ;  and  from 
his  love  of  that  parent,  and  from  all 
that  parent  has  done  for  him,  he  should 
be  led  to  consider  how  easy,  and  how 
reasonable  it  is,  that  he  should  love 
God.  God  should  be  made  a  present 
being  to  him,  near  and  kind,  and  not 
the  image  of  a  being,  a  monarch,  or  a 
master,  seated  on  a  throne,  in  the  far 
distant  heavens. 

The  common  method  of  teaching,  I 
fear,  instead  of  this,  is  extremely  arti- 
ficial, technical,  and  constrained,  and 
very  little  adapted  to  make  any  clear 
or  agreeable  impression  ;  and  I  am  per- 
suaded that  the  same  method  adopted 
in   regard  to  an  earthly  parent  would 


428 


THE   ANALOGY   OF   RELIGION. 


powerfully  tend  to  repress  the  filial  sen- 
timent towards  him. 

Let  me  dwell  upon  the  comparison  a 
moment,  and  with  a  view  to  illustrate  the 
three  faults  of  inculcation  on  which  I 
have  now  been  insisting.  In  order  to 
make  the  cases,  as  far  as  may  be,  par- 
allel, we  must  suppose  the  parent  to  be 
absent  from  his  child,  absent,  let  it  be 
imagined,  in  a  foreign  country,  and  his 
child  has  never  seen  him.  And  now 
my  supposition  proceeds. 

The  child  is  told  of  his  parent.  But 
how  told  ?  I  will  suppose  it  to  be  with 
a  manner  always  strange  and  con- 
strained, with  a  countenance  mysterious 
and  forbidding,  with  a  tone  unusual 
and  awful.  Instead  of  being  taught  to 
lisp  amidst  his  innocent  prattlings  the 
name  of  father^  to  speak  of  that  name 
as  if  there  were  a  charm  about  it,  to 
associate  with  the  idea  of  that  father 
all  brightness,  benignity,  and  love  ;  in- 
stead of  all  this  ease,  simplicity,  and 
tenderness,  he  is  called  away  from  his 
sports  and  pleasures,  is  made  to  stand 
erect  and  attentive,  and  then  he  is  told 
of  this  father.  He  is  told,  indeed,  that 
his  father  is  good  and  loves  him  ;  but 
the  words  fall  lightly  on  his  ear  ;  they 
make  little  or  no  impression  on  his 
mind;  while  the  manner,  the  counte-^ 
nance,  the  tone,  sink  into  his  heart,  and 
tell  him  far  more  effectually,  that  there 
is  something  strange  and  stern  about 
this  father,  and  that  he  cannot  love 
such  a  being.  Yet  this  is  the  very 
thing  on  which  the  main  stress  is  laid. 
He  is  told  that  he  must  love  his  parent. 
He  is  constantly  urged  and  commanded 
to  love  him.  He  is  warned  continually 
that  his  father  will  be  very  much  dis- 
pleased if  he  does  not  love  him.  He  is 
admonished  that  all  the  good  things  he 
enjoys  were  sent  to  him  by  his  father, 
and  he  is  exhorted  to  be  grateful. 
Besides,  he  is  shown  a  book,  a  fearful 
book  of  laws,  which  this  parent  has  writ- 
ten for  him  to  obey.  And,  to  complete 
this  system  of  influences,  he  has  it  con- 
tinually held  up  before  him  that  ere 
long  his  father  will  send  for  him,  and  if 
he  should  find  a  defect  of  duty,  grati- 


tude, and  love,  he  will  cast  him  into  a 
dismal  prison,  where  he  will  be  doomed 
to  pass  his  whole  remaining  life  m  mis- 
ery and  despair  ! 

I  need  not  point  out  the  moral  of  this 
comparison.  Alas  !  how  many  extra- 
neous causes  have  there  been  to  sever 
the  heart  from  its  great  native  trust ; 
the  trust  in  an  Infinite  Parent!  I  say 
not  this  to  reproach  any  man,  or  any 
body  of  men.  In  this  matter,  I  fear 
that  we  have  all  gone  out  of  the  way. 
I  lament  the  defects  of  every  kind  of 
religious  educatipn  and  influence  with 
which  I  am  acquainted,  and  am  per- 
suaded that  they  have  done  much  to 
spread  around  us  the  prevaiHng  indif- 
ference and  aversion  to  the  most  vital 
and  vast  of  all  concerns.  I  do  not  re- 
proach my  religious  brethren,  then,  who, 
with  myself,  I  ought  to  believe,  have 
meant  well  and  erred  in  honesty,  and 
whose  attention  I  would  invite,  as  I 
have  given  my  own,  to  a  serious  consid- 
eration of  this  subject. 

But  I  cannot  leave  the  subject  with- 
out addressing  one  emphatic  remon- 
strance to  those  with  whom  religion  is  a 
matter  of  indifference  or  dislike.  I  en- 
treat such  to  distrust  the  influences 
under  which  they  have  come  to  that 
result.  I  am  sure  that  I  have  said 
enough  to  show  them  that  any  subject 
would  have  failed  to  interest  them  under 
the  same  influences ;  the  influences  of 
neglect,  of  misconception,  and  of  mis- 
taken treatment.  It  is  not  the  bright 
and  glorious  truth  of  heaven  that  is  in 
fault.  It  is  not  your  own  nature  that  is 
in  fault.  It  is  not  the  beneficence  of  God 
that  has  been  wanting  to  you.  But 
human  error  has  been  flowing  in  all  the 
streams  of  life  around  you  ;  and  an  err- 
ing heart  within  has  too  easily  suffered 
petrifaction  and  death  to  steal  into  all 
its  recesses.  Oh  !  let  a  new  life  be 
breathed  there  ;  and  you  shall  find  that 
religion  is  no  form,  no  irksome  re- 
straint, no  dull  compliance  with  duty 
merely,  but  spirit,  but  freedom,  but  life 
indeed  ;  hfe  to  your  heart ;  the  begm- 
ning  of  a  higher  life,  of  the  life  ever- 
lasting ! 


USE  OF  THE  EPISTLES. 


429 


ON    THE    ORIGINAL    USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES 
OF   THE    NEW  TESTAMENT, 

COMPARED   WITH    THEIR    USE   AND   APPLICATION    AT   THE    PRESENT    DAY. 


I  Cor.  ix.  22  :  "  To  the  weak  became  I  as  weak, 
that  I  might  gain  the  weak  ;  I  am  made  all  things  to 
all  men,  that  I  might  by  all  means  save  some." 

That  is  to  say,  Paul  adapted  his 
religious  instructions  to  the  men  whom 
he  addressed,  to  their  particular  char- 
acter, circumstances,  difficulties,  trials, 
and  speculations.  "  Unto  the  Jews,"  he 
says,  "  I  became  as  a  Jew,  that  I  might 
gain  the  Jews  ;  to  them  that  are  under 
the  law,  as  under  the  law,  that  I  might 
gain  them  that  are  under  the  law  ;  to 
them  that  are  without  law,  as  without 
law,  that  I  might  gain  them  that  are 
without  law."  From  this  statement 
we  derive  the  following  principle  of  in- 
terpretation, viz.,  that  Paul,  and  it  may 
be  added  that  all  the  sacred  writers, 
did  not  deliver  their  instructions  in  an 
abstract  and  general  form  adapted  alike 
and  equally  to  all  times,  but  that  they 
had  a  local  and  special  reference  to  the 
times  in  which  they  wrote.  It  was  in 
conformity  with  this  principle  that  the 
Apostle  said  to  the  Athenians,  "  The 
times  of  this  ignorance  God  winked  at, 
but  now  commandeth  all  men  every- 
where to  repent;"  and  to  the  Corin- 
thians he  gave  advice  adapted  to  a 
particular  occasion,  saying,  "  I  suppose 
that  this  is  good  for  the  present  dis- 
tress,"'—  that  is,  the  instruction  which 
I  give  yoii  is  suited  to  the  present 
exigency. 

As  I  propose  to  apply  this  principle 
of  interpretation  to  some  subjects  in  the 
Epistles  of  the  New  Testament,  I  wish 
to  place  it  distinctly  before  you,  and  in 
the  outset,  to  guard  it  from  misappre- 
hension. It  may  at  once  be  asked,  if 
the  Scriptures  were  not  written  for  all 
men.     Let  us  then  explain,  and  it  will  be 


seen  I  think,  that  the  Bible  could  not,  to 
any  valuable  purpose,  have  been  written 
for  all  men,  if  it  had  not  been  written 
for  some  men  in  particular. 

The  Scriptures  not  -only  bear  marks 
of  belonging  to  the  periods  and  persons 
that  produced  them,  but  they  bear  marks 
of  perpetual  adaptation  to  the  state,  the 
opinions,  the  prejudices,  in  one  word,  to 
tlie  moral  wants  of  the  men  to  whom  they 
were  immediately  addressed.  When 
God  commissioned  prophets  and  apostles 
to  be  the  instructors  of  the  world,  he  did 
not  bereave  them  at  once  of  their  reason, 
their  common  sense,  their  observation. 
He  rather  taught  them  more  clearly  to 
perceive,  and  more  keenly  to  feel,  the 
situation,  the  difficulties,  the  fears  and 
hopes,  the  sorrows,  the  dangers  of  those 
to  whom  they  directed  their  message. 
He  filled  their  hearts  with  peculiar  solici- 
tude and  sympathy  for  the  very  persons 
to  whom  they  were  sent.  How,  then, 
could  they  fail  to  address  themselves  to 
the  particular  state  and  case  of  these 
persons  ?  Indeed,  all  true  feeling,  all 
tender  sympathy,  all  fervent  religion, 
is  from  its  very  nature  specific  and 
circumstantial.  It  does  not  waste  it- 
self in  barren  generalities.  It  has  some 
specific  objects,  over  which  it  meditates 
and  is  anxious  ;  over  which  it  ponders 
and  hopes  and  prays. 

There  is  a  very  striking  character  of 
this  kind  in  our  Scriptures,  and  one 
that  distinguishes  them,  as  far  as  I 
have  observed,  from  all  other  systems  of 
philosophy  and  religion.  The  instruc- 
tions of  the  Bible  are  local,  circum- 
stantial, specific.  We  have  not  in  them 
a  few  cold  and  general  precepts,  some 
wise  sayings,  some  sententious  para- 
graphs, some  mottoes  of  moral  specula- 


430 


USE   OF  THE   EPISTLES. 


tion.  We  hear  not  in  them  the  staid 
and  haughty  philosopher  who  can 
scarcely  condescend  to  lay  down  the 
law  to  his  ignorant  fellow-mortals.  We 
hear  not  the  grave  impostor,  who  would 
make  up  for  his  heartlessness  and 
hypocrisy  by  an  air  of  wisdom  and  pre- 
tension. The  Christian  teachers  did 
not  pause  in  stately  halls  or  retired 
groves  to  deliver  their  messages,  but 
they  went  down  into  the  crowd  of  men, 
into  the  places  of  domestic  abode  ;  they 
penetrated  into  the  recesses  of  human 
feeling  ;  they  communed  with  human 
fraility  and  human  sorrow  and  joy  ;  they 
had  something  for  every  mind.  They 
entered  into  the  circumstances  of  men, 
into  their  daily  wants  and  trials.  It 
is  this  that  has  communicated  such  a 
spirit  and  charm  to  their  writings.  They 
would  never  have  found  the  deep  springs 
of  human  thought  and  emotion  (let  the 
truism  be  pardoned)  if  they  had  not 
searched  for  them  where  they  actually 
were.  And  they  could  not  have  searched 
for  them,  but  by  removing  the  rubbish 
of  svstems  and  speculations,  of  errors 
and  prejudices,  which  was  thrown  over 
them  :  that  is  to  say,  but  by  applying 
themselves  to  the  circumstances  and 
feelings  of  the   time. 

What  we  say  is,  that  the  inspired 
teachers  wrote  for  men  ;  for  men  of  the 
very  period  and  nation,  of  the  very  cus- 
toms and  character,  in  the  midst  of 
which  they  lived.  They  wrote  for  all 
men,  indeed  :  but  they  could  not,  I  re- 
peat, have  done  this,  if  they  had  not 
written  for  some  men  in  particular.  And 
to  understand  their  writings,  we  must 
consider  that  they  took  their  form  and 
coloring  from  the  state  of  things  which 
required  them. 

We  must  add  that  all  this  is  espe- 
cially applicable  to  the  Epistles  of  the 
New  Testament.  These,  indeed,  were 
particularly  called  forth  by  the  exigen- 
cies, the  difficulties,  the  trials,  of  the 
primitive  churches.  Indeed,  if  men 
had  received  the  simple  doctrine  of 
Jesus  without  objection  or  difficulty,  if 
no   contentions  and  controversies    had 


sprung  up,  if  no  mistakes  nor  offences 
had  arisen,  these  Epistles  would  never 
have  been  written.  Some  instructions 
the  Apostles  might  have  given,  and 
given  in  the  epistolary  form,  but  their 
epistles  would  not  have  borne  the  same 
controversial  aspect,  and  there  would 
not  have  arisen  from  them  in  subse- 
quent ages  the  same  disputes  about 
conversion  and  election,  the  atonement 
and  the  Trinity.  There  would  not,  in 
short,  have  been  the  same  difficulties 
in  the  interpretation  of  these  Epistles. 
They  took  their  form  from  circum- 
stances; and  with  these  circumstances 
we  have,  and  can  have,  but  a  partial 
acquaintance.  But  that  they  did  im- 
part an  influence,  —  that  the  Epistles 
were  written  for  the  age,  —  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  You  see  the  marks  of  adapta- 
tion in  every  sentence.  There  are  many 
things  in  them  that  apply  exclusively 
to  the  early  Christians,  that  can  apply 
to  no  others.  Such,  for  instance,  are 
the  answers  to  questions,  the  solution 
of  difficulties,  the  settlement  of  disputes, 
which  have  long  since  passed  away. 
Such,  too,  is  what  relates  to  the  use 
of  prophetical  and  miraculous  powers, 
to  meats  offered  to  idols,  &c.  These 
things  do  not  now  concern  us,  because 
we  have  no  miraculous  powers,  and 
there  are  no  idols  to  solicit  our  offer- 
ings. Will  any  man  say  there  is  an 
idol  in  our  hearts  1  Now,  this  is  the 
very  sort  of  liberty  with  the  Scriptures 
to  which  I  feel  compelled  to  object, — 
this  spiritualizing,  this  work  of  fanciful 
analogies,  this  attempt  to  make  the 
Bible  mean-  all  that  it  can  mean,  under 
the  notion  of  doing  honor  to  it.  It  is 
both  unjustifiable  and  injurious.  The 
Bible  addresses  us  as  reasonable  men; 
let  us  read  it  as  reasonable  men. 

I  should  not  have  dwelt  so  long  on 
the  very  obvious  principle  that  has  now 
been  discussed,  were  it  not  a  principle 
that  is  scarcely  yet  admitted  into  the 
prevailing  theological  speculations  of 
our  times,  and  a  principle,  too,  whose 
importance  is  quite  equal  to  the  neg- 
lect into  which  it  has  fallen. 


USE   OF  THE   EPISTLES. 


431 


Indeed,  it  cannot  fail  to  iiave  been 
observed  that  the  habit  of  applying  the 
language  of  the  Epistles,  without  any 
qualification,  to  the  subjects  of  Chris- 
tian experience  and  of  Christian  specu- 
lation in  later  times,  has  been  one  of 
the  most  fruitful  sources  of  error  in 
every  form  ;  that  it  has,  above  all  other 
means,  fostered  the  confidence  of  secta- 
rians ;  that  it  has  gratified  the  pride  of 
the  weak,  and  the  fancy  of  the  extrav- 
agant ;  and  that,  by  this  means,  bold 
and  ignorant  men  especially,  the  un- 
learned and  unstable,  have  wrested  the 
Scriptures  to  their  injury.  Such  men 
have  always  been  found  turning  away 
from  the  simple  instructions  of  Jesus 
to  the  high  mysteries  of  Paul ;  and  the 
former  have  often  passed  for  little  bet- 
ter than  flat  morality,  while  the  latter, 
circumstantial,  local,  involved  in  the 
shadows  of  an  ancient  age,  and  even 
then  '•  difficult,  and  hard  to  be  under- 
stood," have  been  exclusively  studied 
as  containing  the  high  system  of  doc- 
trine and  essence  of  all  spiritual  re- 
ligion. 

There  is,  indeed,  —  what  must  have 
struck  every  attentive  mind, — a  very 
remarkable  difference  between  the  in- 
structions of  our  Saviour  and  his  Apos- 
tles ;  but  it  was  a  difference  chiefly 
owing  to  circumstances.  It  was  a  dif- 
ference not  in  the  substance,  but  in 
the  form,  in  the  topics  of  religious  in- 
struction. Our  Saviour's  teaching  w.is 
evidently  more  simple,  and  more  en- 
tirely practical.  It  dealt  more  in  easy 
and  intelligible  expositions  and  illus- 
trations of  truth  and  duty,  of  piety  and 
acceptance  with  God.  Our  Saviour  was 
announcing  a  system  which  had  not 
}-et  encountered  objection.  It  could 
not  meet  with  objection  till  it  was  an- 
nounced. But  the  Apostles  had  to  con- 
tend with  a  world  of  objectors  of  every 
description.  Hence  their  instructions 
became  more  speculative,  more  compli- 
cated, more  intermixed  with  the  insti- 
tutions and  ideas  and  prejudices  of  the 
age  ;  and  in  just  that  proportion  they 
became    more    argumentative    and    ob- 


scure. I  say  that  the  Epistles  contain 
nothing  in  the  substance  of  religious 
instruction  that  is  new.  But  whetiier 
they  do  or  not,  —  whether  the  novel  as- 
pect which  they  bear  is  in  any  measure 
given  by  new  information,  —  it  is  very 
certain  that  much  of  it  is  the  coloring 
of  circumstances.  And  it  is  from  a  neg- 
lect to  consider  these  circumstances,  it 
is  from  neglect  to  observe  the  local  ap- 
plication of  these  ancient  writings,  that 
such  a  strange  and  mischievous  use  has 
been  made  of  them  ;  that  bad  and  erro- 
neous notions  of  religion  still  prevail 
among  many ;  and  that  with  all  a  veil 
of  obscurity  still  remains  in  the  reading 
of  them. 

But  there  is  a  danger  on  the  other 
hand.  There  is  danger  of  forgetting  in 
the  local  application  of  these  writings 
that  they  have  any  other  ;  of  supposing 
that  they  had  not  only  a  special  but  an 
exclusive  reference  to  ancient  times; 
and  danger,  therefore,  of  suffering  them 
to  fall  into  neglect,  and  of  leaving  out 
of  sight  that  practical  import  which 
belongs  to  all  periods.  In  opposition  to 
this  impression  that  the  Epistles  had  an 
exclusive  reference  to  their  own  age, 
it  is  sufficient  to  observe  that  it  is  in- 
compatible, in  the  first  place,  with  the 
very  nature  of  moral  writings,  and  in 
the  second  place,  with  the  prophetic 
views  of  the  Apostles,  who  evidently 
considered  themselves  as  dispensing 
truths  which  would  be  interesting  to 
all  times. 

It  becomes  very  important,  therefore, 
to  consider  what  in  the  Epistles  was 
peculiar  to  the  times  in  which  they 
were  written,  and  what  belongs  to  us  ; 
that  we  may  be  guarded  from  obscure 
and  erroneous  views  of  them  on  the 
one  hand,  and  from  a  negligent  and  in- 
diiTerent  regard  to  them  on  the  other. 
Some  attempt  is  therefore  proposed  to 
make  this  distinction  between  the  special 
and  general  application  of  certain  terms 
and  subjects  in  the  Epistles;  to  point 
out  the  peculiar  propriety  and  particular 
use  of  them,  as  adapted  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  early  Christians,  and  to 


432 


USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


show  what  is  left  in  them  for  our  in- 
struction and  comfort  in  these  later 
times. 

I.  The  first  subject  which  I  shall 
mention,  is  the  institution  of  the  Lord's 
Supper.  Nothing  can  be  more  simple, 
cheerful,  and  inviting  than  this  institu- 
tion was  as  it  originally  came  from  the 
hands  of  its  Founder  ;  as  it  was  first 
celebrated,  with  easy  though  serious 
conversation,  and  in  the  common  man- 
ner of  a  Jewish  supper,  by  our  Lord 
and  his  Disciples. 

Now  there  is  a  passage  on  this  sub- 
ject in  an  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians, 
containing  a  strain  of  tremendous  de- 
nunciation which  has  spread  terror 
through  every  succeeding  age  of  the 
church.  Many  sincere  and  serious 
persons  even  at  this  day  tremble  and 
hesitate,  and  actually  refuse  to  obey  a 
plain  command  of  the  Scriptures,  lest 
they  should  incur  the  weight  of  that 
fearful  curse,  and  should  "  eat  and  drink 
damnation  to  themselves."  It  has  actu- 
ally been  supposed  by  multitudes  that 
they  were  liable  to  set  the  Seal  to  their 
everlasting  perdition  by  a  serious  and 
conscientious  endeavor  to  obey  the  com- 
mand of  God.  What  deplorable  views 
of  God  these  imaginations  must  have 
nurtured,  and  how  much  they  must  have 
interfered  with  the  comfort  and  improve- 
ment of  Christians,  need  not  be  said. 
It  is  more  to  our  purpose  to  remark 
that  the  difficulty  has  arisen  entirely 
from  neglecting  to  consider  the  circum- 
stances. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  there 
has  been  a  great  misunderstanding  of 
the  terms  of  this  denunciation ;  but 
there  has  been  a  still  greater  inatten- 
tion to  the  particular  and  local  appli- 
cation of  it.  It  was  aimed  against  a 
riotous,  licentious,  and  profane  use  of 
the  Lord's  Supper,  in  which  the  Corin- 
thians had  been  guilty  of  excess  and 
even  of  intemperance.  It  belongs, 
therefore,  to  the  Corinthian  church, 
and  to  no  other,  until,  indeed,  another 
shall  be  found  which  is  guilty  of  the 
same  sacrilege. 

Still  there  is  something  in  this  pas- 


sage for  our  instruction  and  admonition. 
We  learn  from  it,  in  opposition  to  what 
has  been  commonly  supposed,  that  there 
is  no  mysterious  and  fatal  curse  await- 
ing the  abuse  of  this  ordinance  in  par- 
ticular ;  for  Paul  does  not  treat  the 
Corinthians  as  persons  who  had  sealed 
their  own  destruction  ;  he  does  not 
even  so  much  as  cut  them  off  from  the 
communion  of  the  churches,  but  still 
calls  them  Brethren,  sanctified  in  Christ 
Jesus,  and  called  to  be  saints,  and  af- 
fectionately exhorts  them  to  reform  this 
evil  practice.  We  are  admonished,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  this  feast  is  not  to 
be  regarded  as  common,  but  as  sacred  ; 
that  the  ordinance  is  solemn,  and  is  to 
be  approached  with  reverence  ;  and  that 
to  violate  this,  as  to  violate  any  ordi- 
nance of  divine  worship,  involves  hei- 
nous guilt.  At  the  same  time,  I  think, 
we  may  gather  from  this  passage  that 
the  ordinance  of  the  Supper  was  not 
looked  upon  in  early  times  with  that 
peculiar  awe  and  dread  which  prevails 
in  many  minds  at  this  day  ;  for  it  is  in- 
credible that  with  these  views  the  Cor- 
inthians, bad  as  they  were,  could  ever 
have  fallen  into  such  gross  indecorum. 

II.  The  next  subject  which  I  shall 
notice,  though  very  slightly,  and  chiefly 
for  the  sake  of  illustration,  is  that  of 
intermarriages  between  Christians  and 
unbelievers.  Such  connections,  as  you 
know,  were  prohibited.  Now  it  only 
needs  to  be  considered  who  tliese  unr 
believers  were,  to  convince  us  that  such 
prohibition  was  extremely  reasonable 
for  that  time,  and  also  quite  peculiar  to 
it.  An  unbeliever  was  a  Pagan  ;  one  of 
a  different  and  hostile  religion;  a  con- 
nection with  whom  was  likely  to  prove 
extremely  inconvenient,  if  not  hazard- 
ous. Hence  the  Apostle  says,  "  Be  ye 
not  unequally  yoked  with  unbelievers." 
It  would  be  about  as  absurd  to  apply 
this  prohibition  literally  to  our  circum- 
stances as  the  prohibition  under  which 
the  ancient  Jews  were  laid,  forbidding 
them  to  intermarry  with  the  Canaanites. 
There  are  no  unbelievers  among  us  in 
the  particular  sense  in  which  the  Apos- 


USE   OF  THE   EPISTLES. 


433 


tie  used  this  term.  We  are  far  from 
saying  that  there  is  no  difference  be- 
tween the  good  and  the  bad  ;  or  that 
connections  between  such  are  inexpe- 
dient. But  to  hold  the  Apostolic  pro- 
hibition to  apply  strictly  to  our  times  ; 
and  then  to  assume  the  prerogative  to 
decide  infallibly  who  is  a  Christian  ;  and 
to  make  this  abstract  inquiry  a  previous 
question  in  the  matter;  to  undertake 
this  is  incompatible,  to  say  the  least, 
with  our  knowledge  and  our  circum- 
stances. And  yet  this  is  maintained  to 
be  right  and  necessary  by  great  num- 
bers of  Christians  of  the  present  age. 
There  may  be,  indeed,  a  moral  maxim 
gathered  from  the  Apostle's  instruction 
on  this  subject,  which  is  indeed  the 
maxim  of  common-sense,  with  regard 
to  the  importance  of  a  similarity  of 
habits,  tastes,  &c.  And  in  this  limited 
application,  it  may  be  asked,  "  What 
fellowship  hath  righteousness  with  un- 
righteousness ?  and  what  communion 
hath  light  with  darkness  ? " 

These  two  instances  may  serve  to 
illustrate  our  general  principle.  And 
we  pass  from  them  to  subjects  of  Chris- 
tian doctrine  and  experience. 

III.  I  proceed  therefore  to  remark 
thirdly,  that  the  \.erms,  faith  and  justifi- 
cation had  a  propriety  and  a  use  which 
has  passed  away  with  the  age  in  which 
they  were  first  adopted.  I  take  these 
terms  together  because  they  are  inti- 
mately connected.  Men  were  perpetu- 
ally said  to  be  justified  by  faith,  and  this 
was  much  insisted  on.  Before  this  we 
hear  of  justification  by  humility,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  publican  whose  prayer 
is  recorded;  of  forgiveness  which  is  the 
same  as  justification,  through  the  means 
of  forgiving  others;  of  acceptance  with 
God  through  the  means  of  piety  as  the 
condition  on  our  part ;  but  the  moment 
we  pass  into  the  Epistles  we  find  that 
all  this  comes  by  faith.  Now,  the  truth 
is,  that  the  condition  is  really  not  varied. 
It  is  essentially  the  same  in  both  cases. 
It  is  that  piety  or  goodness,  without 
which  it  is  impossible  to  possess,  or  if 
possessed,  to  enjoy  the  divine  favor  and 


approbation.  And  this  condition  is  con- 
stantly represented  in  tiie  Epistles  to 
be  faith  ;  for  these  reasons  —  because  a 
new  religion  was  proposed,  wh(^e  first 
demand  would  of  course  be  for  faith 
in  it ;  and  because  such  faith,  when 
embraced  and  avowed  in  that  age  of 
prejudice  and  persecution,  was  an  un- 
questionable proof  of  sincere  and  pious 
conviction,  and  hence  naturally  came  to 
pass  for  piety  itself. 

Much,  too,  is  said  of  justification 
through  the  free  grace  of  God,  because 
the  Apostles  had  to  encounter  the  pride 
of  philosophers  and  the  self-sufficiency 
of  formalists  in  religion  ;  because  they 
found  everywhere  prevailing  the  notion 
that  rites  and  sacrifices  were  entitled  to 
procure  the  favor  of  God.  Justification, 
therefore,  not  by  sacrifices  or  by  works 
as  properly  meritorious,  but  by  grace, 
by  the  mercy  of  God  ;  and  justification 
not  by  ceremonial  observances,  but  by  a 
living  faith  and  obedience;  these  were 
views  of  religious  truth  that  needed  to 
be  particularly  urged. 

Now  it  is  rather  awkward,  or  at  least 
it  is  unfortunate,  that  these  terms  should 
occupy  the  same  place  in  our  theology 
and  moral  instruction  as  they  did  in 
those  of  the  apostles  ;  because  the  par- 
ticular occasion  and  propriety  of  them 
have  passed  away.  We  are  a  nation  of 
believers  ;  I  do  not  say  of  true  Chris- 
tians, but  of  believers  in  the  popular 
sense  of  that  term.  There  can  be  no 
such  propriety  in  urging  faith  upon  us, 
as  upon  an  assembly  of  Pagans,  and  it 
cannot  be  urged  at  all  without  many 
explanations;  and,  after  all,  being  liable 
to  be  misunderstood.  What  needs  to 
be  pressed  upon  us  now  as  a  prominent 
point  is  a  different  form  of  piety.  It  is 
not  so  much  faith  as  obedience.  And 
as  to  gratuitous  justification,  as  to  free 
grace,  the  danger  seems  now  to  be,  not 
of  trusting  to  the  mercy  of  God  too  little, 
but  too  much  ;  and  of  making  not  too 
much  of  our  own  works ;  but  of  making 
far  too  little. 

The  attempt  to  apply  the  apostolic 
views  of  faith  and  justification   in  all 


434 


USE   OF  THE   EPISTLES. 


their  extent  and  frequency  to  our  ex- 
perience has  been  unfortunate  also, 
because  it  has  led  to  unnatural,  mystical 
ideas  o^  religion,  and  among  other  ideas 
it  has  led  men  to  conjure  up  the  prepos- 
terous notion  that  the  great  obstacle  to 
salvation  in  the  human  heart  is  not  its 
bad  passions,  but  some  strange  unwill- 
ingness to  be  saved  by  the  mercy  of 
God;  and  that  faith,  being  so  exclusive 
and  all-important,  had  some  mysterious 
power  of  appropriating  and  securing  the 
favor  of  God  to  itself.  Indeed,  faith 
has  been  often  thought  to  be  nothing 
else  but  a  willingness  to  be  saved. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  never  to  be 
forgotten  that  we  are  saved  by  grace ; 
and  if  there  is  yet  among  us  any  linger- 
ing thouglit  of  deserving  heaven  by  our 
good  deeds,  we  need  to  be  reminded  of 
the  earnestness  with  which  the  apostles 
taught  that  we  are  saved  by  grace  ;  by 
the  free  grace,  the  benignity,  the  forgiv- 
ing compassion  of  our  Maker.  And  if 
any  of  us  are  thinking  that  our  claim  to 
the  divine  favor,  though  not  perfect,  is 
yet  quite  promising;  that  we  have  done 
so  little  evil  and  have  led  a  life  so  moral 
and  unimpeachable  that  it  would  be  un- 
just in  God  to  punish  us  for  our  sin,  we 
may  rest  assured  that  we  know  little  of 
ourselves  and  less  still  of  that  humility, 
contrition,  and  deep  sense  of  unworthi- 
ness  that  belong  to  the  real  Christian. 

IV.  The  remarks  which  have  been 
made  might  be  applied  to  several  topics 
in  the  Epistles,  but  we  are  limited  for 
the  present  to  one  further:  I  mean  the 
subject  of  religlojis  experie7ice.  Relig- 
ious experience  in  the  early  age  was 
itself  strongly  colored  by  circumstances, 
and  the  description  of  it  still  more. 

It  is  to  be  considered,  in  the  first  place, 
that  the  circumstances  of  that  age  gave 
to  religion  a  character  of  powerful  ex- 
citement. We  are  to  remember  that  it 
was  the  age  of  miracles,  of  signs  and 
wonders;  that  it  was  the  era  of  a  new 
and  wonderful  revelation;  that  it  was 
the  epoch  of  a  new  religious  dominion; 
and  that  men's  minds  were  strongly 
•  excited  by  what  was  novel,  marvellous, 


and  prospective  around  them.  We  are 
to  remember  that  the  new  religion 
aroused  them  from  a  guilty  and  degraded 
idolatry  and  naturally  filled  them  with 
amazement  and  alarm. 

Again,  it  is  to  be  considered  that  the 
circumstances  of  that  age  made  religion, 
if  I  may  speak  so,  a  more  notable  thing; 
a  thing  more  easily  marked  by  dates, 
more  easily  referred  to  a  certain  period 
of  time.  Conversion  in  that  day  con- 
sisted of  two  parts.  It  was  a  turning 
from  Paganism  to  Christianity,  and  it 
was  a  turning  from  sin  to  holiness. 
Conversion,  therefore,  was  both  an  event 
and  an  experience ;  not  an  experience 
only  as  it  now  is,  but  an  event ;  a  thing 
that  could  be  dated  from  a  certain  day 
and  hour.  We  are  to  remember,  then, 
that  conversion  was  not  a  change  of 
affections  only,  but  of  the  whole  religion  ; 
a  change  of  rites,  of  customs,  of  the 
whole  course  of  life ;  that  it  was  a  change 
of  hopes  too;  that  it  introduced  men 
into  a  new  world,  a  world  of  new  and 
bright  and  astonishing  revelations  ;  that 
for  this  reason  a  new  phraseology  be- 
came applicable  to  them,  not  to  their 
character  entirely  but  in  part  to  their 
circumstances  ;  that  they  became  at 
once,  externally  rather  than  internally, 
new  creatures  ;  that  old  things  passed 
away  and  all  things  became  new  ;  that 
they  were  brought  out  of  darkness  into 
marvellous  light.  We  see  in  all  this, 
I  say,  the  coloring  of  circumstances. 
These  men  were  not  at  once  made  per- 
fect and  fit  for  heaven,  as  the  language 
would  seem  to  represent,  for  they  were 
urged  to  make  their  calling  and  election 
sure.  The  language  describes  an  inward 
change,  indeed  ;  but  it  also  describes  a 
ceremonial  change  If  the  change  had 
been  altogether-  spiritual,  we  doubtless 
should  have  had  a  simpler  and  more 
accurate  phraseology  on  the  subj-^*. 
We  know  indeed  that  an  instantaneous 
and  total  change  of  all  the  habits, 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  purposes  of  the 
soul  is  incompatible  with  the  nature  of 
the  mind  and  with  all  proper  moral  in- 
fluence upon  it. 


USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


435 


It  can  require  but  a  little  reflection  to 
convince  you  of  all  this.  You  must  have 
observed,  also,  what  injury  the  literal 
application  of  this  language  to  religious 
experience  in  later  days  has  produced,  by 
awakening  noisy  excitement  and  abun- 
dant joys  and  rash  confidence,  and,  on 
the  whole,  an  artificial  and  extravagant 
experience,  at  a  moment  when  simplicity 
and  modesty  and  anxiety  and  watchful- 
ness were  of  all  things  the  most  suitable 
and  desirable.  And  you  must  have  re- 
flected how  much  better  and  fitter  it 
would  have  been,  in  that  moment  of 
imaginary  or  real  conversion,  for  the 
subject  of  it,  instead  of  coming  forth  to 
the  multitude  to  tell  what  the  Lord  had 
done  for  his  soul,  to  have  gone  away 
to  his  retired  closet  to  pray,  and  to 
carry  on  the  secret  struggle  of  the  re- 
ligious life  in  his  own  bosom  ;  how 
much  better  for  him  who  thinks  him- 
self to  have  been  a  Christian  but  for  one 
hour  or  for  one  day,  in  that  day,  in  that 
hour,  to  be  silent,  thoughtful,  diffident, 
anxious  ! 

But  there  is  danger,  and  great  danger, 
on  the  other  hand.  Perceiving  that  the 
apostolic  language  had  a  special  appli- 
cation to  former  times,  we  may  imagine 
that  it  has  little  or  no  relation  to  us. 
The  coloring  of  circumstance,  which  is 
spread  over  their  phraseology,  may  hide 
from  us  its  deep  and  serious  meaning. 
We  may  imagine  that  the  doctrine  of 
conversion  is  but  an  antiquated  notion 
with  which  we  have  little  or  no  concern. 
We  may  look  upon  it  as  the  costume  of 
religious  experience  in  an  ancient  age, 
which  is  now  quite  laid  aside.  Yet  how 
strange  would  it  be  to  suppose  a  cos- 
tume which  clothed  nothing,  or  a  body 
of  phraseology,  if  I  may  speak  so,  with- 
out a  living  spirit  !  And  how  low  must 
be  our  conceptions  of  Jesus  and  his 
apostles,  of  the  most  spiritual  teachers 
the  world  ever  saw,  if  we  imagine  their 
ultimate  object  to  have  been  to  bring 
about  a  formal  change  of  religion,  a 
mere  change  of  rites  and  names  !  — 
Their  doctrine  —  may  it  never  he  forgot- 
ten !  —  pointed  chiefly  to  the  heart ;  and 


we  all  have  a  concern  with  it  more 
weighty  and  solemn  than  any  circum- 
stances can  impose.  If,  my  friends,  if 
we  are  Christians  only  in  name,  li  we 
hope  for  heaven  only  because  we  were 
born  in  a  Christian  land,  we  still  need  a 
conversion.  If  we  are  worldly  ;  if  we 
are  covetous  or  sensual  ;  if  we  are 
guided  by  inclination  rather  than  by 
duty,  we  need  a  conversion,  not  less 
than  that  which  the  Pagan  experienced 
If  we  are  unkind,  severe,  censorious  or 
injurious,  in  the  relations  or  the  inter- 
course of  life ;  if  we  are  unfaithful  par- 
ents or  undutiful  children  ;  if  we  are 
severe  masters  or  faithless  servants;  if 
we  are  treacherous  friends  or  bad  neigh- 
bors or  bitter  competitors,  we  need  a  con- 
version ;  we  need  a  change  greater  tlian 
merely  from  Paganism  to  Christianity. 
If,  in  fine,  we  have  never  yet  formed  the 
resolute  and  serious  purpose  of  leading 
a  religious  life  ;  if  we  do  not  love  the 
duties  of  piety  ;  if  we  have  not  yet 
learnt  the  fear  of  God  nor  cherished  the 
spirit  of  prayer,  we  need  a  conversion. 
We  need  to  be  anxious  ;  we  need  to 
fear.  We  need  to  strive  to  enter  in  at 
the  strait  gate. 

Religion  is  as  full  of  absorbing  inter- 
est now  as  it  ever  was.  And  if  we  ever 
enter  this  way  of  life,  though  our  access 
to  it  will  hardly  be  joyful  and  triumphant 
if  we  are  wise,  yet  there  will  be  —  let 
us  not  take  the  part  of  the  cold-hearted 
scoffer! — there  will  be  joys,  abundant 
joys,  in  its  progress  ;  and  there  will  be 
triumph,  glorious  triumph,  in  its  close. 
But  first,  there  will  be,  as  of  old,  many 
an  anxious  struggle,  many  a  serious 
meditation,  many  an  earnest  prayer : 
there  will  be,  tliere  must  be,  watchings 
and  fears,  there  must  be  striving  and 
hope  ;  and  then  will  come  the  triumph. 
Yes,  Christian  !  there  will  be  triumph, 
glorious  triumph,  when  you  can  say, 
with  the  fervent  apostle.  "  I  have  fought 
a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course, 
I  have  kept  the  faith;  henceforth  there 
is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of  righteous- 
ness, which  the  Lord,  the  righteous 
judge,  will  give  me  at  that  day." 


436 


USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


II. 


I  Cor.  ix.  22  :  "  To  the  weak  became  I  as  weak, 
that  I  might  gain  the  weak ,  I  am  made  all  things  to 
all  men,  that  I  might  by  ail  means  save  some.  ' 

The  use  which  has  been  made  of  this 
passage  will  be  recollected.  It  mani- 
festly supports  the  principle  that  Paul's 
instructions  were  modified  by  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  they  were  given. 
We  are  therefore  led  to  conclude  that 
there  was  something  in  the  manner  and 
form  of  the  apostolic  instructions  pecu- 
liar to  the  early  age  ;  while  at  the  same 
time  there  is  a  spirit  in  them  that  be- 
longs to  all  ages. 

V.  We  have  attempted  in  some  par- 
ticulars to  make  this  distinction  between 
the  local  and  the  general  application  of 
them,  and  proceed  directly  to  notice,  as 
a  fifth  instance  of  this  distinction,  the 
manner  in  ivhich  our  Saviour  is  spoken 
of'wi.  the  New  Testament.  Now  there 
are  two  circumstances  which  affected 
this  manner. 

The  first,  indeed,  was  not  entirely 
peculiar  to  that  age,  but  it  deserves  to 
be  mentioned  as  stamping  a  peculiarity 
upon  the  language  of  the  apostles  con- 
cerning Jesus  Christ.  It  was  common 
to  call  a  system  in  religion  or  philosophy 
familiarly  by  the  name  of  its  founder  ; 
so  that  the  naine  of  the  founder  became 
a  kind  of  appellative  for  the  system. 
Thus  Plato  was  the  familiar  name  for 
the  doctrine  or  philosophy  of  Plato. 
Thus  Christians  were  said  to  be  •in 
Christ,  to  be  baptized  into  him,  to  put 
on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ;  these  phrases 
meaning  of  course  the  principles  and 
doctrines  of  his  religion.  Now  this  was 
the  custom  of  the  age,  the  style  of  writ- 
ing and  speaking  ;  it  was  form  ;  it  was 
phraseology  ;  and  we  are  perfectly  at 
liberty  to  lay  it  aside  when  it  is  no 
longer  consonant  with  our  general  hab- 
its of  speaking ,  and  when  we  look  less 
with  admiration  upon  Jesus  Christ  as 
the  founder  of  a  new  system  than  with 
veneration  as  the  Saviour  of  men.  And 
yet  this  sort  of  phraseology  is  with  some 
the  test  of  evangelical  preaching;  and 


though  you  speak  never  so  clearly  and 
fervently  of  the  great  principles  of 
Christianity,  it  will  be  said  —  and  per- 
haps contemptuously  said  —  "  that  there 
is  nothing  of  Christ  in  it." 

But  there  is  another  circumstance  to 
be  mentioned.  !t  is  this  :  that  the  Apos- 
tles spoke  of  Jesus  as  eye-witnesses  ; 
as  those  who  had  seen  him  in  his  teach- 
ings, in  his  sufferings  ;  who  had  been 
with  him  and  lived  with  him  ;  and  who 
would  naturally  speak  of  him  with  the 
warmth  of  a  personal  interest  and  friend- 
ship. These  remarks  apply  to  Paul 
also,  for  there  was  doubtless  a  mutual 
sympathy,  among  the  early  disciples,  in 
these  feelings;  there  was  a  spirit  of  the 
age.  Perhaps  it  is  in  imitation  of  this, 
without  the  same  circumstances  to  jus- 
tify it,  that  there  is  sometimes  witnessed 
an  irreverent  and  almost  shocking  famil- 
iarity with  the  name  of  Jesus  ;  and  a 
neglect  to  consider  the  circumstances, 
together  with  doctrinal  errors,  has  led 
others,  perhaps,  to  speak  of  Jesus  Christ 
with  an  affection,  trust,  and  delight  far 
beyond  what  they  ever  ascribe  to  God 
the  Father.  So  that  a  writer  justly  re- 
marks that  a  discourse  on  the  Goodness 
of  God  shall  pass  for  something  very 
flat,  cold,  and  commonplace ;  while  a 
discourse  on  the  compassion  of  Christ 
to  sinners  shall  be  looked  upon  as  con- 
taining tiie  very  marrow  and  essence  of 
the  gospel. 

There  certainly  have  been  in  the 
world,  and  are,  very  singular  and  super- 
stitious feelings  concerning  Jesus  Christ ; 
there  is  a  peculiarity  in  men's  regard 
towards  him,  of  which  I  do  not  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  any  explanation  at- 
tempted. Nothing  has  been  so  sacred 
in  religion  as  the  name  of  Christ ;  noth- 
ing deemed  so  awful  as  to  profane  it, — 
not  even  to  profane  the  name  of  God 
himself.  Nothing  has  so  tasked  and 
awed  and  overwhelmed  the  minds  of 
men  as  inquiries  into  his  nature  and 
offices.  Of  the  dread  attributes  of  God, 
of  the  momentous  concerns  of  human 
duty,  they  could  freely  reason  and  spec- 
ulate.    Concerning  these  subjects  it  has 


USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


437 


not  been  thought  rash  to  inquire.  Nay, 
it  has  been  judged  lawful  and  wise  not 
only  to  examine  our  early  impressions, 
but  to  modify,  to  change,  to  improve 
them.  Indeed,  everything  else  in  re- 
ligion is  open  to  our  scrutiny.  But  the 
moment  any  one  undertakes  to  scruti- 
nize the  character  and  offices  (jf  our 
Saviour,  he  is  assailed  with  voices  of 
warning.  If  he  dares  to  doubt,  he  is 
given  up  for  lost.  It  would  seem  as  if 
there  was  some  peculiar  and  supersti- 
tious fear  of  doing  wrong  or  offence 
to  Christ, — a  scrupulous  care  on  this 
point,  a  punctiliousness  of  devotion  to 
him,  such  as  the  idolater  pays  to  the 
deity  he  most  fears  or  to  the  symbol 
he  most  reverences.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  same  general  state  of  mind 
takes  the  form  of  a  fond  and  sentimen- 
tal attachment,  expressed  by  the  most 
odious  and  offensive  freedoms  of  speech. 
And  many  really  imagine  that  while  with 
a  kind  of  sympathetic  fervor  they  are 
embracing  the  being  of  their  impassioned 
imagination,  and  are  calling  him  "dear 
Saviour,"  and  "precious  Christ,"  and 
"lovely  Jesus,"  they  are  entering  into 
the  very  heart  and  life  of  religion. 

Without  undertaking  fully  to  account 
for  this  extravagant  state  of  mind,  which 
would  lead  us  too  far  from  our  object, 
we  may  remark,  in  passing,  that  it  has 
probably  in  part  grown  out  of  a  mistaken 
and  improper  attempt  to  adopt  entirely 
the  language  and  feeling  of  the  early 
disciples.  The  imitation  has  indeed,  as 
usual,  gone  far  beyond  the  original.  For 
never  did  the  apostles  inculcate  any  such 
superstitious  emotion  of  fear,  or  give 
license  to  any  such  sickening  fondness 
of  language  concerning  Christ,  as  has 
been  witnessed  in  latter  days. 

Far  different  from  this,  far  more 
rational,  far  more  reverential,  far  more 
profound  and  earnest  too,  is  the  grati- 
tude and  admiration  which  we  are  bound 
to  entertain  for  the  greatest  moral  Bene- 
factor of  men.  The  ages  that  have 
intervened  between  us  and  his  actual 
residence  on  earth  have  only  accumu- 
lated evidences  and  illustrations  of  the 


value  and  grandeur  of  his  work.  Be  it 
so  that  his  teaching,  his  dcctrine,  Iiis 
system  of  religion,  is  often  figuratively 
called  by  his  name;  yet  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  he  is  a  real  person.  And 
however  much  cause  his  immediate  dis- 
ciples had  to  revere  and  love  him,  we 
have  none  the  less.  And  although  our 
attachment  to  him  must  be  less  personal 
than  theirs,  although  it  must  partake 
less  of  the  character  of  an  intimate 
friendship  ;  yet  it  may  be,  if  possible, 
even  more  reverential,  more  intellectual, 
more  expanded.  I  know  not  what  en- 
thusiasm for  excellence  is  ;  I  know  not 
what  veneration  for  goodness  and  grati- 
tude for  kindness  are,  if  these  sentiments 
do  not  peculiarly  belong  to  the  Author 
and  Finisher  of  our  blessed  faith.  Let 
me  hear  no  more  of  admiration,  of  love 
and  joy,  if  he  who  has  taught  me  peace 
of  mind  and  true  wisdom,  who  has 
brouglit  me  nigh  to  God  and  opened 
for  me  the  path  to  immortality,  if  lie 
shall  not  be  admired  and  loved,  and 
hailed  with  raptures  of  joy.  This  is  no 
fanatical  or  superstitious  emotion,  but 
it  is  the  natural,  the  true  and  sober  hom- 
age of  human  feeling  to  transcendent 
worth  and  loveliness  of  character,  and 
to  unspeakable  goodness,  —  goodness 
not  common  and  earthly,  but  spiritual, 
disinterested,  divine,  witnessed  by  toils 
and  sufferings,  and  sealed  in  death. 

What  though  the  time  of  our  Saviour's 
visible  manifestation  has  passed  away; 
what  though  the  footsteps  of  the  Bene- 
factor and  the  Sufferer  no  longer  tread 
the  earth,  and  his  voice  no  longer  speaks 
to  the  weary  and  heavy-laden ;  what 
though  the  tears  of  Gethsemane  no 
longer  call  for  mortal  sympathies,  and 
the  dark  scene  of  Calvary  has  passed 
away  from  the  awful  mount,  and  all  the 
wonderful  memorial  of  what  he  was,  is 
no  longer  told  by  living  and  admiring 
witnesses  ;  yet  all  this  was  but  the  prep- 
aration for  his  reign,  but  the  passage 
to  his  throne,  in  the  lasting  admiration 
and  affection  of  men.  If  it  is  mucli  to 
us  that  he  once  lived  among  men,  is  it 
not  more  that  he  now  liveth  at  the  ri<rht 


438 


USE    OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


hand  of  God  ?  If  it  interests  us  to  go 
back  to  the  scene  of  his  teaching  and 
suffering,  and  his  dying  hour,  does  it  not 
still  more  interest  us  that  we  may  here- 
after behold  the  same  teacher,  the  same 
sufferer,  —  him  who  was  dead  and  is 
alive  again,  and  liveth  forevermore  ? 
Do  we  not  feel  that  in  the  coming  world 
we  have  a  forerunner,  and  that  we  are 
going  to  the  dwelling-place  of  a  friend, 
to  mansions  that  he  hath  gone  to  pre- 
pare for  us  ?  Is  there  anything  extrav- 
agant or  enthusiastic  in  the  expectation 
that  we  shall  know  him  whom  we  call 
our  Saviour  in  some  new  manner  and 
degree ;  that  we  shall  learn  more  and 
more  of  the  loveliness  of  his  character, 
and  shall  hold  with  him  a  sacred  com- 
munion, a  sublime  friendship,  forever? 
I  think  not,  —  if  the  probabilities  which 
reason  offers,  if  the  revelations  which 
the  Scriptures  unfold,  may  be  listened 
to.  In  all  this  I  persuade  myself  that  I 
entertain  no  superstitious  ideas  of  our 
Saviour.  I  regard  him  as  I  would  re- 
gard any  other  benefactor,  —  only  that 
he  is  the  most  exalted  of  all.  For  all 
the  blessings  of  this  life  are  to  me  incon- 
siderable compared  with  what  he  has 
taught  in  his  doctrine,  with  what  he  has 
procured  by  his  death,  and  consummated 
in  his  rising  from  the  tomb. 

VI.  I  shall  now  introduce,  as  a  sixth 
and  final  topic  of  illustration,  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  relation  of  Cliristiaiis 
to  one  another,  and  to  the  world,  is 
spoken  of. 

And,  in  the  first  place,  the  relation  of 
Christians  to  one  another.  The  ancient 
fellowship  of  Christians  was  something 
considerably  different  from  what  the 
present  institutions  and  modes  of  society 
permit.  They  were  a  persecuted  and 
proscribed  class  of  men.  Almost  the 
whole  world  was  united  against  them. 
Danger  and  death  waited  for  them  every- 
where. These  circumstances  produced 
a  pecuHar  union  and  familiarity  among 
them.  Their  exposure  was  common, 
and  they  were  endeared  to  one  another : 
it  was  imminent,  and  they  forgot  in  a 
measure    the    ordinary   distinctions    of 


social  life.  It  was  no  time  to  stand  upon 
etiquette  and  form.  The  weakest  mem- 
ber of  their  society  rose  into  importance, 
when  he  might  preserve  the  life  of  the 
most  powerful,  or  be  called  en  to  give 
up  his  own  life  for  the  common  cause. 
Hence  the  apostles  exhort  them,  with 
pecu^ar  emphasis,  to  mutual  confidence, 
intercourse,  counsel,  and  aid,  and  even  to 
mutual  advice  and  exhortation. 

It  does  not  follow  that  it  is  now  expe- 
dient to  break  down  all  the  barriers  of 
distinction  in  society.  It  does  not  fol- 
low that  it  is  now  the  duty  of  all  Chris- 
tians to  mingle  together  in  the  intimate 
intercourse  of  life.  The  proper  o}-der 
of  life,  the  different  modes  of  living, 
different  tastes  and  habits,  different 
degrees  of  knowledge  and  refinement, 
forbid  it. 

Let  Christians  learn  to  love  one  an- 
other :  this  is  all  that  they  can  now  do  ; 
and  this  is  enough.  Let  those  who  come 
to  the  same  sanctuary,  who  worship  at 
the  same  altar,  feel  that  respect  and  kind- 
ness for  each  other  which  their  common 
relation  and  common  approach  to  the 
same  God  should  insjDire.  We  wish, 
indeed,  that  more  of  the  spirit  of  the 
ancient  fellowship  was  among  us  ;  that 
there  was  more  tenderness  for  each  oth- 
er's faults,  more  zeal  and  solicitude  for 
each  other's  spiritual  iinprovement  and 
comfort,  more  mutual  intercession  at 
the  common  throne  of  grace.  It  is  lam- 
entable, indeed,  that  the  outward  forms 
of  society  so  much  divide  us,  while  the 
inward  spirit  so  little  unites  us.  We 
need  to  be  often  reminded  that  the  ex- 
ternal distinctions  of  life  are  vain  and 
perishing,  and  that  another  order  of 
greatness  and  honor  will  obtain  in  the 
world  to  which  we  are  going,  let  us 
oftener  carry  ourselves  forward  beyond 
this  state  of  imperfect  allotments,  let  us 
pass  beyond  these  bounds  of  our  earthly 
vision,  and  remember  that  he  whom  we 
scarcely  know  or  notice  here,  may  be 
greater  and  more  beloved  than  we  in 
that  more  exalted  state,  may  be  the 
greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  God.  Let 
us  then  free  our  minds  from  those  low 


USE   OF  THE   EPISTLES. 


439 


and  worldly  ways  of  thinking  which  too 
much  prevail,  concerning  poverty  and 
toil  and  the  humble  lot.  It  may  be  the 
best  and  the  safest  of  all  conditions.  It 
may  be  only  the  greater  trial,  for  the 
greater  reward.  It  maybe,  as  we  often 
see  it  in  this  life,  the  retirement  and  ob- 
scurity that  is  to  open  to  the  most  splen- 
did distinction  and  glory;  a  temporary 
darkness  that  is  to  give  place  to  the 
brightest  day. 

Again ;  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the 
description  of  tiiose  who  were  called 
from  the  world  into  the  Christian  church 
is  not  in  all  respects  applicable  to  the 
present  time.  We  are  told  that  "Not 
many  noble,  not  many  mighty,  not  many 
wise,  were  called,"  but  that  the  poor  of 
this  world  were  made  rich  in  faith,  and 
the  ignorant  were  made  wise  unto  salva- 
tion. If  you  look  at  the  state  of  things 
in  that  day,  you  will  see  a  special  reason 
for  all  this.  The  profession  of  Chris- 
tianity was  disgraceful.  To  take  the 
name  of  Christian  was  to  take  the  name 
of  infamy.  The  chief  Apostle  tells  us 
that  he  and  his  companions  were  ac- 
counted the  offscouring  of  the  world. 
Now  the  persons  who  would  be  most 
susceptible  of  the  fear  of  disgrace  were 
the  great,  the  noble  ;  men  who  were  in 
high  and  conspicuous  stations,  who  had 
a  character  at  stake,  and  who  lived  in  a 
state  of  society,  too,  where  honor  was 
even  more  regarded  than  it  is  now.  Not 
so  the  poor,  the  ignorant,  the  unknown, 
who  were  already  degraded  and  tram- 
pled on  by  their  superiors,  and  who  had 
no  honor  to  lose. 

Besides,  those  who  bore  rule  often 
considered  themselves  as  pledged  by 
their  office  to  persecute  Christianity. 
They  regarded  it  as  the  rival  of  their 
religion  and  the  enemy  of  their  power. 
How,  then,  could  many  such  be  expected 
to  embrace  it ! 

And  with  regard  to  the  wise  of  that 
day,  let  it  be  considered  what  sort  of 
wise  persons  they  were  :  wise  in  sophis- 
try, wise  in  the  subtleties  of  Grecian 
speculation  and  the  jargon  of  the  Orien- 
tal philosophy,  wise  in  their  own  conceit, 


and  looking  down  with  ineffable  contempt 
on  the  vulgar.  Would  these  men  con- 
descend to  be  taught  by  a  few  fishermen 
from  Galilee  ?  Would  they  hear  of  a 
teacher  from  the  despised  land  of  Judea? 

But  things  are  now  changed.  The 
inteUigent  among  us  are  not  like  the 
sages  of  those  days.  Learning  is  more 
allied  to  common-sense,  and  has  taken 
the  garb  of  modesty.  The  powerful  and 
great  among  us  have  not  the  same  rea. 
sons  for  rejecting  Christianity.  The 
profession  of  it  is  respectable.  It  is  the 
religion  of  the  land.  And  we  can  point 
to  many  great  and  mighty  and  wise  who 
profess  and  adorn  it.  And,  on  the  whole, 
in  a  general  and  fair  estimate,  there  is 
probably  more  virtue,  more  regard  to  the 
Christian  religion,  among  the  higher 
than  among  the  lower  classes  of  our  com- 
munities. 

It  is  altogether  unwarrantable,  there- 
fore, to  apply  the  ancient  comparison  to 
the  present  state  of  things.  Yet  there 
are  not  wanting  examples  of  such  a  com- 
parison. If,  for  instance,  one  form  of 
Christianity  attracts  the  more  intelligent, 
opulent,  and  respectable  classes  of  socie- 
ty ;  if  there  is  a  progress,  an  improve- 
ment in  the  views  of  religion,  which  gen- 
erally, we  do  not  say  universally,  draws 
the  respect  and  attention  of  more  im- 
proved minds,  and  if  the  opposer  of  these 
views  is  annoyed  by  the  reflection  and 
mortified  by  the  comparison  ;  "  Ah  !  my 
brethren,"  he  says,  "  ye  know  how  it  is 
written,  that  not  many  wise,  not  many 
mighty,  not  many  noble  are  called ;  but 
the  foolish  things  and  the  weak  things 
and  the  base  things,  and  things  that  are 
despised,  hath  God  chosen."  Now  I 
shall  seriously  and  boldly  say  that  he 
oug/ii  to  know  better  than  to  make  such 
an  application  of  Scripture.  By  this 
rule  of  judging,  he  might  level  and  de- 
grade all  that  is  dignified  and  respect- 
able in  society  ! 

The  higher  and  the  more  prosperous 
classes  of  the  community,  undoubtedly, 
have  their  dangers  and  faults.  These 
we  shall  be  led  to  notice,  however,  under 
the  remaining  topic  of  this  general  head; 


440 


USE   OF   THE  EPISTLES. 


viz.  the  relation  of  the  Christian  church 
to  the  world. 

Here,  too,  it  may  be  easily  shown,  I 
think,  that  the  language  of  the  Epistles 
needs  to  be  qualified  in  its  application 
to  us  ;  the  language,  I  say,  which  de- 
scribes the  relation  of  the  Christian 
church  to  the  world.  It  was  said  of 
Christians,  that  they  had  not  the  spirit 
of  the  world,  but  the  spirit  which  is  of 
God  ;  and  they  were  commanded  not  to 
be  conformed  to  the  world.  They  were 
directed  to  come  out  from  the  surround- 
ing world,  and  to  be  separate,  and  not 
to  touch  the  unclean  thing.  Now  this 
language  is  understood  by  many  as  lit- 
erally applicable  to  our  present  circum- 
stances, though  our  circumstances  are 
immensely  different  from  those  of  the 
early  Christians.  And  it  may  well  be 
feared, that  the  habitof  applying  the  apos- 
tolic representations  of  the  Heathen 
world  to  the  world  around  us,  and  of 
making  the  same  distinction  between  the 
church  and  the  world  that  then  existed, 
has  awakened  in  some  Christians  an 
unamiable  pride  and  vanity,  has  helped 
to  give  them  a  stiffness  and  repulsive- 
ness  of  manners  towards  others,  and 
has  made  them  less  friendly,  kind,  and 
social  in  their  intercourse  with  men, 
generally,  than  they  otherwise  would 
have  been.  He  who  takes  up  the  notion 
that  all  around  him,  excepting  the  few 
who  belong  to  the  church,  are  at  heart 
enemies  to  him  on  account  of  his  relig- 
ion, and  deserve  the  characteristics  and 
the  appellations  that  the  apostles  an- 
ciently gave  to  the  Pagan  world,  and 
that  to  himself  also  belong,  on  account 
of  his  moral  superiority,  all  distinctive 
titles  of  dignity  and  excellence,  which 
were  applied  in  part  to  the  circumstances 
of  the  early  Christians,  —  he  who  holds 
these  views,  I  say,  cannot  fail  to  have 
his  amiableness  and  modesty  affected  by 
them.  He  may  think  that  all  men  are 
his  enemies,  and  he  may  treat  them  as  if 
they  were  so  ;  and  when  they  testify,  as 
they  well  may,  their  displeasure  or  their 
ridicule  at  his  forbidding  and  sanctimo- 
nious deportment,  he  may  think  himself 


persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake,  but 
he  is  greatly  mistaken  ! 

The  truth  is,  there  is  no  such  distinc- 
tion between  the  church  and  the  world 
as  there  was  in  the  early  age.  There  is 
no  such  distinction  of  character  as  the 
language  in  question  describes  :  and  it 
never  was  designed  solely  to  describe  a 
distinction  of  character,  but  in  part  a  dif- 
ference of  circumstances,  a  difference  of 
religion,  of  privileges,  of  knowledge,  of 
moral  advantages.  Recollect  that  the 
worst  churches,  that  the  Corinthian 
church,  amidst  all  its  shameful  disputes, 
its  more  shameful  vices,  and  its  awful 
profanation  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  still 
enjoyed  all  these  high  and  distinctive 
titles  of  superiority  ;  and  you  must  con- 
clude that  these  distinctions  were  in  part 
ascribed  to  their  outward  state.  Recol- 
lect that  the  Jews,  in  the  worst  periods 
of  their  history,  were  still  "  a  chosen 
people,  a  holy  nation,"  and  you  will  have 
an  exemplification  of  the  same  thing. 

The  world  in  the  times  of  the  apostles 
was  a  Pagan  world,  and  was  emphati- 
cally hostile  to  the  Christian  church. 
The  two  were  widely  and  visibly  distin- 
guished. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  there  is, 
and  ever  was,  a  wide  distinction  between 
good  and  bad  men.  And  it  will  be  ad- 
mitted by  us  all,  I  presume,  that  there 
is  at  this  day  more  of  a  serious  purpose 
and  endeavor  to  lead  a  pious  life,  more 
reading  and  studying  of  the  Scriptures, 
more  prayer  and  persevering  virtue, 
within  the  church  than  without  it.  And 
much  were  it  to  be  wished  that  it  were, 
indeed,  more  distinguished  from  the 
spirit  of  the  world  than  any  language 
can  describe.  But  as  the  case  really 
and  unfortunately  is,  to  draw  a  line  of 
distinction,  and  to  say  that  on  the  one 
side  is  all  the  goodness  and  piety  in  the 
world,  and  on  the  otiier  none  at  all  ;  this 
is  more  than  modesty  would  claim  oh 
one  part,  and  more  than  justice  ought  to 
admit  on  the  other.  And  yet  all  the  out- 
cry there  is  about  confounding  the  church 
and  the  world  is  supported  by  the  no- 
tion of  such  a  distinction  ;  is  supported 
by  the  particular  and  local  and  circum- 


USE   OF   THE   EPISTLES. 


441 


stantial  representations  that  belonged  to 
the  apostolic  age. 

But  still  we  must  contend  that  there 
is  a  world  to  be  feared ;  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  there  is  a  spirit  of  the  world 
which  is  to  be  feared  ;  and  the  more 
so,  just  in  proportion  as  it  is  less  sus- 
pected. We  are  not  required  to  with- 
draw from  the  general  intercourse  of 
society,  as  the  early  Christians  were  ; 
we  have  to  do  what  is  far  harder  ;  to 
live  in  the  world,  and  yet  to  withstand 
the  spirit  of  the  world.  When  the 
Christian  band  was  small  and  perse- 
cuted, and  hemmed  in  by  a  surrounding 
and  hostile  community,  it  was  not  so 
difficult  to  preserve  its  unity  and  good- 
fellowship  and  consistency  of  character. 
Then  there  was  a  visible  and  formal 
separation.  On  one  side  there  was 
open  hostility  ;  on  the  other,  unqualified 
jealousy  and  dread. 

Now  what  we  have  to  fear  in  the 
world  is  no  longer  visible.  It  is  a  foe 
in  ambush.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  world. 
It  is  an  influence,  secret,  subtle,  insinu- 
ating, which  leads  us  captive  before  we 
are  aware,  and  which  leads  us,  not  to 
martyrdom,  but  to  compliance.  Alas  ! 
(we  had  almost  said)  it  does  not  bear 
our  souls  on  the  mounting  flame  to 
heaven,  but  it  chains  and  fastens  them 
down  to  the  earth.  There  is  such  a 
spirit,  though  we  may  see  it  not,  that  is 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  arm  of  per- 
secution. There  is  a  spirit  of  business, 
absorbing,  eager,  over-reaching  ;  ungen- 
erous and  hard  in  its  dealings,  keen  and 
bitter  in  its  competitions,  low  and  earthly 
in  its  purposes  :  there  is  a  spirit  of  fash- 
ion, vain,  trifling,  thoughtless,  fond  of 
display,  dissipating  the  mind,  wasting 
the  time,  and  giving  its  chief  stimulus 
and  its  main  direction  to  the  life  ;  there 
is  a  spirit  of  ambition,  selfish,  mercenary, 
restless,  circumventing,  living  but  in  the 
opinion  of  others,  envious  of  otliers'  good 
fortune,  or  miserably  vain  of  its  own 
success ;  there  is  a  spirit,  in  the  world 
of  business,  in  the  world  of  amusement, 
in  the  world  of  ambition,  which  is  to  be 
dreaded.      Even   in   our  best   employ- 


ments there  is  something  to  fear.  There 
is  a  spirit  of  reading  merely  for  gratifica- 
tion; or  of  writing,  for  credit ;  of  going 
to  church  for  entertainment  ;  of  praying 
with  formality  ;  and  of  preaching,  —  shall 
I  say  it?  —  of  preaching  with  selfish  aims, 
which  is  to  be  dreaded,  and  in  the  latter 
case  to  be  abhorred.  Ah  !  my  friends,  it 
is  a  dangerous  world  that  we  live  in. 
The  best,  the  wisest,  the  purest,  have 
found  it  to  be  so.  To  fall  into  the  wide- 
sweeping  current  of  its  influence,  and  to 
be  borne  along  with  it,  may  be  easy, 
may  be  pleasant,  but  //  is  noi  safe. 
There  is,  if  I  may  specify  once  more, 
there  is  a  spirit,  which  is  of  the  world, 
a  spirit  whose  low  habits  belong  to  this 
world  rather  than  to  any  expectation  of 
a  better,  whose  fears  and  hopes  and  anx- 
ieties are  all  limited  to  these  earthly 
scenes,  which  is  grasping  for  an  earthly 
treasure  and  forgets  the  heavenly  ; 
there  is  a  mind,  that  is  fascinated  and 
engrossed^by  things  seen  and  temporal, 
and  indifferent  to  things  unseen  and 
eternal ;  there  is  a  prevailing  forgetful- 
ness  of  God,  there  is  an  insensibility 
to  the  worth  of  the  soul,  to  its  necessi- 
ties and  dangers,  to  the  need  of  prayer 
and  effort  to  guard  it  in  temptations  and 
to  guide  it  in  its  solemn  probation  for 
the  future ;  in  one  word,  there  is  a  per- 
vading spirit  of  religious  indifference, 
which  is  to  be  dreaded. 

In  the  external  habits  and  actions  of 
life,  as  has  been  already  said,  we  can- 
not be  greatly  distinguished  ;  but  there 
is  a  harder  distinction  to  attain  ;  it  is  in 
the  internal  habits  of  the  mind.  In  this 
respect  it  is  that  we  are  still  com- 
manded to  come  out  and  be  separate. 
In  this  respect  it  is  not  safe  for  us  to 
live  as  the  world  lives.  Nor  is  it  safe 
for  us  to  live  carelessly  in  the  world. 
Not  only  is  the  moral  atmosphere 
around  us  infected,  but  we  breathe  it, 
we  live  in  it,  and  it  presses  us  on  every 
side.  In  these  circumstances,  every 
solemn  admonition  of  the  Scripture,  re- 
lating to  the  world,  may,  in  the  spirit  of 
it,  be  properly  applied  to  us  at  this  day. 
In  these  circumstances,  we  need,  as  men 


44- 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM    MIRACLES. 


ever  have  needed  and  ever  will  need,  a 
faith  that  overcomes  the  world. 

On  the  whole,  let  us  remember,  that 
although  the  circumstances  of  the  early 
revelation  have  passed  away,  the  relig- 
ion itself  has,  if  I  may  speak  so,  an 
everlasting  freshness  and  novelty. 
There  was  something  in  the  instructions 
of  the  apostles  that  was  appropriate  to 
their  age  ;  but  all  ^hat  is  essential  and 
spiritual  remains  for  us.  There  is  a 
broad  basis  of  moral  truth  ;  there  is  an 
everlasting  foundation,  on  which  the  men 
of  all  ages  may  stand.  Though  the 
form  of  its  superstructure  shows  the 
architecture  of  the  age,  though  some  of 
its  former  appendages,  on  which  Chris- 
tians gazed  with  admiration,  have  fallen 
off,  though  the  burnished  dome  no  longer 
kindles  in  the  first  splendors  of  the 
morning,  yet  the  mighty  temple  of  its 
worship  is  still  open  for  us  to  enter,  and 
to  offer  the  lowly  homage  of  our  de- 
votion. 

In  fine,  though  the  form  and  the  cos- 
tume and  the  aspects  of  circumstance 
have  fallen  off,  with  the  signs  and  won- 
ders of  the  early   age,   religion  is   but 


presented  to  us  in  a  more  sublime  and 
.spiritual  character.  And  our  progress 
in  this  religion  will  be  marked  by  a 
closer  adherence  and  a  more  exclusive 
regard  to  the  spirit  and  essence  of  it, 
and  a  less  concern  about  particular 
modes  of  phraseology  and  the  particular 
forms  of  its  exhibition.  We  shall  pass 
through  the  intervening  veils,  which  dif- 
ferent dispensations  and  different  ages, 
which  systematic  speculations  and  sec- 
tarian prejudices,  have  thrown  around  it, 
and  shall  approach  the  great  reality. 
We  shall  pass  through  the  rent  veil  of 
the  temple,  and  enter  "  the  holy  of 
holies."  We  shall  thus  make  our  prog- 
ress in  knowledge  and  devotion  a  suit- 
able preparation  for  a  state  of  being 
more  spiritual  and  sublime  ;  where  in- 
firmity shall  no  longer  need  forms  to 
support  it,  nor  inquiry  guards  to 
preserve  it ;  where  tiiflterent  systems 
and  dispensations  shall  no  more  mis- 
lead, nor  prejudice,  nor  divide  us  ;  but 
there  shall  be  one  eternal  conviction, 
that  of  the  truth  ;  and  one  eternal  dis- 
pensation, the  dispensation  of  the 
spirit. 


ON    MIRACLES, 


PRELIMINARY    TO    THE    ARGUMENT    FOR    A    REVELATION  I 
Being  the  Dudleian  Lecture  delivered  before  Harvard  University,  May,  1S36. 


Mark  iv.  40,  41  :  "  And  he  said  unto  them,  Why 
are  ye  so  fearful?  How  is  it  that  ye  have  no  faith? 
And  they  feared  exceedingly,  and  said  one  to  another, 
What  manner  of  man  is  this,  that  even  the  wind  and 
the  sea  obey  him  ?" 

The  power  of  Jesus  on  the  occasion 
here  referred  to  was  undoubtedly  mi- 
raculous. Without  dwelling  on  the  cir- 
cumstances, which  are  familiar  to  you,  I 
wish  to  call  your  attention  to  two  points 
in  the  narrative  as  fairly  presenting  the 
subject  of  my  present  discourse.  One  is 
the  natural  astonishment  of  the  disciples, 
amounting  almost  to  a  reluctance  to  be- 
lieve what  their  eyes   beheld.     "  What 


manner  of  man  is  this,  that  even  the 
wind  and  the  sea  obey  him?'  The 
other  point  to  which  I  wish  to  draw 
your  attention  is  the  language  of  re- 
buke with  which  our  Saviour  addresses 
this  feehng  of  increduhty.  "  How  is  it 
tiiat  ye  have  no  faith?"  And  I  may 
add  that  he  frequently  reproaches  iri 
similar  terms  the  want  of  faith  in  his 
miraculous  powers. 

Now  it  is  this  presumption  against 
miracles,  in  other  words,  it  is  the  pre- 
liininary  ground  of  the  argument  for 
Christianity,  that  I  propose  in  this  dis- 


THE   ARGUMENT    FROM   MIRACLES. 


443 


course  to  examine.  And  of  such  im- 
portance do  I  hold  this  preliminary  view 
of  the  subject,  that  I  think  it  will  make 
all  the  difference  with  many  minds  be- 
tween believing  in  Christianity  and  not 
believing.  That  is  to  say,  the  evidences 
of  revelation  are  strong  enough  to  pro- 
duce belief,  if  it  were  not  for  this  pre- 
sumption against  them.  Let  there  be 
no  prejudice  against  miracles ;  let  it 
appear,  in  any  man's  account,  perfectly 
reasonable  and  philosophical  to  admit 
them  ;  let  him  regard  it  as  extremely 
probable  that  the  Supreme  Being  would 
interpose  for  our  spiritual  relief;  and 
then  I  say,  that  he  must  feel  the  evi- 
dence actually  oflfered  to  be  ample  and 
overwhelming.  It  is  not  from  the  weak- 
ness of  the  proof,  but  from  the  strength 
of  the  presumption  against  it,  that  it 
fails  of  producing  conviction. 

That  there  is  this  presumption  against 
miracles,  I  hardly  need  say.  It  appears 
in  many  forms.  There  has  always  been 
a  prejudice  of  this  nature  lurking  in 
the  bosom  of  science.  The  doctrine  of 
philosophical  necessity  seems  to  me  to 
proceed  from  the  same  source,  though  I 
am  aware  that  its  advocates  do  not  deny 
the  Christian  attestation  to  those  facts 
which  we  denominate  miraculous.  The 
modern  system  of  German  Rationalism 
is  a  standing  and  recorded  proof  of 
the  same  presumption  against  miracles. 
Nay,  with  some  writers  this  presump- 
tion has  amounted  to  an  assertion  of 
the  essential  incredibility  of  such  facts.* 

*  The  essential  incredibility  of  miracles,  the  im- 
possibility, indeed,  of  such  occurrences,  has  lately 
been  argued  by  an  English  writer,  the  author  of 
"  Essays  on  the  Pursuit  of  Truth,"  in  the  Third 
Essay.  It  is  the  old  argument  of  Mr.  Hume  ;  but  it 
is  presented  with  great  clearness,  in  a  manner  at  once 
very  calm  and  imposing,  and  without  any  of  those 
terms  that  would  indicate  its  purpose,  or  any  consider- 
ation of  tlie  answers  that  have  been  and  may  be  given 
to  it. 

The  course  of  the  author's  argument  is  as  follows  : 
In  the  first  place,  he  maintains  that  all  reasoning,  be- 
lief, and  knowledge  depend  on  the  uniformity  of  causa- 
tion ;  in  other  words,  upon  the  regular  succession  of 
antecedents  and  consequents.  That  most  of  them 
do,  is  doubtless  true.  We  could  not  anticipate  the 
future  nor  interpret  the  past,  but  upon  the  supposi- 
tion that  the  same  principles  have  been  and  will  be 
ill  operation  that  are  now.     But  whether  there  is  no 


And  where  it  falls  short  of  this,  it  is 
still  a  secret  reluctance  to  receive  them. 
And  I  think  this  reluctance  has   some 

other  basis  or  source  of  belief,  is  the  question.  Most 
philosophers  have  persuaded  themselves  that  the 
vi'orld  had  a  beginning,  an  event  which  quite  breaks 
in  upon  their  order  of  sequences. 

In  ihe  next  place,  the  author  maintains  that  our  be- 
lief ill  the  uniformity  of  causation  is  instinctive,  origi- 
nal, ultimate,  and  irresistible  in  the  mind.  That  a 
general  sense  of  preference  of  order  is  so,  I  believe  ; 
and  that  experience  working  upon  this,  or  without  it, 
must  create  a  very  strong  conviction  of  the  regularity 
of  nature,  is  obvious;  but  whether  anything  more 
than  this  is  true,  I  must  doubt. 

But  I  am  willing  to  give  the  argument  the  benefit, 
on  both  points,  of  any  doubts  that  do  not  involve  a 
begging  of  the  question,  and  come  at  once  to  the  con- 
clusion. The  question,  then,  of  miracles  is  brought 
to  the  point  of  conflicting  testimonies.  Nature,  on 
the  one  hand,  testifies,  it  is  said,  to  undeviating  regu- 
larity. Change,  then,  is  impossible.  Man's  testi- 
mony, too,  IS  valuable,  and  has  its  regularity  as  truly 
as  nature ;  but  it  is  more  liable  to  be  mistaken,  or  we 
are  more  liable  to  mistake  its  marks,  and  therefore 
it  can  never  counterbalance  the  testimony  of  nature. 
Therefore  a  miracle  is  impossible,  and  the  belief  in 
it  absurd. 

This  argument  proves  too  much.  For  suppose  now 
that  I  acquiesce  in  the  conclusion,  and  quietly  take  my 
seat  in  this  pinfold  of  philosophy,  what  does  this 
argument  suppose  me  to  say?  Or  what  does  the 
sceptic  say  who  strives  to  lift  his  head  high  enough 
(but  cannot)  above  the  machinery  of  causes,  to  de- 
clare their  laws,  and  processes,  and  bounds? 

In  the  first  place,  he  says  that  God  Almighty  either 
cannot  change  the  course  of  things,  though  he  should 
please  to  do  it,  or  else  he  wiU  7iot  please  to  do  it. 
For  the  reader  will  observe  that  such  a  change  is  pro- 
nounced, without  qualification,  impossible  !  To  know 
so  much  of  the  Omniscient  purpose,  —  to  know  so 
little  of  the  Omnipotent  power,  —  presents  a  solecism 
in  whicli  it  is  difficult  to  tell  whether  the  ignorance  or 
the  presumption  is  the  most  extraordinary. 

In  the  second  place,  this  argument  would  prove 
that  the  world  and  the  universe  are  eternal.  They 
could  never  have  begun,  they  can  never  cease  to  ex- 
ist ;  for  either  fact  would  be  a  deviation  from  the  uni- 
formity of  causation.  In  the  one  case  there  would  be 
a  consequent  without  any  regular  antecedent.  In 
the  other,  an  antecedent  without  any  regular  conse- 
quent. Nay,  since  the  author  holds  that  there  is  the 
same  unchangeable  order  of  sequences  in  the  intel- 
lectual as  in  the  phvsical  world,  the  race  of  men  can 
have,  in  this  theory,  neither  beginning  nor  end.  In 
short,  this  assumption  seems  to  me  to  be  compatible 
with  nothing  but  Atheism.  If  there  be  no  Power 
superior  to  nature,  none  that  can  interfere  with  its 
processes,  then  perhaps  it  is  fair  to  infer  that  its  pro- 
cesses must  go  on  unchanged  and  unchangeable.  But 
if  there  is  a  God,  the  possibility  of  change  is  equal  to 
his  fioiver  ;  it  is  unbounded  and  unquestionable. 

In  the  third  place,  the  argument  proves  too  much, 
because  it  goes  beyond  all  reasonable  and  known 
bounds  of  scepticism.  The  author  who  says  to  his 
fellow-men,  "You  cannot  justlv  believe  in  a  miracle  ; 
the  thing  is  impossible,  and  faith  is  impossible,"  tran- 
scends the  bounds  of  all  human  experience,  if  not  of 


444 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


unusual  development  among  many  re- 
flecting persons  in  this  country  at  the 
present  moment.  It  is  seen  in  the  dispo- 
sition of  many  to  turn  from  the  miracles 
to  what  they  call  the  internal  evidence. 
It  is  not  uncommon  in  society  to  hear 
the  miracles  spoken  of  slightly.  There 
is  in  every  age  a  fashion  of  thinking ; 
and  the  fashion  of  thinking  at  the  pres- 
ent day,  I  conceive,  is  growing  more 
and  more  adverse  to  these  primitive, 
peculiar,  and  hitherto  received  evi- 
dences of  revelation.  It  seems  to  be 
thought  by  some  that  the  day  has  gone 
by  for  talking  about  miracles  ;  that  they 
answered  a  purpose,  indeed,  in  the  prim- 
itive age,  but  have  no  longer  any  use. 
Not  a  few  are  saying,  "  Our  feelings 
convince  us  that  Christianity  is  true  ; 
the  book  convinces  us  that  it  is  true; 
and  we  want  no  other  evidence."  It 
was  in  this  feeling,  obviously,  that  Cole- 
ridge exclaimed,  "  Evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity !  I  am  weary  of  the  word.  Make 
a  man  feel  the  want  of  it ;  rouse  him, 
if  you  can,  to  the  self-knowledge  of  his 
need  of  it  ;  and  you  may  safely  trust 
it  to  its  own  evidence."  * 

That  this  way  of  thinking  is  unphilo- 
sophical,  that  it  does  not  properly  per- 
ceive the  very  ground  on  which  it  pro- 
fesses to  stand,  that  the  reluctance  to 
receive  miracles,  though  natural  and 
reasonable  to  a  certain  extent,  is  un- 
phiiosophical  when  it  amounts  to  a 
strong  prejudice  or  presumption  against 
them ;  nay,  more,  that,  on  a  whole  view 

all  human  patience.  Because  almost  all  men  who 
have  ever  lived  haTe  believed  in  miracles.  And  is 
not  the  very  question  before  us,  in  fact,  a  question 
about  experience  ?  Could  all  men  have  believed  in 
■  miracles,  if,  as  our  author  contends,  an  or'ginal  and 
fundamental  law  of  the  mind  forbade  their  believina;  in 
them?  Is  it  not  as  unphilosophic.il  as  it  is  intoler- 
able, to  say  that  all  mankind  have  been  found  believ- 
ing in  a  thing  which  is  plainly  impossible?  What  is 
meant  by  its  being  impossible?  That  God  cannot 
perform  it?  I  will  not  impute  to  any  one  the  inten- 
tional blasphemy  of  such  an  averment.  Is  it  meant, 
then,  that  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  believe  it? 
But  we  do  believe  it.  We  can  believe  it.  All  men 
do  and  can  ;  all  but  the  few,  the  very  few,  who  agree 
with  our  author.  Is  there  any  remaining  idea,  then, 
that  can  be  attached  to  the  word  impossible  ?  I  know 
of  none. 

*  Aids  to  Reflection,  p.  245,  Amer.  ed. 


of  the  case,  the  presumption  ought  in 
fact  to  be  the  other  way,  is  what  I  shall 
now  attempt  to  show. 

But  as  this  way  of  thinking  arises  in 
part,  I  believe,  from  a  misconception 
of  the  place  which  miracles  properly 
hold  in  the  CJiristian  system,  let  me 
employ  a  word  or  two  of  explanation 
on  this  point.  A  man  says  that  he  can- 
not regard  miracles  as  the  great  things 
in  Christianity,  since  he  assigns  that 
place  to  its  doctrines  and  precepts  and 
spirit.  Neither  do  we  ask  him  to  re- 
gard miracles  as  the  great  things.  It 
has  been  well  said  of  the  miracles  that 
"they  are  like  the  massive  subterranean 
arches  and  columns  of  a  huge  building. 
It  is  not  on  their  account  that  we  prize 
the  building,  but  the  building  for  its 
own  sake.  We  do  not  think  of  the 
foundation,  nor  care  about  it,  other  than 
to  know  that  it  has  one.  We  dwell 
above,  in  the  upper  and  fairer  halls. 
The  crowds  go  in  and  out,  and  rejoice 
in  their  coinforts  and  splendors,  with- 
out ever  casting  a  thought  on  that  upon 
which  the  whole  so  peacefully  and  se- 
curely reposes.  Such  are  the  miracles 
to  the  gospel.  They  support  the  edifice, 
and  upon  a  divine  foundation.  They 
show  us,  that  if  the  superstructure  is 
fair  and  beautiful  to  dwell  in,  and  if  its 
towers  and  endless  flights  of  steps  ap- 
pear to  reach  even  up  to  heaven,  it  is 
all  just  what  it  seems  to  be,  for  it  rests 
upon  the  broad  foundation  of  the  Rock 
of  Ages."  * 

This  observation  will  apply,  perhaps, 
to  the  case  of  those  who  say  that  they 
do  not  feel  the  miracles  to  be  necessary 
to  their  faith  in  Christianity.  When 
they  say  this,  they  must  mean  by  faith, 
that  moral  apprehension  of  the  spirit 
and  power  of  Christianity,  that  sense  of 
the  spiritual  relief  and  comfort  that  it 
brings,  which  does  not,  it  is  true,  de- 
pend on  miracles  ;  in  other  words,  that 
view  of  the  superstructure  which  does 
not,  it  is  true,  immediately  depend  on 
any  view  of  a  foundation.  But  this  view 
presupposes  a  speculative  or  traditional 

*  Rev.  William  Ware. 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


445 


belief  in  the  Christian  religion  ;  or,  if  it 
does  not,  then  it  is  just  Hi<e  a  faith  in 
any  other  good  writings,  —  that  is,  sim- 
ply a  belief  that  they  are  good  and  wise, 
and  therefore  true  ;  and,  if  true,  accord- 
ant with  the  will  of  God.  In  this  sense, 
we  have  faith  in  all  the  dictates  of  rea- 
son. But  Christianity  we  receive  as  a 
special  revelation,  an  authoritative  rec- 
ord of  God's  will ;  and  in  this  character 
it  must  have  some  attestation  beyond 
its  general  consonance  with  our  rational 
or  moral  nature ;  else  every  demonstra- 
tion in  the  mathematics  and  every  un- 
disputed principle  in  moral  philosophy 
would  be  a  revelation.  That  attesta- 
tion, I  say,  is  miracle. 

The  state  of  opinion  on  this  subject 
makes  it  necessary,  perhaps,  before 
proceeding  further,  that  I  should  define 
the  word  miracle.  All  Christians  of 
whom  I  know  anything,  in  this  coun- 
try, hold  to  miracles  in  some  sense. 
I  wish  distinctly  to  say  this,  because, 
if  the  sense  which  I  affix  to  this  word, 
as  the  only  one  satisfactory  to  myself, 
is  not  received  by  others,  I  would  by 
no  means  leave  it  to  be  inferred  that 
there  is  any  professed  difference  of 
opinion  between  us  as  to  the  miracu- 
lous origin  of  Christianity.  There  is 
only  a  friendly  question  between  us 
about  the  meaning  which  ought  to  be 
assigned  to  this  word. 

What,  then,  is  a  miracle?  I  answer, 
It  is  an  interruption  or  ceasing  of  the 
regular  and  established  succession  of 
events,  taking  place  in  connection  with 
the  mission  of  a  person  professing  to 
be  sent  from  God,  and  designed  to  give 
that  proof  of  his  mission  ;  I  say,  an 
interruption  or  ceasing  of  the  regular 
and  established  succession  of  events, 
and  that  for  a  specific  purpose.  A 
miracle  is  a  fact,  like  to  which  nothing 
ever  has  occurred,  or  ever  will  occur, 
but  for  the  same  purpose.  I  lay  stress 
upon  its  being  a  simple  fact.  In  re- 
gard to  the  succession  of  events,  I  say 
nothing  of  causation  or  necessity,  of 
which  we  know  nothing.  I  do  not  con- 
ceive that  one  event  compels  another, 


as  the  cogs  of  one  wheel  push  on 
another  wheel.  I  take  the  bare  facts. 
Since  the  world  began,  it  was  not  known 
that  a  blind  man  received  sight  at  a 
word,  or  that  a  man  with  a  broken  limb, 
or  that  a  dead  body  already  in  the  first 
stages  of  putrefaction,  instantly  and  at 
a  word  recovered  vigor  and  activity. 
Such  events,  we  say,  on  certain  occa- 
sions, and  for  certain  purposes,  without 
precedent,  without  parallel,  have  taken 
place.     They  are  the  miracles. 

Now  the  question  is,  What  is  the  fair 
and  philosophical  description  of  these 
events  }    On  this  point  there  is  a  strong 
reluctance  in  many  minds  to  admit  that 
there  was  anything  in  these  cases  out 
of  the  course  of  nature  or  contrary  to 
it, — any  interruption  of  the  order  of 
nature,  or  suspension  of  its  processes, 
or  departure  from  its  regularity.     They 
say  that  there  may  have  been  causes  in 
nature  or  in  the  mind,  which,   though 
unknown  to  us,  are  sufficient  to  account 
for  the   results    in   question.     I   object 
to  the  word  "causes,"  as  implying  an 
efficient  power  in  one  event  to  produce 
another,    of  which   we    know  nothing ; 
and  therefore  I  consider  the  word  "  in- 
terposition," though  proper  enough  to 
be   used   in   popular   discourse,   to   be, 
strictly  speaking,  unphilosophical,  since 
it  implies    that   one   event  has   an    in- 
herent power  to  produce  another,  and 
conveys  the  impression  of  a  hand  thrust 
in  to  stay  the  event  that  would  other- 
wise take  place.     This  may  be  true,  but 
we  do  not  know  it.     We  come,  then,  to 
the    bare   facts  ;    and   if   we  deal  with 
facts  alone,    I   see  not  how  it  can  be 
denied  that  a  miracle  is  something  out 
of  the  course  of  nature  and  contrary  to 
it,  —  an  interruption  of  its  order,  a  sus- 
pension of  its  processes.    On  this  point, 
a  distinction  is  sometimes  made  between 
a  real  interruption  and  an  apparent  in- 
terruption ;  and  it  is  contended  that  the 
interruption  is  only  apparent.     But   in 
speaking  of  facts,  submitted  to  the  ob- 
servation of  our  senses,  it  appears  to 
me  that  we  must  conceive  of  real  and 
apparent  as  the  same  thing.     That  is 


446 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


to  say,  if  such  a  fact  or  such  an  event 
as  one  of  the  Christian  miracles  never 
appeared  before,  and  never  shall  ap- 
pear again  but  at  the  intervention  of 
some  divinely  commissioned  agent,  then 
it  is  a  real  departure  from  the  order  of 
nature,  —  that  is,  from  the  universally 
received  and  known  order  of  events, 
vi^hich  is  all  that  we  know  of  the  order 
of  nature.  In  other  words,  the  whole 
thing  is  a  peculiarity,  —  a  special  con- 
junction of  events  for  a  particular  pur- 
pose ;  and,  for  myself,  I  certainly  feel 
none  of  this  strong  repugnance  to  the 
idea  of  an  interrupted  succession  of 
events.  I  have  no  respect  for  the  me- 
chanical order  of  nature,  that  makes  me 
feel  as  if  it  could  not  be  changed.  I  do 
not  see  that  the  moral  purpose  of  that 
order  is  at  all  impaired  by  occasional  de- 
partures from  it.  Surely,  the  Almighty 
Will  is  not  bound  in  the  chains  of  fate 
or  of  nature,  or  by  the  powers  of  na- 
ture. I  am  unable  to  see  why  the  In- 
finite Parent  may  not  change  the  course 
of  his  providence  for  the  benefit  of  his 
children,  as  well  as  a  human  parent  may 
change  the  course  of  his  administration 
for  a  similar  purpose.  Not,  indeed,  that 
it  would  be  an  unforeseen  expedient 
with  the  Omniscient  Ruler ;  but  I  can- 
not see  that  its  being  foreseen  alters  at 
all  the  state  of  the  facts. 

But  now  let  us  grant,  for  the  sake 
of  the  argument,  that  the  miracles  are, 
as  the  modern  interpreter  proposes  to 
consider  them,  only  seeming  miracles  ; 
only  apparent,  not  real  interruptions  of 
the 'order  of  nature.  Would  they  then 
be  valid  evidence  of  revelation  ?  When 
Jesus  says,  "  Peace,  be  still,"  the  wind 
and  waves  sink  to  an  instant  calm.  It 
was  wonderful,  it  appeared  miraculous; 
but  it  was  miraculous,  say  some,  only 
to  the  ignorance  or  misapprehension  of 
the  observers.  There  was  a  sudden 
lulling  of  the  winds  and  waves,  which  to 
the  disciples  seemed  miraculous.  Or, 
there  were  causes  in  the  bosom  of  those 
turbulent  elements,  however  hidden 
from  us,  which  produced  that  sudden 
calm ;  and  such    occurrences   may   yet 


come  to  be  as  well  known,  if  not  as  famil- 
iar, as  any  of  the  phenomena  of  nature. 
But  then,  I  ask,  would  there  be  any 
evidence  of  a  special  divine  commission  ? 
To  illustrate  the  case,  let  us  make  a  sup- 
position ;  or  let  us  take  a  piece  of  real 
history.  Soon  after  the  arrival  of  Co- 
lumbus on  the  shore  of  the  New  World, 
there  was  an  eclipse  of  the  sun.  The 
rude  inhabitants  had  never,  perhaps,  re- 
marked such  an  event  before.  Colum- 
bus, for  a  certain  purpose,  informs 
them  that  the  sun  will  be  darkened,  and 
he  predicts  the  precise  day,  and  hour, 
and  moment,  when  it  will  happen. 
The  people  hold  their  minds  in  sus- 
pense till  the  hour  arrives,  and  then, 
witnessing  the  result,  they  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Columbus  was  a  super- 
natural being,  and  they  reverence  him 
as  such.  It  was  to  them  a  miracle. 
But,  in  after  times,  suppose  that  this 
people  or  their  descendants  should 
study  astronomy.  What  t/ien  would  be 
their  conclusion  ?  Would  they  not  say, 
"  We  were  deceived  '' .''  And  what  other 
than  this  could  be  the  conclusion,  if  it 
should  at  length  be  discovered  that  the 
miracles  of  Jesus  belonged  to  the  natu- 
ral, though  at  that  time  unknown,  order 
of  events  ? 

But  let  us  see  now  if  miracles,  in  the 
sense  which  I  contend  for,  do  not  inevi- 
tably belong  to  the  Christian  system.  Is 
it  possible  that  those  who  originally  wit- 
nessed them  could  have  received  them 
in  any  other  light  ?  "  We  never  saw  it 
on  this  wise  ;  since  the  world  began 
such  things  were  never  seen,"  is  their 
language.  If  all  this  belonged  to  the 
order  of  nature,  must  they  not  have 
been  grossly  deceived ;  and  deceived, 
too,  with  the  knowledge,  if  not  inten- 
tion, of  the  first  teachers  of  Chris- 
tianity.'' 

But  further ;  is  there  any  one  branch 
of  the  Christian  evidences  that  does  not 
involve  miracles  of  the  character  con- 
tended for  ?  Does  not  the  argument 
from  prophecy,  and  does  not  the  argu- 
ment from  the  early  spread  of  Chris- 
tianity, clearly  proceed  on  this  ground  ? 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


447 


In  the  one  case,  more  than  the  natural 
prescience  of  any  human  mind  is  sup- 
posed ;  in  the  other,  more  than  any 
known  powers  of  persuasion.  Nay,  do 
not  the  very  attempts  to  explain  away 
miracles  still  leave  unexplained  mira- 
cles, unexplained  departures  from  the 
order  of  nature  ?  It  is  said,  for  in- 
stance, in  regard  to  the  cases  of  the 
sicl<  healed,  and  the  dead  raised  to  life, 
that  we  cannot  aver  that  the  powers  of 
nature  were  suspended  or  modified, 
because  we  are  not  acquainted  with  all 
the  powers  of  nature  ;  because  there 
may  have  been  a  secret  power  in  the 
sick  or  the  dead  body  suddenly  to 
restore  it  to  health  or  life.  But,  grant- 
ing this,  still  the  knowledge  of  the 
exact  time  when  that  event  was  to  hap- 
pen must  have  been  miraculous.  Let 
us  take,  for  example,  the  miracle  re- 
corded in  our  text.  Our  Saviour  arose 
and  rebuked  the  wind  and  the  sea,  and 
there  was  a  great  calm.  Will  it  be  pre- 
tended, by  any  honest  believer  in  Chris- 
tianity, that  Jesus  acted  upon  a  very 
sagacious  judgment  with  regard  to  the 
signs  of  the  weather?  Surely  not.  The 
only  tolerable  supposition  of  him  who 
receives  Christianity,  but  rejects  the 
miracles,  is  that  there  were  powers  in 
nature,  though  beyond  human  penetra- 
tion, which  produced  that  sudden  calm. 
But  then,  it  is  necessary,  I  repeat,  to 
suppose  a  miraculous  knowledge  in  him 
who  discerned  either  that  power-or  the 
moment  of  its  operation.  Or,  if  any 
one  should  say  that  there  are  powers 
in  the  7>iind  with  which  we  are  unac- 
quainted, and  if  he  should  maintain  a 
natural,  moral  connection  between  the 
mind  of  him  who  spake  and  that  sink- 
ing of  the  winds  and  waves,  then,  I 
should  say  —  granting  an  action  so  en- 
tirely gratuitous  and  so  utterly  incon- 
ceivable—  that  such  instances  occurring 
once,  and  never  afterwards,  were  them- 
selves miracles.  If  that  were  not  a 
miraculous  effect  of  mind  on  matter,  we 
ought  to  see  sometliing  of  it  still. 

Miracle,  then,  holds  its  place  in  every 
honest  explanation  of  the  external  evi- 


dences of  Christianity ;  and  I  think  the 
same  is  true  of  the  internal  evidence. 

With  regard  to  this  branch  of  the  ar- 
gument, various  and  vague  impressions 
are  prevailing  which  seem  to  me  to 
possess  no  weight  whatever,  as  furnish- 
ing substantive  proof.  They  may  be 
useful  preliminaries  or  auxiliaries  to 
conviction,  but  they  are  not  its  foun- 
dations. Such  are  the  ideas  that  are 
entertained  of  the  moral  charm  and 
beauty  of  the  Scriptures,  or  of  their 
adaptation  to  human  wants;  not  to 
mention  those  enthusiasts  who  profess 
to  have  a  secret  and  intuitive  perception 
of  the  divinity  of  those  writings.  But, 
granting  the  singular  moral  beauty  and 
charm  of  the  Scriptures,  I  see  not  how 
it  constitutes  proof.  Suppose  that  a 
person  had  never  heard  of  a  revelation, 
and,  seeking  light  and  rest  for  his  mind, 
were  to  take  up  some  of  the  writings  of 
F^nelon.  Would  he  not  feel  the  same 
kind  of  impression  .''  Would  he  not  be 
charmed  with  their  beauty,  and  their 
adaptation  to  his  necessities,  and  say, 
"  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  ;  this  must 
be  the  truth  of  God."  And  would  he 
not  very  justly  say  this  }  What,  then, 
would  be  the  distinction  between  the 
writings  of  Fenelon  and  the  records  of 
inspiration  ?  There  is  a  difference  be- 
tween truth  and  revealed  truth.  A  thing 
may  be  true,  whether  it  is  revealed  or 
not  ;  nay,  it  must  be  true  independently 
of  that  consideration.  But,  is  it  re- 
vealed to  be  true  ?  is  the  question  ; 
and  that  question  is  overlooked  in  this 
view  of  the  internal  evidences.  So  in 
the  writings  of  the  "  divine  Plato  "  the 
reader  will  be  amazed  and  charmed 
with  the  elevation,  the  exquisite  moral 
discrimination  and  beauty  of  some  of 
his  thoughts ;  but  will  this  prove  that 
they  are  inspired  ?  Indeed,  it  must  be 
confessed,  I  think,  that  there  is  not  one 
moral  precept  of  the  New  Testament, 
but  it  may  be  found  in  the  old  heathen 
philosophers. 

The  only  valid  internal  evidence  which 
the  New  Testament  contains  of  being  a 
revelation,  is  found  in  the  proposition 


448 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


that  these  writings  possess  altogether  a 
character  for  which  nothing  but  special 
divine  illumination  can  account.  If 
some  rustic  youth  should  come  to  you 
with  Newton's  Principia  in  his  hand 
and  satisfy  you  that  he  was  its  author, 
the  fact  would  not  be  more  astonishing 
than  it  is  that  the  fishermen  of  Galilee 
should  have  produced  such  a  book  as 
the  New  Testament.  The  character  of 
Jesus  is  itself  a  moral  miracle.  This  is 
evidence  :  and  it  will  be  more  and  more 
convincing,  as  we  more  and  more  clearly 
understand  the  nature  of  moral  phe- 
nomena, the  power  of  moral  prejudice, 
and  the  difficulty  of  moral  progress. 

Still,  then,  I  find  miracle  in  every 
species  of  satisfactory  and  substantive 
proof.  And  now  I  would  ask,  if  there 
is  any  conceivable  and  sufficient  evi- 
dence of  revelation,  but  miracles  ? 
Suppose  a  man  to  stand  before  you  and 
to  say,  "  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  special 
communication  from  God."  What 
would  you,  what  must  you,  ask  of 
him,  as  the  credentials  of  his  mission  ? 
His  air  might  be  noble,  his  doctrine 
excellent,  his  speech  divine.  His  com- 
munication might  thrill  you  with  awe 
or  with  rapture.  Would  that  satisfy 
you  ?  If  you  were  an  enthusiast,  it 
might ;  but  if  you  were  a  philosopher, 
I  am  sure  it  would  not.  He  might  tell 
you  things  which  above  all  things  you 
wished  to  know.  He  might  tell  you,  as 
Swedenborg  has  professed  to  do,  of  the 
very  state  of  the  blest  who  have  depart- 
ed from  you,  and  of  your  own  future 
state,  how  you  were  to  live  in  that  un- 
known world  ;  and  you  might  wish  to 
beheve  it.  What  could  make  you  be- 
lieve it  .'  I  can  conceive  of  but  one 
thing,  —  a  miracle.  If  he  came  from 
an  earthly  monarch,  you  would  demand 
his  credentials  ;  the  signet  ring,  or  the 
sign-manual.  The  chosen  seal  of  the 
Almighty  Monarch  is  miracle  ! 

But  I  hear  it  said,  "  Could  you  re- 
ceive a  communication  as  from  heaven 
if  it  were  evidently  of  bad  tendency  .'' 
And  if  not,  then  is  not  the  excellence  of 
the  communication   a  part  of  the   evi- 


dence ?  "  I  answer,  No  ;  it  is  only 
something  presupposed  in  a  case  ;  not 
the  proof  that  makes  out  the  case.  If 
a  man  undertakes  to  prove  anything  to 
me,  he  must  undertake  to  prove  some- 
thing that  is  credible.  I  cannot  listen 
to  him  but  upon  that  condition.  It 
would  be  incredible,  —  a  case  not  to 
be  supposed  nor  argued  upon,  —  that 
the  Almighty  had  sent  to  me  a  communi- 
cation of  evil  tendency.  I  demand  this 
condition,  then,  that  the  message  be 
good  ;  but  the  condition  is  not  the  proof. 
That  a  thing  is  credible  is  necessary  to 
its  being  credited  ;  but  the  credibility 
of  a  thing  is  net  to  be  confounded  with 
the  belief  of  it.  The  former  is  one  of 
the  postulates  ;  the  latter  is  the  con- 
clusion. They  are  completely  distinct. 
Thus  the  lawyer,  who  argues  in  behalf 
of  his  client  to  a  jury,  must  make  a  case 
that  is  credible  ;  but  the  credibility  is 
no  part  of  the  argument.  And  the 
juror  who  should  say,  •'  I  was  convinced 
by  the  internal  likelihood  of  the  case, 
and  not  by  the  witnesses  nor  by  the 
arguments,"  would  be  thought  a  very 
bad  reasoner,  however  well-disposed  a 
man. 

I  have  dwelt  longer  on  this  point  than 
I  wished  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  impor- 
tant to  show,  if  it  be  true,  that  Chris- 
tianity is  really  founded  on  miracles,  and 
that  all  attempts  to  escape  from  them  in 
the  matter  of  revelation  are  vain,  and 
are  especially  proved  to  be  vain  by  the 
very  efforts  to  explain  them  away,  to 
which  their  rejecters  are  driven. 

But  now  let  us  examine,  in  as  few 
words  as  may  suffice,  that  presumption 
against  miracles  from  which  these  efforts 
have  apparently  risen,  and  see  whether 
the  presumption  ought  not  in  fact  to  be 
the  other  way. 

And,  first  of  all,  I  must  beseech  the 
inquirer  to  approach  this  subject  in  the 
purest  spirit  of  philosophy.  It  is  the 
constant  suggestion  of  unbelief,  that  to 
support  the  argument  for  a  revelation, 
prejudice  is  necessary.  Now  I  say  that 
is  precisely  the  aid  that  we  do  not  want. 
Nay,  more,  I  say  that  prejudice  is   the 


THE   ARGUMENT    FROM    MIRACLES. 


449 


very  obstacle,  and  the  main  obstacle,  to 
true  faith.  I  ask  the  sceptic  to  lay  aside 
his  prejudices.  I  ask  him  to  be  a  phi- 
losopher, and  yet  more  distinctively  I 
say,  a  philosopher  of  the  inductive 
school.  Let  him  reason  upon  facts. 
Let  him  take  nothing  for  granted.  Let 
him  assert  nothing  which  he  does  not 
know;  and  deny  nothing  which,  for  all 
that  he  knows,  may  be  true. 

Now  let  us  see  how  much  is  cut  off 
from  the  ground  of  this  inquiry  by  these 
discriminations.  You  are  not  to  deny 
the  possibility  of  miracles.  Evidently, 
he  who  made  and  who  controls  all  things 
can  modify  and  change  them  if  it  be  his 
pleasure.  The  act  of  creation  is  but  the 
grandest  of  miracles  * 

Again,  you  are  not  to  say,  or  suppose, 
that  there  is  any  difficulty  in  the  perform- 
ance of  miracles,  or  that  it  requires  any 
extraordinary  or  any  new  exertion  of  di- 
vine power  to  produce  the  changes  in 
question.  You  do  not  know  but  that 
every  event  in  the  universe  springs  from 
an  immediate  exertion  of  divine  power, 
and,  therefore,  that  one  result  is  as  natu- 
rally and  easily  produced  as  another.  In 
other  words,  you  are  not  at  liberty,  in  the 
spirit  of  true  philosophy,  to  regard  nature 

*  "  The  aci  of  creation  is  but  the  grandest  of  mira- 
cles." This  idea  occurs  in  some  of  the  French  writers. 
I  have  met  with  it,  I  thinlt,,  in  Necker's  "Morale 
Religieuse,"  and  in  the  French  preachers.  But  it 
seems  to  be  used  by  them  rather  as  a  figure  of  speech 
than  otherwi^  I  do  not  introduce  it  as  such.  I 
hold  it  to  be  a  philosophical  truth.  The  act  of  the 
creation  is  the  producing  of  new  forms  of  being,  out 
of  the  usual  course  of  production.  It  is  an  event 
without  any  antecedent  in  the  processes  of  nature.  It 
is  "'a  deviation  from  the  uniformity  of  causation." 
And  that  is  the  definition  of  a  miracle.  That  it  is  the 
commouejnent  of  a  series  of  events  does  not  affect 
this  conclu.sion.  The  point  of  departure  from  the 
ordinary  modes  of  production  is  none  the  less  devia- 
tion, none  the  less  miracle,  for  the  regularity  that 
follows.  If  the  earth  were  suddenly  arrested  in  its 
course,  and  made  to  take  a  retrograde  movement 
through  its  orbit,  for  thousands  of  years,  the  point  of 
change  would  be  miracle,  and  none  the  less  miracle 
for  the  regularity  that  followed.  And  surely  it  would 
be  no  less  a  miracle,  if  a  world  were  suddenly  created ; 
if  solid  matter  instantly,  at  a  word,  filled  the  void 
space,  and  were  launched  forth  upon  its  mighty  career. 
All  the  difference  in  the  cases,  with  reference  to  the 
point  in  hand,  is  made  by  an  unphilosophical  idea  of 
causes  *.  as  if  there  were  a  tendency  in  antecedents  to 
produce  their  consequents,  a  pushing  on  of  one  event 
by  another,  of  which  we  know  nothing.      And  yet 


as  a  piece  of  mechanism,  —  as  a  clock,  for 
instance,  wliich  is  wound  up  and  has  a  nat- 
ural or  necessary  tendency  to  run  down. 
And  you  are  not  to  say,  that  the  need  of 
a  miracle  to  answer  the  purposes  of  the 
Author  of  nature  implies  some  imperfec- 
tion in  the  machinery  of  nature.  The 
idea  of  machinery  is  a  pure  assumption. 
Des  Cartes  might  as  well  have  argued 
from  those  vortices,  or  whirlpools  of 
ether,  by  which  he  supposed  the  lieavenly 
bodies  were  moved,  as  we  may  argue 
from  the  notion  of  any  other  mechanism. 
Once  more  ;  all  ideas  of  miraculous  in- 
terference, as  if  it  were  derogatory  to 
the  Infinite  Being,  all  presumptions  on 
this  point,  drawn  from  the  infinity  of  the 
universe,  and  the  comparative  insignifi- 
cance of  the  earth  and  of  man,  are  to  be 
laid  out  of  the  question  as  entirely  un- 
philosophical. 

With  these  reasonable  disclamations, 
then,  we  come  to  the  simple  and  un- 
prejudiced experience  of  facts.  We  see 
an  order  in  nature  not  mechanical,  not 
necessary,  but  appointed.  Can  that 
order  be  changed  ?  Doubtless  it  can. 
To  assert  the  impossibility  of  change  is 
to  go  far  beyond  our  province.  The 
power  that  ordained  the  succession  of 

even  then  we  might  say,  that  there  were  causes  in  that 
void  space  to  keep  it  void,  and  that  those  causes  were 
arrested  by  the  creative  act  which  filled  that  space 
with  matter. 

When  life  is  communicated  to  a  dead  body,  what  is 
that  but  the  creation  of  life?  Suppose  that  a  human 
being  were  instantly  created  before  our  eyes,  in  full 
size  and  strength,  would  not  that  be  Just  as  great  a 
deviation  from  the  usual  and  natural  course  of  produc- 
tion, as  it  is  to  raise  a  dead  body  to  life ! 

I  have  supposed,  in  another  part  of  the  discourse,  a 
world  to  be  created  in  our  sight.  But  to  present 
a  more  palpable  case,  and  one  directly  beneath  our 
eyes,  suppose  that,  as  we  were  looking  upon  a  barren 
and  blasted  heath,  it  were  suddenly  covered  with  a 
crop  of  grain  ripe  for  the  harvest.  That  would  be 
creation,  and  that  would  be  a  miracle.  And  if  we  and 
many  more  saw  that  miracle,  and  knew  moreover  that 
it  was  wrought  in  attestation  of  a  divine  commission  : 
nay,  more,  if  we  harvested  the  grain,  and  ground  and 
ate  it,  it  would  not  only  be  philosophical  to  believe, 
but  impossible  to  doubt.  Thus,  if  I  may  speak  so,  did 
the  Christian  witnesses  handle  the  evidence  of  the 
miracles  they  record. 

But  I  am  not  now  to  pursue  this  argument  beyond 
the  point  which  Is  immediately  before  me,  to  wit,  the 
credibility  of  miracles  And  for  this  credibility,  on 
the  strictest  grounds  of  philosophy,  I  say  that  the 
fact  of  creation  is  a  sufficient  warrant. 


29 


450 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


events  can  modify  them.  Has  the  order 
of  nature  been  in  any  instance  inter- 
rupted? That  is  the  great  question.  I 
am  not  now  to  discuss  it.  I  have  only 
to  ask  if  that  question  may  not  be  fairly 
entertained;  if  it  is  not  open  to  argu- 
ment ;  if  witnesses  may  not  be  called  to 
testify  ;  and  if  we  are  not  bound  to  listen 
to  them  without  setting  up  any  bar  of 
presumption  against  their  testimony. 
Certainly,  if  there  is  no  intrinsic  and 
ascertained  impossibility  in  the  events 
alleged  to  have  taken  place,  we  are 
bound  to  listen. 

But  in  what  spirit  shall  we  listen  ? 
With  an  extreme  and  almost  insur- 
mountable prejudice  against  miracles  ? 
This  is  the  assumption  of  unbelief. 
And  on  what  is  this  assumption  found- 
ed.'  "On  experience,"  is  the  answer. 
And  what  now  is  this  boasted  experi- 
ence ?  Is  human  experience  the  meas- 
ure of  divine  power  ?  Can  a  limited 
experience  set  bounds  to  possibility  ? 
What  is  this  life's  experience  but  a 
childhood  amidst  the  ages  of  eternity.'' 
Suppose  that  we  were  hereafter  to  be 
placed,  for  the  correction  of  some  men- 
tal errors,  in  a  scene  of  being  where  all 
should  be  miracle,  all  change;  where 
everything  should  reveal  the  immediate 
action  of  the  Almighty  Power.  Where 
would  be  experience  then?  Or,  to  illus- 
trate the  same  point,  let  us  revert  to  the 
truly  philosophical,  the  primitive  expe- 
rience. Suppose  that  the  first  man  had 
been  created  before  the  heavens  were 
spread  forth,  or  the  earth  hung  in  the 
empty  space,  and  that  he  had  beheld 
those  awful  effects  of  Omnipotence. 
Would  he,  at  the  close  of  the  first  day 
of  his  existence,  find  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve in  miracles  ?  Why,  then,  should 
the  experience  of  forty  years,  amidst 
regular  successions  of  events,  make  him 
forget  that  miracles  might  again  be  a 
part  of  the  course  of  nature  ?  The  ex- 
perience that  makes  a  man  feel  as  if 
there  could  be  no  more  miracles,  seems 
to  me  narrow,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  pro- 
vincial •,  hke  that  which  makes  an  igno- 
rant and    home-bred,  rustic   feel   as   if 


everything  in  the  great  world  must  be 
just  like  what  he  had  seen  in  his  father's 
house,  and  fills  him  with  astonishment, 
amounting  to  incredulity,  at  everything 
new  and  extraordinary. 

What  is  the  spirit  of  a  real  and  stu- 
dious philosophy  in  cases  which,  so  far 
as  the  facts  are  considered,  are  precisely 
analogous  to  miracles  ?  An  extraordi- 
nary, unheard-of,  and  before-unknown 
fact  is  presented  in  nature.  Water,  for  in- 
stance, is  produced  by  the  intense  com- 
bustion of  two  invisible  gases.  There 
are  many  men  in  the  world  who  would 
say,  on  the  first  proposition  of  such  a 
marvel,  that  they  would  not  believe  it. 
But  does  the  philosopher  say  so  ?  Or 
does  he  wait,  before  he  will  believe,  till 
he  can  resolve  that  fact  into  some  order 
of  nature  ?  By  no  means.  The  fact 
has  been  submitted  to  the  test  of  ex- 
periment, and  he  is  satisfied.  And  he 
believes  it,  let  me  add,  not  because  it 
belongs  to  any  order  of  things,  but  be- 
cause it  has  been  proved  by  satisfactory 
experiments.  The  King  of  Siam  would 
not  believe  that  the  liquid  and  flowing 
water  could  become  a  solid  body  under 
his  feet.  He  took  the  very  ground  of 
the  sceptic  about  miracles.  He  had 
never  seen  water  frozen  ;  nobody  in  his 
country  had  ever  seen  it  ;  and  he  would 
not  believe  it.  Was  that  the  ground 
of  philosophy,  or  of  prejudice  ?  A  man 
says  that  he  cannot  and  wiIl*ot  believe 
in  miracles.  And  yet  every  object  in 
the  universe  around  him  had  its  origin 
in  a  miracle.  And  suppose  that  it  were 
given  us  again  to  witness  such  displays 
of  power.  Suppose  that  another  sun 
were  created  and  placed  in  the  heavens 
before  our  very  eyes.  Should  we  not 
believe  the  fact  till  we  perceived  that  it 
was  produced  by  some  pre-existing, 
world-making  machinery  of  causes  ? 
And  yet  I  verily  believe  that  that  won- 
derful creation  would  not  be  more  ex- 
traordinary than  to  the  discriminating 
moral  eye  is  that  great  Light  which 
burst  upon  the  darkness  of  the  world 
eighteen  centuries  ago. 

If,  then,  the  strong  and  almost  insu- 


THE   ARGUMENT    FROM    MIRACLES. 


451 


perable  presumption  against  the  doc- 
trine of  miracles,  which  many  feel,  is 
not  justified  by  a  strict  philosophy,  let 
i>s  now  proceed  a  step  farther. 

I  am  willing  to  concede  something  to 
this  presumption  ;  I  wish  to  give  it  all 
the  weight  that  it  deserves  ;  but  1  do  not 
conceive  that  it  possesses  the  broadest 
characters  of  philosophy.  It  appears 
to  me  instinctive  rather  than  rational, 
hasty  rather  than  deliberate,  and  nar- 
row rather  than  comprehensive.  And 
I  believe  that  the  rational,  deliberate, 
and  comprehensive  view  of  things  is 
more  than  sufficient  fairly  to  rebut  the 
narrow,  the  hasty,  and  the  instinctive 
view. 

It  is  said  that  nature  and  experience 
are  against  miracles.  That  a  part  of 
nature  and  experience  is  so,  I  admit; 
but  I  desire  special  attention  to  the  re- 
mark that  it  is  only  a  part.  That  the 
whole  is  so,  I  deny.  Nay,  I  would  in- 
vite your  still  more  particular  attention 
to  the  observation,  that  the  parts  of  na- 
ture and  experience  which  are  against 
miracles  are  the  lowest  and  humblest. 
It  is  the  mechanical  order  of  nature 
which  is  opposed  to  miracles,  and  not 
its  grand,  comprehensive  meaning  and 
principle.  And  it  is  a  less  cultivated 
experience  which,  feeling  less  the  need 
of  those  truths  that  revelation  discloses, 
is  less  disposed  to  admit  of  such  a  reve- 
lation, than  the  mind  in  its  highest 
development. 

Let  us,  then,  go  into  the  broad  field 
of  nature  and  experience,  into  that  very 
field  where  scepticism  has  found  its 
stronghold,  and  see  what  it  teaches  us. 

The  particular  course  of  things  in 
nature  is  order  ;  the  great  principle  is 
beneficence;  the  adaptation  of  all  things 
to  the  happiness  of  sensitive  beings,  — 
the  supply  of  all  wants,  the  relief  of  all 
sufferings.  Nay,  order  itself  has  its 
chief  value  in  its  uses  ;  it  is  designed 
for  the  improvement  of  rational  beings  ; 
and  it  has  been  well  argued,  on  a  for- 
mer occasion  in  this  place,  that,  "if  the 
great  purposes  of  the  universe  can  best 
be  accomplished  by  departing  from  its 


established  laws,  those  laws  will  un- 
doubtedly be  suspended,  and,  though 
broken  in  the  letter,  they  will  be  ob- 
served in  the  spirit ; "  and  hence  that 
"miracles,  instead  of  warring  against 
nature,  would  concur  with  it."* 

But  let  us  cast  a  glance,  first,  not  at 
human  experience,  but  at  the  condition 
of  irrational  natures.  The  most  striking 
feature  in  that  condition  is  the  adapta- 
tion of  means  to  beneficent  ends  —  of 
supplies  to  wants,  of  reliefs  to  unavoid- 
able sufferings.  Among  all  the  tribes 
of  animate  life,  there  is  not  a  creature 
so  small  but  contains  within  it  a  world 
of  wonders  :  and  wonders  not  of  skill 
only,  but  of  beneficence.  The  anatomy 
of  a  fly,  the  instinct  of  a  spider,  the  econ- 
omy of  a  hive  of  bees,  the  structure  of 
an  ant-hill,  are  each  of  them  subjects 
which  fill  many  ample  pages  in  the  books 
of  philosophy,  and  fill  them  construc- 
tively with  this  one  theme, — the  good- 
ness of  the  Creator,  his  gracious  regard 
to  the  humblest  thing  that  lives.  If  you 
rise  higher  in  the  scale  of  the  creation, 
you  find  everywhere,  multiplying  and 
crowding  upon  you,  the  proofs  of  un- 
speakable goodness.  In  heaven,  on 
earth,  and  abroad  upon  all  the  pathless 
seas,  are  innumerable  creatures,  pos- 
sessing frames  filled  with  the  most  ex- 
quisite adaptations  of  part  to  part,  guided 
by  kindly  instincts,  supplied  with  boun- 
tiful provisions,  arrayed  as  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed,  and  pro- 
vided with  habitations  more  perfect  for 
the  purposes  than  palaces  of  cedar  or 
marble. 

To  illustrate  the  argument  which  I 
design  to  draw  from  this  appeal  to  na- 
ture, let  me  make  a  supposition  entirely 
at  variance  with  the  facts  to  which  we 
have  now  adverted.  Suppose,  then,  that 
you  had  found  any  one  tribe  of  the  ani- 
mal creation  unprovided  for.  Suppose 
that  it  had  no  appropriate  food,  or  that 
it  had  no  instinct  to  guide  it  to  that  food ; 
that  it  knew  not  where  to  seek  its  sus- 
tenance, whether  in  the  water,  or  the 
air,  or  the  earth.     If  we  had  seen  any 

*  Channing's  Dudleian  Lecture. 


452 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


species  of  beings  in  this  situation  ;  if, 
for  example,  every  summer  should  bring 
into  existence  a  certain  kind  of  bird  for 
which  there  was  no  suitable  provision 
or  no  guiding  instinct;  if  we  should  see 
them  flying  about  us,  as  if  uncertain, 
destitute,  and  suffering,  with  wild 
screams  testifying  their  anxiety  and  dis- 
tress, apparently  ignorant  whether  the 
night  or  the  day -was  appointed  for 
them,  now  rising  in  the  air,  now  plung- 
ing into  the  water,  and  then  madly  dash- 
ing against  the  earth  :  if,  I  say,  we  had 
thus  seen  them  holding  a  precarious  and 
painful  existence  for  a  few  weeks,  and 
then  miserably  perishing,  we  should 
feel  as  if  such  a  phenomenon  was  most 
extraordinary  and  astonishing;  at  war 
with  the  whole  system  of  nature,  and 
with  all  the  proofs  of  divine  benevolence. 
We  do  unhesitatingly  pronounce  the 
facts  embraced  in  such  a  supposition 
impossible.  If  we  were  to  study  nature 
forever,  we  should  never  expect  to  meet 
with  anything  like  this. 

Now  I  apply  this  to  the  case  of  human 
nature.  And  I  desire  you  to  suspend 
your  judgment  of  the  comparison  for  one 
moment,  till  I  can  fully  lay  it  before  you. 
Consider,  in  the  first  place,  the  dignity 
of  the  being,  to  illustrate  whose  condi- 
tion this  comparison  is  brought.  Con- 
sider all  the  diiTerence  between  animal 
sense  and  a  being  so  "infinite  in  facul- 
ties" as  man.  Suppose,  in  the  next 
place,  that  this  being,  according  to  an 
unquestionable  law  of  his  nature,  should 
improve  his  faculties  to  the  highest  de- 
gree conceivable,  without  the  knowledge 
of  a  future  life.  And  finally,  suppose 
him,  with  all  the  craving  wants,  the  soar- 
ing aspirations,  and  the  exquisite,  varied, 
and  multiplied  sorrows  of  refined  thought 
and  feeling,  to  stand  upon  the  earth,  as 
it  rolled  in  silence  through  the  mighty 
void  of  heaven,  — with  death  all  around 
him,  and  without  one  voice  from  beyond 
the  realms  of  visible  life  to  assure  him 
that  he  should  live  hereafter,  —and  then 
say,  whether  this  would  not  be  a  con- 
dition more  mournful,  more  disastrous, 
more   at  war  with    the   order  of  divine 


beneficence,  than    any  catastrophe  that 
ever  could  befall  animal  natures. 

If  any  one  distrusts  this  comparison, 
I  must  beg  leave  to  doubt  whether  he 
fairly  comprehends  it.  The  truth  is, 
that  all  the  world  has  held  to  revelations 
in  one  form  or  another.  By  communi- 
cations direct  or  traditional,  by  the  voice 
of  augurs  or  of  prophets,  by  open  mir- 
acle or  inward  light,  all  mankind  have 
deemed  themselves  to  have  special 
guidance  from  above. 

It  is  an  important  inference  from  this 
fact  that  no  one  can  very  well  estimate 
the  case  of  supposed  utter  destitution; 
and,  therefore,  that  it  is  extremely  diffi- 
cult for  any  individual  to  feel  the  whole 
and  legitimate  force  of  this  argument. 
Every  man  has  been  trained  up  from 
childhood  by  a  system  of  communica- 
tions ;  and  now,  upon  the  very  strength 
of  these  communications,  or  of  the  con- 
victions they  have  inevitably  inspired, 
he  deems  himself  able  to  stand  without 
them.  But  difficult  as  the  task  is  made 
by  the  unfair  position  of  the  objector,  I 
shall  offer  two  or  three  observations,  in 
close,  tending  to  show  the  need,  and 
therefore  the  likelihood,  instead  of  the 
often  alleged  improbability,  of  an  ex- 
traordinary revelation. 

Leaving  other  communications  out  of 
the  account,  then,  we,  as  Christians,  say 
that  about  eighteen  centuries  ago.  at  a 
period  at  once  of  unprecedented  intel- 
lectual development  and  equally  prevail- 
ing scepticism,  there  appeared  an  ex- 
traordinary teacher  from  heaven.  I  am 
not  now  to  offer  any  of  the  arguments 
for  his  divine  mission,  that  seem  to  me 
so  abundant  and  overwhelming ;  but  I 
think  I  am  fully  entitled  by  the  circum- 
stances to  say  that  there  ought  to  be  no 
presumption  against  it.  For  it  is  un- 
deniable that,  amidst  all  the  lights  of 
Grecian  and  Roman  civilization,  the 
most  important  truths  — the  unity  and 
paternity  of  God  and  the  immortality 
of  man  —  were  obscured  ;  and  it  is  but 
a  reasonable  inference  that  without  a 
revelation  they  would  have  been  over- 
shadowed  with   doubt    till   now.     And 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM    MIRACLES. 


453 


even  the  belief  that  prevailed  in  the 
minds  of  a  few  philosophers  seems  to 
me  singularly  to  have  wanted  vitality. 
There  is  more  reasoning  than  conviction 
apparent  in  their  discourses,  and  cer- 
tainly their  faith  had  but  little  influence 
on  their  lives.  Cicero,  we  know,  and 
others,  amidst  all  their  hopes,  had  strong 
doubts.  And  I  maintain,  not  only  from 
these  examples  but  from  the  experience 
of  every  powerful  mind  since,  that  no 
reasonings  can  relieve  that  great  ques- 
tion from  painful,  from  distressing  un- 
certainty. 

My  argument,  then,  is  from  human 
experience,  and  from  cultivated  human 
experience.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  a 
rude  age  might  less  need  the  relief 
which  a  revelation  on  this  point  would 
give  ;  and  for  this  reason,  as  I  hold,  to 
rude  ages  it  was  not  given.  My  argu- 
ment, then,  is  from  cultivated  human 
experience.  And  this  is  the  form  into 
which  it  resolves  itself.  God  is  the 
author  of  life,  and  the  former  of  the 
mind.  It  is  fair  to  presume  that  he 
who  has  provided  for  the  wants  of  the 
humblest  animal  life  would  not  doom 
the  noblest  creature  he  has  made  on 
earth  to  overwhelming  despondency  and 
misery.  Now  I  say  that  without  a 
revelation  this  result  is  inevitable.  I 
maintain  that  no  scheme  of  a  virtuous, 
improving,  and  happy  life  can  be  made 
out,  which  leaves  the  doctrines  of  God's 
paternal  and  forgiving  mercy,  and  of 
human  immortality,  in  great  and  serious 
doubt. 

My  friends,  I  bring  home  the  case  to 
myself  and  to  you.  I  know  what  it  is 
to  doubt,  and  I  say  that  no  man  should 
judge  of  the  effect  of  that  doubt  till  he 
knows  by  experience  what  it  is  ;  till, 
crushed  by  its  weight,  he  has  laid  him- 
self down  to  his  nightly  rest,  too  miser- 
able and  desperate  to  care  whether  he 
ever  raised  his  head  from  that  pillow  of 
repose  and  oblivion  ;  till  every  morning 
has  waked  him  to  sadness  and  despon- 
dency darker  than  the  gloomiest  night 
that  ever  clouded  the  path  of  earthly 
sorrow.  It  is  not  calamity,  it  is  not 
worldly  disappointment,  it  is  not  afiiic- 


tion,  it  is  not  grief,  that  I  speak  of;  nor 
is  it  any  of  these  that  gives  the  greatest 
intensity  to  this  doubt;  it  is  a  develop- 
ment of  our  own  nature  ;  it  is  the  soul's 
own  struggling  with  the  mighty  powers 
with  which  it  is  made  to  grapple  ;  it  is 
the  longed-for  and  almost  felt  immortal- 
ity, struck  from  our  eager  grasp,  the 
light  gone  out,  the  heaven  of  our  hope 
all  overshadowed  and  dark.  Yes,  it  is 
the  consciousness  of  infinite  desires  and 
capacities,  all  blighted  and  broken  down; 
it  is  the  aspiring  which  suns  and  stars 
cannot  bound,  all  shrunk  and  buried  in 
a  coffin  and  a  grave  !  In  short,  it  is  the 
proper  and  legitimate  state  of  a  mind 
following  the  premises  of  the  case  to 
their  just  result ;  and  not  that  worldly 
condition  of  the  mind,  which  is  no  more 
fit  to  judge  of  this  subject  than  child- 
hood is  to  judge  of  the  interests  of  an 
empire.  And  now  I  say,  Is  it  hard  to 
believe  that  God  would  interpose  for 
humanity  so  circumstanced?  Is  it  in- 
credible that  he  should  send  a  voice  into 
that  deep  and  dark  struggle  for  spiritual 
life  and  hope  ? 

I  appeal  to  yoii,  my  brethren.  I  ap- 
peal to  the  youth  who  are  before  me. 
It  is  thought  that  this  age  is  witnessing 
an  unusual  development  of  infidel  prin- 
ciples. One  whole  nation,  indeed,  has 
fallen  a  victim  to  them.  And  what  is 
new  and  striking,  it  is  said,  has  a  kind 
of  fascination  for  youth.  But  I  hold 
that  this  is  an  age,  too,  which  is  witness- 
ing an  extraordinary  development  of 
sensibility  in  the  young.  This  arises 
from  an  earlier,  I  had  almost  said  a 
premature,  education  ;  from  an  exciting 
literature  ;  and  from  the  character  of 
enterprise  and  expectation  which  now 
invests  all  the  interests  and  prospects 
of  society.  But  I  ask,  Is  this  an  age 
when  you  can  safely  break  the  great 
bond  of  faith  and  hope.'  If  yours  were 
a  dull  and  sluggish  youth,  or  a  youth 
amidst  rude  and  barbarous  times,  it 
might  not  yield  me  the  argument  which 
I  now  seek.  But  I  know  that  in  this 
age,  ay,  and  in  this  assembly,  there  is 
many  a  youthful  heart,  whose  daily  ex- 
perience is  the  strongest  possible  proof 


454 


THE   ARGUMENT   FROM   MIRACLES. 


of  the  need,  and  therefore  of  the  likeli- 
hood, of  a  divinely  sanctioned  religion. 
Ay,  I  know,  and  many  a  sorrowing 
parent  in  this  land  knows,  that  the 
period  of  youth  cannot  be  safely  passed 
without  it.  Those  thronging  passions, 
those  swaying  sympathies  of  social  life, 
the  deeper  musings  of  solitary  hours, 
the  imaginations,  the  affections,  the 
thoughts,  unuttered  and  unutterable, 
all  the  sweeping  currents  that  bear  the 
youthful  heart  it  scarcely  knows  whither, 
—  all  show  that  it  cannot  be  thrown, 
without  infinite  peril,  to  drift  upon  a  sea 
of  doubt. 

Humanity,  in  fine,  and  especially  in 
its  growing  cultivation,  is  too  hard  a  lot, 
it  appears  to  me,  if  God  has  not  opened 
for  it  the  fountains  of  revelation.  With- 
out that  great  disclosure  from  above, 
humar)  nature  stands,  in  my  contempla- 
tion of  it,  as  an  anomaly  amidst  the 
whole  creation.  The  noblest  existence 
on  earth  is  not  provided  with  a  resource 
even  so  poor  as  instinct.  On  the  heart 
that  is  made  to  bear  the  weight  of  in- 
finite interests,  sinks  the  crushing  bur- 
den of  doubt  and  despondency,  of  fear 
and  sorrow,  of  pain  and  death,  without 
resource,  or  rehef,  or  comfort,  or  hope. 
The  cry  of  the  young  ravens,  the  buzzing 
of  insect  life  in  every  hedge,  is  heard ; 
but  the  call  that  comes  up  from  the 
deep  and  dark  conflict  of  the  over- 
shadowed soul  dies  upon  the  vacant  air, 
and  there  is  no  ear  to  hear  nor  eye  to 
pity.  Oh  !  were  it  so,  what  could  sus- 
tain the  human  heart,  sinking  under 
the  burden  of  its  noblest  aspirations  ? 
"  The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity," 
sounding  on  through  all  time,  would 
lose  every  soothing  tone,  and  would  be- 
come a  wail,  in  which  the  heart  of  the 
world  would  die  I 

And  why  must  any  man  think  that 
the  world  is  left  to  that  darkness  and 
misery  ?  Because  he  cannot  believe 
that  a  communication  has  been  made 
from  heaven  in  the  only  conceivable 
way  in  which  it  can  be  made  and  proved, 
by  miracles.  Fori  affirm  that,  if  that 
great  preliminary  difficulty  were  over, 
all  difficulties  would  vanish  before    the 


stupendous  proofs  of  a  revelation.  He 
that  thinks,  then,  that  the  world  is  left  to 
nature's  darkness  ;  thinks  thus,  I  repeat, 
because  he  cannot  believe  in  miracles  ; 
because  he  cannot  admit  that  the  order 
of  nature,  which  is  itself  not  an  end, 
but  a  means  to  an  end,  may  be  inter- 
tupted  for  the  greatest  of  all  ends  ;  be- 
cause he  will  not  admit  that  the  Infinite 
Power  is  superior  to  the  laws  itself  has 
made  ;  because  he  will  not  allow,  in  his 
philosophy,  that  liberty  to  the  Infinite 
Parent,  in  changing  and  adapting  his 
provisions  to  the  wants  of  his  children, 
that  he  allows  to  every  earthly  parent. 
Is  this  the  childlike  and  trustful,  the 
deep-searching  and  discerning,  the  ex- 
pansive and  unprejudiced  spirit  of  true 
philosophy,  oris  it  the  shallowand  scepti- 
cal spirit  of  bondage  to  the  mere  outward 
forms  and  processes  of  things,  regard- 
less'of  their  higher  meanings  and  ends? 
Here  for  the  present  I  leave  the  sub- 
ject. I  have  not  undertaken  in  this 
discourse  to  prove  the  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity ;  but,  if  I  have  succeeded  in  re- 
moving the  great  obstacle,  in  opening 
the  door  to  the  argument,  the  conclu- 
sion, I  think,  will  easily  follow.  I  have 
not  undertaken  to  prove  that  there  have 
been  miracles  ;  but  I  do  hold  myself 
entitled  to  say,  as  the  close  and  infer- 
ence of  this  discourse,  that  I  should 
wonder  if  there  had  not  been  miracles. 
The  philosophical  presumption  is  for, 
rather  than  against  them.  Nature  is 
for,  more  than  it  is  against  them  ;  its 
mechanical  order  only  being  against 
them,  while  its  whole  spirit  is  in  their 
favor.  Man's  necessity,  God's  mercy, 
is  for  them  ;  and  against  them  is  — 
what  ?  'What  is  against  all  legitimate 
wisdom  and  conviction  ?  Why,  only  a 
doubt,  —  which  is  mostly  vague  and  ir- 
responsible, —  which,  because  it  is  a 
doubt,  holds  itself  scarcely  bound  to 
give  a  reason  ;  and  which,  though  it  is  a 
doubt,  sits  immovable,  as  it  it  held  the 
very  seat  of  knowledge  and  throne  of 
reason.  To  allow  it  to  sit  there  undis- 
turbed, is  to  yield  more  deference  to  a 
shadow  than  to  the  very  substance  of 
reason  and  truth. 


THE   SCRIPTURES   AS   THE   RECORD   OF  A  REVELATION.        455 


THE   SCRIPTURES    CONSIDERED   AS    THE 
RECORD   OF   A    REVELATION. 


It  has  become  very  important,  as  it 
seems  to  us,  that  the  advocates  of  a 
divine  revelation  should  carefully  and 
accurately  define  the  ground  which  they 
undertake  to  defend.  In  logical  order, 
this  task  is  preliminary  to  the  defence 
itself.  Our  position  is  to  be  taken  be- 
fore it  is  to  be  maintained.  What  is  it 
to  believe  in  a  revelation  .''  Or,  in  other 
words,  what  is  the  question  between  the 
believer  and  the  unbeliever  ?  This  we 
shall  undertake  to  define,  in  the  first 
place,  and  then  shall  offer  some  general 
remarks  on  belief  and  unbelief. 

There  are  two  methods  by  which 
mankind  may  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
of  truth.  The  one  is  by  observation,  by 
reflection,  by  reasoning,  by  the  natural 
exercise  of  the  human  faculties.  The 
other  is  by  a  supernatural  communica- 
tion from  Heaven  ;  and  this  different 
from,  and  superior  to,  reasoning,  obser- 
vation, intuition,  impulse,  and  every 
known  operation  of  the  human  mind. 
Now  we  contend  that  it  is  in  a  commu- 
nication of  this  nature  that  our  Scriptures 
originated. 

But  let  us  consider  more  particularly 
the  vehicle  of  this  communication,  —  the 
Scriptures.  It  is  on  this  point  that 
believers  differ  somewhat  among  them- 
selves. And  it  is  from  rash  positions 
on  this  subject,  or  from  marking  too 
negligently  and  too  broadly  the  lines  of 
defence,  that  the  advocates  of  a  revelation 
expose  themselves  to  the  strongest  at- 
tacks of  infidelity.  The  Scriptures,  then, 
it  might  seem  needless  to  say.  are  not  the 
actual  communication  made  to  the  minds 
that  were  inspired  from  Above ;  but 
they  are  a  "  declaration  of  those  things 
which  were  most  surely  believed  among 
them."  *     They  are  not  the  actual  word 

*  Luke  i.  I. 


of  God,  but  they  are  a  "  record  of  tJie 
word  of  God."  *  They  are  of  the  nature 
of  a  testimony.  "  We  speak  that  we  do 
know,  and  testify  that  we  have  seen."t 
This  distinction,  obvious  as  it  may  seem, 
is  not  without  its  importance  ;  and  it 
unhappily  derives  some  consequence 
from  the  earnestness  with  which  it  is 
opposed.  To  say  so  simple  a  thing  as 
that  the  Bible  is  not  the  original,  the 
very  revelation  made  to  the  prophets  and 
apostles,  but  the  record  of  that  revela- 
tion, is  an  excess  of  temerity  thought  to 
be  worthy  of  the  most  heinous  charges. 

But  the  distinction  is  intrinsically 
important.  It  is  important  to  make  the 
discrimination,  and  to  say  that  the  com- 
munication of  light  and  truth  was  one 
thing,  and  the  record  of  that  commu- 
nication another.  The  communication 
was  divine  ;  the  record  was  human. 
It  was,  strictly  speaking  and  every  way, 
a  human  act.  The  manner,  the  style, 
the  phraseology,  the  choice  of  words,  the 
order  of  thought,  the  selection  of  figures, 
comparisons,  arguments,  to  enforce  the 
communication,  was  altogether  a  human 
work.  It  was  as  purely  human,  as  pecu- 
liarly individual,  in  the  case  of  every  wit- 
ness, as  his  accent,  altitude,  or  gesture, 
when  delivering  his  message.  And,  in- 
deed, we  might  as  well  demand  that 
Paul's  gesture  or  intonation  on  Mars 
Hill  should  be  faultless,  as  to  demand  that 
the  style  of  his  letter  to  the  Galatians 
should  be  faultless  ;  for,  in  truth,  the 
action  and  the  accent  were  as  truly  a 
part  of  the  communication  as  the  words 
employed  to  set  it  forth.  We  are  about 
to  argue  for  this  general  position,  and  in 
doing  so  we  shall  more  clearly  define 
and  guard  it  ;  but  we  wished  to  state  it 
with  some  precision   in  the  outset.     If 


♦  Rev.  i.  2. 


t  John  iii.   ii. 


456 


THE   SCRIPTURES   CONSIDERED   AS 


there  ever  were  productions  which 
showed  the  fire  and  fervent  workings  of 
human  thought  and  feehng,  they  are 
our  Scriptures.  We  know  not  how  it 
is  possible  for  any  one  candidly  to  read 
or  thoroughly  to  study  them,  without 
coming  to  this  conclusion.  And  we  say, 
therefore,  that  the  question  between  the 
believer  and  the  unbeliever  is,  not 
whether  the  words  of  this  communica- 
tion are  grammatically  the  best  words, 
not  whether  the  illustrations  are  rhe- 
torically the  best  illustrations,  not  wheth- 
er the  arguments  are  logically  the  best 
arguments  ;  but  the  question  is,  whether 
there  is  any  communication  at  all.  Let 
any  man  admit  this,  let  him  admit  it 
in  any  shape,  and  though  there  may  be 
difficulties  and  disputes,  we  shall  find 
no  difficulty  in  settling,  beyond  all  dis- 
pute, some  truths  from  the  Scriptures  ; 
and  truths,  too,  of  dearer  concern  to 
us  than  all  the  visible  interests  of  this 
world. 

But  is  this  view  of  the  Bible  a  right 
and  safe  one  ?  To  this  question  let  us 
now  proceed. 

I.  Let  us,  as  the  first  step,  proceed  to 
inquire  of  the  Scriptures  themselves.  We 
say,  then,  that  what  has  now  been  stated 
is  the  natural,  and,  we  might  say,  the 
unavoidable  impression  which  a  reader 
would  take  from  a  perusal  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. The  vehicle  of  revelation  is 
language.  The  things  we  have  to  deal 
with  are  words.  They  are  not  divine 
symbols  of  thought  ;  they  are  not  pure 
essences  of  ideas ;  they  are  words. 
The  vehicle,  we  say,  is  language.  We 
shall  soon  undertake  to  show  that  lan- 
guage is,  from  its  very  nature,  an  imper- 
fect instrument  of  communication.  But, 
for  the  present,  we  only  say  that  the 
language  of  revelation  is  the  natural  lan- 
guage of  the  period  to  which  and  of  the 
men  to  whom  we  refer  it  The  idioms 
of  speech,  the  peculiarities  of  style,  the 
connections  and  dependences  of  thought 
and  reasoning,  the  bursts  of  feeling,  all 
seem  to  us  as  natural  in  the  Bible  as 
they  are  in  any  other  book.  We  see 
ideas,  indeed,  that  we  ascribe  to  inspira- 


tion ;  but  we  see  no  evidence,  we  can 
discern  no  appearance,  of  any  supernat- 
ural influence  exerted  upon  the  style^ 
either  to  make  it  perfect  or  to  prevent  it 
from  being  imperfect.  Let  us  compare 
the  Scriptures  with  other  writings.  If 
we  open  almost  any  book,  especially  any 
book  written  in  a  fervent  and  popular 
style,  we  can  perceive,  on  an  accurate 
analysis,  that  some  things  were  hastily 
written,  some  things  negligently,  some 
things  not  in  the  exact  logical  order  of 
thought ;  that  some  things  are  beautiful 
in  style  and  others  coarse  and  inelegant; 
that  some  things  are  clear  and  others  ob- 
scure, or  "hard  to  be  understood."  And 
do  we  not  find  all  these  things  in  the  Scrip- 
tures ?  What  is  a  sound  and  rational 
criticism,  but  a  discernment  of  just  such 
things  as  these  ?  What  is  peculiarity 
of  style  but  something  proceeding  from 
the  particular  mind  of  the  writer  ;  but 
something,  therefore,  partaking  not  of 
divine  ideas,  but  of  human  conceptions  ? 
And  who  has  more  of  this  peculiarity  of 
style  than  John  or  Paul  ?  And  now 
suppose  that  Paul  had  written  a  letter 
to  any  one  of  his  friends  on  religion, 
and  had  written  not  in  his  apostolical 
character  ;  that  he  had  said,  as  he  some- 
times did  say,  this  is  "not  from  the 
Lord  "  ?  Can  any  rational  man  doubt 
whether  that  letter  would  have  exhibited 
the  same  style  as  his  recorded  epistles  ? 
If  such,  then,  be  the  natural  impres- 
sion arising  from  the  perusal  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, we  are  so  to  receive  them,  unless 
they  themselves  direct  us  otherwise.  Do 
they  direct  us  otherwise  ?  Do  they  any- 
where tell  us  that  the  manner  of  writing, 
the  style,  the  words,  came  from  immedi- 
ate divine  suggestion,  or  were  subject  to 
miraculous  superintendence  ?  To  us  it 
is  clear  that  the  passages  usually  ad- 
duced in  support  of  these  views  of  in- 
spiration fall  entirely  short  of  the  posi- 
tions they  are  brought  to  establish. 
"All  Scripture  is  given  by  inspiration 
of  God  ;  "  and  "  holy  men  spake  as  they 
were  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost;"  these 
are  the  passages.  Now  the  question  is, 
•whether  these  declarations  refer  to  the 


THE   RECORD   OF   A   REVELATION. 


457 


matter  of  revelation  or  to  the  style  :  to 
the  substance  of  the  communication  or 
to  the  form  ;  to  the  thing  testitied, 
given,  spoken,  or  to  the  manner  of 
speaking,  imparting,  testifying.  We  say, 
to  the  matter,  the  substance,  the  thing 
testified.  Others  insist  that  reference 
is  had  to  the  style,  the  form,  the  man- 
ner also.  There  is  nothing  in  the  words 
to  decide  between  us,  and  we  must  have 
resort,  therefore,  to  general  considera- 
tions. We  must  go  to  the  general  as- 
pect and  obvious  character  of  the  sacred 
writings.  And  on  this  subject  we  have 
a  statement  to  make  which  is  worthy  of 
special  observation.  So  strong  is  the 
aspect  of  7iaturabiess  upon  the  whole 
face  of  the  Scriptures,  so  marked  are 
the  peculiarities  of  individual  thought, 
manner,  and  style,  that  many  of  the  most 
learned  and  profound  Orthodox  scholars 
have  given  up  the  doctrine  of  immedi- 
ate suggestion,  and  retain  only  that  of  a 
general  superintendence.  But  we  surely 
may  remind  them  that  the  Scriptures 
themselves  furnish  as  little  warrant  for 
the  doctrine  of  superintendence  as  for 
that  of  suggestion.  If  the  passages  be- 
fore quoted  prove  anything  with  regard 
to  style,  they  prove  immediate  sugges- 
tion. If  they  prove  nothing  on  this 
point,  then  the  Bible  does  not  any- 
where ;  for  they  are  the  strongest  in 
the  Bible. 

The  doctrine  of  superintendence,  un- 
doubtedly, comes  not  from  the  Scrip- 
tures, but  from  what  is  thought  to  be 
the  exigency  of  the  case.  It  is  intro- 
duced to  save  the  sacred  writings  from 
the  charge  of  possible  error  ;  a  charge 
which  we  shall  by  and  by  undertake  to 
show,  does  noj:,  in  an3'thing  material, 
attach  to  them,  on  what  we  think  to  be  a 
more  rational  and  unencumbered  theory. 
We  see  no  need  of  supposing  the  apos- 
tles, for  instance,  to  have  spoken  and 
written  under  any  other  influence  than 
that  of  truth  and  goodness  —  truth  super- 
naturally  communicated  to  them,  but  not 
by  them  supernaturally  taught.  The 
teaching,  in  short,  is  full  of  nature  and 
truth.    And  we  should,  with  as  much  rea- 


son, demand  that  Paul's  speech  should 
have  been  freed  from  that  impediment 
or  infirmity,  which  made  some  among  the 
Corinthians  declare  it  to  be  ''  contemp- 
tible,' as  that  his  style  should  be  freed 
from  those  obscurities,  those  imperfec- 
tions, in  other  words,  which  made  Peter 
say  that  it  is  "hard  to  be  understood-" 
And  we  might  as  well  say  that  when 
his  accent  or  gesture  was  liable  to  be 
wrong,  there  was  a  divine  superintend- 
ence or  interference  to  put  it  right,  as 
to  say  this  with  regard  to  his  written 
expressions,  his  figures  and  illustrations, 
his  style  and  mode  of  communication. 

II.  That  there  was  no  supernatural 
perfection,  or  accuracy,  or  infallibility, 
in  the  Scriptural  style  or  mode  of  com- 
munication, we  think  any  one  may  be 
convinced  by  considering,  in  the  next 
place,  the  very  nature  of  language. 

Human  language  is  essentially  and 
unavoidably  an  imperfect  mode  of  com- 
munication. It  is  sufficiently  correct ; 
but  the  idea  of  absolute  perfection  or 
infallibility,  if  it  were  rightly  and  rigidly 
considered,  does  not  and  cannot  belong 
to  it.  We  are  not  merely  saying,  now, 
that  the  style  of  our  Christian  teachers 
is"  not  perfect,  according  to  the  laws  of 
rhetoric;  that  it  is  not  perfect  Greek. 
That  is  admitted  on  all  hands.  But 
we  say  that  it  is  not  perfect,  because  it 
cannot  be  perfect  as  an  instrument  of 
thought.  Perfection  and  imperfection 
in  this  matter  are  words  of  compari- 
son. Absolutely,  they  do  not  apply  to 
language.  Excellence  —  or,  if  any  one 
pleases  to  call  it  so,  perfection  in  style 
—  is  something  relative.  It  is  relative, 
for  instance,  to  the  age  and  country  in 
which  it  is  delivered.  What  is  perfect 
for  one  people  and  period  is  not  per- 
fect for  another.  It  would  happen,  then, 
that  even  if  the  sacred  style  had  pos- 
sessed some  unintelligible  perfection 
for  its  own  age,  it  would  have  lost  it 
for  the  next  and  for  every  succeeding 
age.  Is  it  not  felt  by  every  judicious 
commentator  that  the  ancient  phraseol- 
ogy in  which  the  Scriptures  are  clothed 
throws  great  difficulties  in  the  way  of 


458 


THE   SCRIPTURES   CONSIDERED   AS 


understanding  them  ?  Are  not  these 
difficulties  such  that  the  mass  of  man- 
kind cannot,  of  themselves,  understand 
certain  passages,  and  must  receive  the 
explanation  of  them  on  trust  ?  To  what 
purpose  is  it,  then,  to  argue  for  the  in- 
fallibihty  of  the  sacred  style  ?  Lan- 
guage is  also  relative  to  the  mind,  the 
mind  absolutely  considered.  A  perfect 
or  infallible  language  must  be  that  which 
conveys  perfect  or  infallible  thoughts  to 
the  mind.  But  now  when  we  talk  about 
perfect  or  infallible  thoughts,  are  we  not 
very  much  beyond  our  depth  ?  Can  any 
instrument  convey  to  us  thoughts  which 
are  perfect,  which  are  capable  of  being 
no  more  clear  or  true,  which  are  never 
to  be  changed  in  the  slightest  degree, 
in  all  the  coming  and  brightening  dis- 
pensations of  our  being  ?  To  us  it  seems 
as  if  there  were  great  presumption  in 
the  prevailing  language  about  truth  and 
error,  —  as  if  any  sect  or  any  set  of  men 
called  Christians,  or  called  by  any  other 
name,  as  if  any  human  being,  held  the 
absolute,  the  abstractly  pure  and  un- 
changeable truth  !  —  as  if  any  creed  or 
language  or  human  thought  could  es- 
cape every  taint  of  error !  as  if  it  could 
put  off  all  limitation,  obscurity,  pecu- 
liarity, and  everything  that  marks  it  -as 
belonging  to  a  finite  and  frail  nature  ! 
"  To  err  is  human."  It  is  a  part  of  our 
dispensation  to  find  our  way  to  truth 
through  error.  The  perfect  is  wrought 
out  from  the  imperfect.  We  see  this  in 
children ;  and  in  this  respect  we  are  all 
but  children. 

The  thought  came  pure  from  the  All- 
f-evealing  Mind  ;  but  when  it  entered 
the  mind  of  a  prophet  or  apostle  it  be- 
came a  human  conception.  It  could  be 
nothing  else,  unless  that  mind,  by  be- 
ing inspired,  became  superhuman.  The 
inspired  truth  became  the  subject  of 
human  perception,  feeling,  and  imagina- 
tion ;  and  when  it  was  communicated 
to  the  world,  it  was  clothed  with  human 
language,  and  that  perception,  feeling, 
imagination,  lent  its  aid  to  this  com- 
munication as  truly  as  to  any  writings 
that  ever  were  penned.     It  is  this,  next 


to  the  authority  of  the  Scriptures,  it  is 
this  naturalness,  simplicity,  pathos,  and 
earnestness  of  manner,  that  give  them 
such  life  and  power. 

The  case,  then,  stands  thus  :  It  has 
pleased  God  to  adopt  human  language 
as  the  instrument  of  his  communications 
to  men,  —  an  instrument  sufficiently  cor- 
rect, though  not  absolutely  perfect.  We 
might  as  reasonably  demand  that  the 
men  should  be  faultless,  as  that  the  style 
should  be  faultless.  Neither  were  so. 
And  as  the  faults  and  mistakes  of  the 
men  do  not  invalidate  the  sufficiency  of 
their  main  testimony,  still  less  would 
any  faults  or  inaccuracies  of  their  style, 
figures,  illustrations,  or  arguments,  if 
proved  to  exist,  set  aside  the  great,  in- 
teresting, and,  among  Christians,  the  un- 
questioned matters  of  revelation  which 
they  have  laid  before  us. 

III.  A  word,  now,  in  the  third  place, 
on  the  unavoidable  or  actual  conces- 
sions upon  this  subject,  among  all  intel- 
ligent and  sober  Christians.  Let  us 
see  if  they  do  not  lead  us  to  the  same 
result.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the 
inspired  penmen  usually  wrote  in  con- 
formity with  the  philosophy  of  their 
respective  ages,  —  in  conformity,  there- 
fore, with  some  portions  of  natural  and 
metaphysical  philosophy  that  are  false. 
The  common  remark  on  this  subject  is, 
that  they  did  not  profess  to  give  instruc- 
tions on  astronomy,  demonology,  or 
metaphysics,  but  on  religion.  In  briefly 
passing  this  point,  we  should  like  to 
ask  those  who  so  zealously  insist  that 
the  phrase,  "All  Scripture  is  given  by 
inspiration  of  God,"  refers  to  every 
word,  or  to  every  idea  in  the  Bible; 
what  they  are  to  do  wjth  the  Mosaic 
theory  of  the  solar  system  and  of  the 
starry  heavens  ?  But  to  proceed  with 
the  concessions  to  which  we  have  re- 
ferred. It  cannot  be  denied  that  there 
are  some  slight  discrepancies  in  the 
evangelical  narratives.  And,  indeed, 
the  common  and  the  very  just  answer 
to  this  allegation  in  our  books  of  evi- 
dences is,  that  these  differences,  so 
far     from    weakening     the     testimony, 


THE   RECORD   OF   A   REVELATION. 


459 


strengthen  it,  by  showing  that  there 
was  no  collusion  among  the  witnesses. 
Once  more ;  it  is  common  now  to  admit 
that  the  Bible  is  to  be  interpreted  as 
other  books  are.  But  we  do  not  see 
how  it  is  possible  to  enter  thoroughly 
into  the  spirit  of  this  rule,  unless  the 
composition  oi\.\\&  Bible  is  looked  upon 
as  a  human  work, — a  work  produced 
by  the  natural  operation  of  human 
thought  and  feeling.  If  there  was 
frequent  and  supernatural  interference 
with  the  writer's  natural  mode  of  ex- 
pressing himself,  such  a  fact,  it  seems 
to  us,  would  seriously  disturb  the  appli- 
cation of  the  rule  laid  down,  and  would, 
in  fact,  warrant  many  of  those  supersti- 
tious and  irrational  views  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, which  are  fatal  to  just  criticism 
and  sound  scholarship. 

If,  then,  it  be  admitted  that  there  are 
among  our  sacred  books  mistakes  in 
philosophy,  and  discrepancies,  however 
slight,  in  statements  of  facts,  and  if  the 
Bible  is  subject  to  the  ordinary  rules 
of  criticism  on  language,  the  inference 
seems  unavoidable,  that  these  writings, 
so  far  as  their  composition  is  concerned, 
are  to  be  regarded  as  possessing  a  prop- 
erly and  purely  human  character. 

IV.  But  we  come  now  to  the  great 
difiSculty  and  objection.  It  is  said  that 
if  these  views  are  correct,  the  Bible  is  a 
fallible  book,  and  unworthy  of  reliance. 
We  maintain,  therefore,  in  the  fourth 
place,  that  the  infallibility  which  many 
Christians  contend  for,  and  upon  the 
defence  of  which  unbelievers  are  willing 
enouiili  to  put  them,  is,  in  our  appre- 
hension, unnecessary  to  the  validity  and 
sufficiency  of  the  communication. 

What  is  a  revelation  1  It  is  simply 
the  communication  of  certain  truths  to 
mankind ;  truths,  indeed,  which  they 
could  not  otherwise  have  fully  under- 
stood or  satisfactorily  determined  ;  but 
truths,  nevertheless,  as  easy  to  be  com- 
municated as  any  other.  Why,  then,  is 
there  any  more  need  of  supernatural 
assistance  in  this  case  than  in  any 
other.'  We  are  constantly  speaking 
to    one    another    without    any   fear  of 


being  misunderstood.  We  are  constant- 
ly reading  books  without  any  of  this  dis- 
trust ;  and  books,  too,  written  by  men 
in  every  sense  faUible,  which  the  Scrip- 
ture writers,  in  regard  to  the  revelation 
made  to  them,  are  not.  Nay,  we  are 
reading  books  of  abstruse  philosophy, 
in  the  full  confidence  that  we  under- 
stand the  general  doctrines  laid  down. 
But  the  matters  of  revelation  are  not 
abstruse.  They  are  designed  to  be 
understood  by  the  mass  of  mankind. 
They  are  designed,  like  the  light,  to 
shine  upon  man's  daily  path.  What  if 
a  man  should  say  he  cannot  trust  the 
light  of  the  sun,  and  will  not  walk  by  it, 
because  it  comes  through  so  earthly 
and  fallible  a  medium  as  the  atmos- 
phere ?  The  air,  certainly,  is  an  imper- 
fect medium  of  light.  There  are  motes 
and  mists  and  clouds  in  it.  Yet  we 
have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  see 
the  sun,  and  the  path  that  we  walk  in, 
and  the  objects  around  us.  It  does  not 
destroy  the  nature  of  light  that  it  comes 
to  us  through  the  dense  and  variable 
atmosphere ;  and  it  does  not  destroy 
the  nature  of  truth  that  it  comes  to  us 
through  the  medium  of  human  lan- 
guage. 

But  let  us  descend  to  particulars. 
What  particular  truth,  then,  that  either 
does  belong  to  revelation,  or  has  been 
conceived  to  belong  to  it,  requires  an 
infallible  style,  or  a  supernatural  influ- 
ence, for  its  communication  ?  Not  the 
Messiahship  of  Jesus,  and  his  hving, 
teaching,  suffering,  and  dying  to  save 
us  from  sin  and  misery;  not  the  assur- 
ance of  God's  paternal  love  and  mercy 
and  care  for  us ;  not  the  simple  but 
solemn  and  most  glorious  doctrine  of  a 
future  life ;  not  precept,  not  promise, 
not  warning,  nor  encouragement,  nor 
offered  grace  and  aid.  But  suppose  it 
be  contended  that  more  belongs  to  the 
revelation  —  "  fixed  fate,  free  will,  fore- 
knowledge absolute."  Suppose  it  be 
conceded  that  the  matter  of  any  or 
every  creed  that  Christians  have  made 
belongs  to  it.  Yet  their  makers,  we 
presume,    will   not    maintain    that   any 


460 


THE   SCRIPTURES   CONSIDERED    AS 


inspiration  or  supernatural  guidance  is 
necessary  to  set  forth  tiiese  matters. 
They  surely  cannot  feel  any  particular 
distrust  about  the  powers  of  language. 
They  who  have  made  creeds  on  purpose 
to  remedy  the  imperfections,  or  clear  up 
the  obscurities,  or  settle  the  uncertain- 
ties of  the  Scriptural  communication, 
they  surely  are  not  the  persons  we  have 
to  contend  with  in  this  argument. 

"  But  ah  !  "  it  is  said,  "  this  sort  of 
reasoning  leads  to  infidelity."  "  Saves 
us  from  infidelity,"  the  objector  might 
more  truly  say.  This,  at  least,  is  the 
purpose  of  our  reasonings ;  and  we 
believe  it  is  their  tendency.  Unbeliev- 
ers have  derived  more  plausible  and 
just  objections  from  the  prevailing  theo- 
logical assumptions  with  regard  to  our 
sacred  books,  than  from  any  other 
quarter.  The  attacks  which  are  usually 
made  upon  the  philosophy  of  Mos^s, 
the  imprecations  of  David,  the  differ- 
ences among  the  apostles,  the  obscuri- 
ties of  Paul,  and  upon  instances  of 
puerility,  coarseness,  and  indelicacy  in 
style,  or  inappositeness  in  illustration, 
are  all  of  this  nature.  If  it  were  con- 
sidered that  the  successive  communica- 
tions which  God  has  made  to  the  world 
have  borne  upon  them  the  signs  and 
marks  of  their  successive  ages  ;  if  it 
were  considered  that  the  light,  in  its 
visitations  to  the  earth,  has  struggled 
through  the  medium  of  human  imper- 
fection, through  mists  of  prejudice,  and 
clouds,  —  often,  indeed,  gorgeous  clouds 
of  imagination,  —  many  difficulties  and 
objections  of  this  sort  would  be  re- 
moved 

"  But  how  shall  we  know  what  is  true 
and  what  is  false  ;  what  belonged  to  the 
age,  and  what  to  the  light  ?  "  This  diffi- 
culty is  more  specious  than  real.  When 
applied  in  detail  to  the  Scriptures,  it 
will  be  found  to  amount  to  very  little. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  for  instance, 
about  matters  of  morality  and  duty. 
Indeed,  it  has  often  been  admitted  by 
our  Christian  apologists,  that  a  revela- 
tion was  not  so  much  needed  to  tell  us 
what  is  right,  as  to  give  sanctions  for  it. 


Then,  again,  with  regard  to  these  sanc- 
tions, with  regard  to  the  future  good 
and  evil,  we  believe  no  one  has  ever  pre- 
tended to  deny  them,  or  ever  will,  on  the 
ground  that  the  sacred  writers  may  have 
been  mistaken.  Very  few,  indeed,  do 
deny  them.  The  great  body  of  Univer- 
salists,  as  we  are  informed,  now  believe 
in  a  future  retribution.  And  so,  as  to 
all  the  absolute  doctrines  of  Scripture, 
there  is  no  dispute  about  tlie  authority  on 
which  they  rest.  The  only  question  is, 
whether  some  of  the  illustrations  are  judi- 
cious, belonging  as  they  do  to  the  school 
of  Jewish  allegory  ;  and  whether  one  or 
two  of  the  arguments  of  Paul  are  logi- 
cal. But  this  question,  surely,  does  not 
touch  matters  that  fairly  belong  to  the 
very  different  department  of  immediate 
inspiration.  "  Whoever  appeals  to  rea- 
son," it  has  been  very  justly  said, 
"  waives,  quoad  hoc,  his  claim  to  inspira- 
tion." When  an  inspired  teacher  says 
to  us,  "This  doctrine  is  true,"  that  is 
one  thing  ;  we  receive  the  declaration 
on  his  simple  authority.  But  when  he 
says,  "  I  can  prove  this  to  you  by  a 
series  of  arguments,"  that  is  another 
thing.  When  he  says,  "This  is  true, 
because''''  —  the  utterance  of  that  word 
arouses  our  reason.  It  is  not  implicit 
faith  that  is  then  demanded,  but  an 
attentive  consideration  of  the  force  of 
arguments.  The  thing  argued  demands 
faith  ;  but  the  argument,  from  its  very 
nature,  appeals  to  reason  ;  and  it  is  the 
very  office  of  reason  to  judge  whether 
the  argument  is  sound  and  sufficient. 
And  so  when  a  sacred  writer  says, 
'•This  doctrine  is  true,  and  it  is  /ike 
such  a  thing,  or  it  may  be  so  illus- 
trated," he  appeals  to  our  judgment  and 
taste,  and  we  may,  without  in  the  least 
questioning  the  thing  asserted,  inquire 
into  the  fitness,  force,  and  elegance  of 
the  illustration,  allegory,  or  figure,  by 
which  it  is  set  forth. 

V.  If,  now,  any  one  shall  say  that  this 
amounts  to  a  rejection  of  Christianity  ; 
if  for  any  purpose,  fair  or  unfair,  if  with 
any  intention,  honest  or  dishonest,  he 
shall  take  it   upon   him   to  say,  that  in 


THE    RECORD   OF   A   REVELATION. 


461 


'advocating  these  views  of  inspiration  we 
are  no  better  than  infidels  in  disguise, 
we  cannot  descend  from  the  ground  we 
occupy,  we  should  not  think  it  decent, 
with  the  known  professions  which  we 
make,  to  dispute  the  point  with  him. 
But  we  would  remind  him  that  many  of 
the  britjiitest  lights  and  noblest  defend- 
ers of  our  religion  fully  maintain  the 
ground  we  have  taken,  to  be  Christian 
ground.  Erasmus  says  :  "  It  is  not  neces- 
sary that  we  should  refer  everything  in 
the  apostolic  writings  immediately  to 
supernatural  aid.  Christ  suffered  his 
disciples  to  err,  even  after  the  Holy 
Ghost  was  sent  down,  but  not  to  the 
endangering  of  the  Faith."  Grotius 
says,  "It  was  not  necessary  that  the 
matters  narrated  should  be  dictated  by 
the  Holy  Spirit  ;  it  was  enough  that 
the  writer  had  a  good  memory."  "  It 
is  possible,"  says  the  learned  Michaelis, 
"  to  doubt  and  even  to  deny  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  New  Testament,  [he  means 
inspiration  not  only  of  words,  but  of 
ideas,  which  we  do  not  deny,]  and  yet 
to  be  fully  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  the 
Christian  religion."  Because,  he  ar- 
gues, the  facts  being  true,  the  testimony 
being  one  of  ordinary  validity,  the  re- 
ligion must  be  true.  On  this  observa- 
tion of  Michaelis,  Bishop  Marsh  says, 
"  Here  our  author  makes  a  distinction 
which  is  at  present  very  generally  re- 
ceived between  the  divine  origin  of  the 
Christian  doctrine,  and  the  divine  origin 
of  the  writings  in  which  that  doctrine  is 
recorded.''  "  The  wisdom  contained  in 
the  Epistles  of  Paul,"  says  Dr.  Powell, 
late  Master  of  St.  John's  College,  Gam- 
bridge,  "  was  given  him  from  Above,  and 
very  probably  the  style  and  composition 
were  his  own."  Dr.  Paley  makes  the 
same  distinction.  "  In  reading  the  apos- 
tolic writings,''  he  observes,  "  we  distin- 
guish between  their  doctrines  and  their 
arguments.  Their  doctrines  came  to 
them  by  revelation,  properly  so  called ; 
yet  in  propounding  these  doctrines,  they 
were  wont  to  illustrate,  support,  and  en- 
force them  by  such  analogies,  arguments, 
and  considerations  as  their  own  thoughts 


suggested."  To  the  same  purpose 
Bishop  Burnet.  "  When,"  says  he,  "  di- 
vine writers  argue  upon  any  point,  we 
are  always  bound  to  believe  the  conclu- 
sions that  their  reasonings  end  in,  as 
parts  of  divine  revelation  ;  but  we  are 
not  bound  to  be  able  to  make  out,  or 
even  to  assent  to,  all  the  premises  made 
use  of  by  them  in  their  whole  extent, 
unless  it  appear  plainly  that  they  affirm 
the  premises  as  expressly  as  they  dc 
the  conclusions  proved  by  them." 

We  have  thus  endeavored  to  free  tht 
Scriptures  from  the  burden  of  support- 
ing a  character,  to  which,  as  we  believe, 
they  nowhere  lay  any  claim  ;  the  char- 
acter, that  is,  of  being,  in  every  minute 
particular,  perfect  and  infallible  com- 
positions. The  question,  we  now  re- 
peat, the  momentous,  the  most  interest- 
ing ciuestion  between  the  believer  and 
the  unbeliever,  is,  whether  God  has  made 
special  and  supernatural  communica- 
tions of  his  wisdom  and  will  to  man, 
and  whether  the  Bible  contains  those 
communications?  To  us  it  appears  of 
great  consequence,  that  the  controversy 
should  be  disembarrassed  from  all  ex- 
traneous difficulties,  and  should  be  re- 
duced to  this  simple  point.  We  repeat 
it,  therefore,  that  when  prophet  or  apos- 
tle presents  himself  to  us  as  a  messen- 
ger from  God,  we  receive  him  in  the 
simple  and  actual  character  which  has 
been  marked  out  in  this  discussion. 
We  consider  him  as  saying:  "  I  bear  to 
you  a  message  from  God  to  which  I  de- 
mand reverent  heed  ;  I  give  you,  from 
divine  inspiration,  assurance  of  certain 
solemn  and  momentous  truths  ;  but  I 
do  not  say  that  every  word  and  phrase 
I  use,  every  simile  and  allegory  and  con- 
sideration by  which  I  endeavor  to  ex- 
plain or  enforce  my  message,  is  divine, 
any  more  than  that  my  countenance, 
speech,  and  action  are  divine.  The  dis- 
tinction is  easy,  and  you  ought  not  to 
misapprehend  it.  I  speak  to  you  from 
God  ;  but  still  I  am  a  man.  I  speak 
after  the  manner  of  men  ;  and  for  the 
peculiarities  of  my  own  manner,  mind, 
country,  and  age,  I  do  not  presume  to 


462 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


make  the  Universal  and  Eternal  Wis- 
dom answerable."  It  is  as  when  an 
earthly  government  sends  its  ambassa- 
dor to  a  revolted  province-  The  per- 
son invested  with  such  a  character  has 
a  twofold  office  to  discharge.  He  has 
to  lay  down  propositions,  to  make  of- 
fers of  forgiveness  and  reconciliation. 
These  are  from  the  government.  He 
has  to  explain  and  urge  these  proposi- 
tions and  ofifers  by  such  language,  illus- 
trations, and  arguments  as  the  exigency 
requires.  These  are  from  himself.  "It 
is  thus,"  might  the  ambassador  of  God 
say,  —  "  it  is  thus  that  I  address  the  chil- 
dren of  men.  My  message  is  divine  : 
my  manner  of  dehvering  it  is  human." 

And  albeit  it  were  a  man  that  spoke 
thus  to  us,  and  however  it  might  be  that 
he  spoke  after  the  manner  of  men,  yet 
if  he  could  say  with  a  voice  of  authority 
and  assurance,  "  God  is  love  ;  like  as  a 
father  pitieth  his  children,  so  God  pities 
you  ;  he  watches  over  you  with  a  kind 
care  ;  he  offers  you  forgiveness  and  re- 
demption from  sin  ;  he  opens  to  you 
the  path  of  immortal  life  ;  "  if  he  could 
say  these  things,  it  would  be  a  message 
which  no  words  could  adequately  ex- 
press. We  should  not  say,  as  the  an- 
cient sceptics  did  of  Paul,  "  His  bodily 
presence  is  weak,  and  his  speech  con- 
temptible," although  he  should   offend 


our  taste,  or  our  prejudices,  in  every 
phrase  or  figure  by  which  he  communi- 
cated the  glorious  truth.  We  should 
rather,  with  the  Galatians,  "  receive 
him  as  an  angel  of  God,"  and  would 
kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment,  though 
the  storms  of  every  sea,  and  the  dust 
and  stripes  of  every  city,  had  rent  and 
soiled  it.  There  is  nothing  on  earth, 
of  privilege,  distinction,  or  blessing,  to 
compare  with  this  simple  faith.  How 
many  a  stricken  and  sorrowing  mind 
has  been  supported  and  soothed  by  that 
holy  reliance  !  How  many  a  bleeding 
heart  has  stanched  its  wounds  in  that 
healing  fountain  !  How  many  a  spirit, 
wearied  with  the  vanities,  or  worn  down 
with  the  cares  of  this  world,  has  sought 
that  blessed  refuge  !  Nor  is  it  trouble, 
or  sorrow,  or  sickness,  or  bereavement 
only  that  has  resorted  here,  and  could 
go  nowhere  else  ;  but  the  boundless, 
the  ever-craving  soul  that  sighs  for  an 
immortal  life  and  an  infinite  good,  how 
often  has  it  exclaimed,  "  To  whom  shall 
I  go  }  Thou  hast  the  words  of  ever- 
lasting life  "  !  To  tell  us  that  all  which 
we  believe  is  nothing  because  it  does 
not  come  up  to  the  demands  of  some 
technical  creed,  or  for  any  other  reason, 
seems  to  us  an  absurdity  and  madness 
of  assertion,  at  which,  instead  of  in- 
veighing, we  can'only  wonder. 


ON   THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION.* 


The  Professor  of  Theology  in  the  An- 
dover  Seminary  will  excuse  us,  we  trust, 
if  we  postpone  his  claims,  for  a  while, 
to  the  less  agreeable  task  of  dealing  with 
adversaries  who  are  assailing  us  with 
weapons  far  different  from  those  which 
he  uses.  With*  this  remark  to  guard 
against  even  a  momentary  misapprehen- 
sion, we  shall  take  up  the  matter  of  our 
thoughts  ab  origine. 

*  Review  of  "  Lecture  on  the  Inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures.  By  Leonard  Woods,  D.D.,  Abbot  Pro- 
fessor of  Christian  Theology  in  the  Theological  Sem- 
inary, Andover." 


Qne  of  the  evils  of  controversy  is, 
that  men  are  driven  by  it  into  extremes 
of  opinion.  The  sound  and  sober  con- 
clusions at  which  they  arrive  in  calmer 
times  are  made  to  give  way  to  extrava- 
gant positions,  injurious  to  the  minds  of 
those  who  hold  them,  injurious  to  the 
cause  of  Christianity,  and  favorable  only 
to  the  attacks  of  its  enemies.  Inquiry 
is  pursued  under  many  undue  biases,  in- 
deed, but  especially  under  the  bias  of  a 
wish  to  put  opponents  and  adversaries 
in  the  wrong.     New  tests,  not  only  of 


THE   NATURE   AND    EXTENT    OF   INSPIRATION. 


463 


practical  religion,  but  of  Christianity  it- 
self, are  set  up,  in  order  to  exclude  un- 
welcome opinions  from  the  ground  of 
our  common  faith,  and  the  maintenance 
of  such  opinions  from  the  credit  of  cher- 
ishing its  virtues. 

It  is  of  some  importance,  at  such  times, 
to  look  to  the  foundation  of  our  faith, 
and  to  call  to  mind  its  most  judicious  and 
able  defenders,  to  point  to  the  old  and 
firm  landmarks  and  standards,  in  order 
to  show  that  these  periodical  freshets  of 
theological  zeal,  which  bear  away  "  the 
wood  and  the  hay  and  the  stubble,"  are 
not  powerful  enough  to  remove  those 
landmarks  and  standards,  —  to  show 
that  they  will  spend  their  force  and  pass 
away,  and  leave  all  that  is  weighty  and 
strong  in  our  religion,  just  where  it  was 
before.  We  say  it  is  of  some  impor- 
tance. It  is  not  of  such  importance  as 
if  we  were  defending  the  very  ground 
of  our  faith  and  hope.  It  is  only  point- 
ing with  our  finger,  and  showing  where 
tlie  foundations  are.  He  who  feels  his 
house  to  be  strong  and  firm,  cannot  be 
disturbed  if  his  neighbor,  with  misplaced 
zeal  or  benevolence,  should  tell  him  that 
it  is  all  decaying  and  sinking  beneath 
him.  He  may  listen  to  him  with  an  in- 
credulous smile,  and  may  good-naturedly 
go  around  with  him  from  pillar  to  pillar, 
and  show  him  that  what  he  apprehends 
to  be  fatal  defect,  is  the  mere  rubbish 
that  surrounds  them. 

It  might  awaken  a  stronger  feeling, 
if  that  neighbor  should  evidently  take 
pleasure  in  the  alleged  unsoundness,  if 
he  should  exult  in  the  downfall  he  pre- 
dicted, and  if  he  should  pertinaciously 
insist  upon  the  point,  manifestly  with  the 
design  to  injure  the  property  in  the  great 
market  of  public  opinion.  But  still  the 
feeling  would  be  a  calm  one,  and  would 
be  only  strengthened  into  a  firmer  and 
more  fearless  confidence.  He  would 
perhaps  put  his  hand  upon  the  founda- 
tion or  upon  the  pillar,  and  shake  it, 
with  the  most  careless  exertion  of  his 
strength,  that  he  might  show  it  to  be 
safe. 

It  is  for  all  these  reasons  that  we  shall 


task  ourselves  for  a  few  moments  to 
examine  the  totally  unauthorized  and 
groundless  character  of  the  charge  now 
pressed  against  us,  of  being,  notwith- 
standing our  Christian  profession,  our- 
selves Infidels.  But  for  the  same  reasons 
we  cannot  anticipate  that  we  shall  awaken 
in  ourselves  much  zeal  on  the  subject. 
We  cannot,  as  we  have  said  on  a  former 
occasion,  fairly  descend  into  the  arena 
of  argument ;  we  cannot  seriously  put 
ourselves  in  contest  at  this  point  of  re- 
cent attack  ;  for,  with  our  professions,  it 
would  seem  to  us  a  moral  indecorum  so 
to  do.  We  must  take  our  stand  aloof 
from  this,  and  simply  point  out  to  our 
prying  opponents,  whether  friendly  or 
unfriendly,  their  mistake. 

We  lay  our  hands  strongly,  then,  upon 
the  foundation,  —  the  Bible.  We  say 
THERE  is  a  comtnunicatioit  from  Heaven. 
There  is  light  supernaturally  communi- 
cated, and  attested,  to  those  Heaven- 
commissioned  prophets  and  apostles,  who 
in  their  turn  have  simply,  naturally,  each 
after  the  manner  of  his  own  age,  his  own 
style,  his  own  peculiar  haljits  of  thought 
and  feeling,  imparted  it  to  us.  There 
are  truths  recorded,  beyond  the  human 
reach  of  the  men  who  delivered  them, 
and  they  are  truths  dearer  to  us  than  life. 

Right  or  wrong  in  our  conviction,  this 
is  what  we  believe.  We  are  not  reason- 
ing now  with  infidels  ;  if  we  were,  we 
should  undertake  to  show  that  we  are 
right.  But  we  are  expostulating,  we  can- 
not reason,  with  those  who  den}'  us  the 
credit  of  the  faith  we  profess  ;  and  we 
say  to  them,  again,  right  or  wrong,  this 
is  what  we  believe.  Our  opponents 
must  pardon  us,  if  we  seem  to  them  to 
speak  loftily  in  a  case  like  this.  We 
put  it  to  them,  whether  they  could  do 
less  in  similar  circumstances.  If  the 
Catholics,  or  if  we  ourselves,  were  seri- 
ously and  perseveringly  to  lay  the  charge 
against  them,  of  bein;;  infidels  in  dis' 
guise,  we  ask  them  if  they  could  consent 
gravely  to  argue  upon  it  1  We  put  the 
case  to  their  own  feelings,  and  we  say 
to  them,  as  they  would  say  to  us  or  to 
others,  in  a  change  of  circumstances; 


464 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


"  With  all  our  solemn  professions  before 
them,  with  all  our  preaching  and  our 
prayers  in  the  name  of  Christ,  with  all 
our  labors  to  illustrate  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, with  all  our  publications,  our  books, 
our  commentaries,  with  all  these  things 
before  them,  we  say  that  the  charge  they 
bring  is  not  decent;  and  in  common  de- 
cency, we  cannot  descend  to  argue  the 
point  with  them." 

The  only  decent  allegation  which  they 
could  bring,  is,  that  our  views  tend  to 
produce  infidelity.  On  this  point  we 
should  be  at  issue  with  them,  and  should 
be  willing  to  reason.  We  are  at  issue  with 
them,  indeed  ;  for  we  say  that  their  own 
views  much  more  tend  to  produce  infi- 
delity. Nay,  we  seriously  believe  that 
it  is  our  system,  with  thinking  minds, 
that  will  prove  to  be  the  only  sufficient 
defence  and  barrier  against  utter  unbe- 
lief; and  this  is  one  great  reason  why 
we  are  anxious  for  its  prevalence.  We 
are  perfectly  willing  to  admit,  at  the  same 
time,  that  no  speculative  views  are,  with 
all  persons  and  in  all  circumstances,  an 
effectual  preservative.  We  admit  that 
some  Unitarians  in  foreign  countries 
have  become  infidels.  But  do  not  our 
opponents  know  that  many  Calvin- 
ists,  many  Orthodox  persons,  not  in 
other  countries  alone,  but  in  this  also, 
have  become  infidels  ;  and  that  multi- 
tudes of  Catholics  abroad,  believers  in 
the  Trinity  and  the  atonement  and  many 
kindred  points  of  doctrine,  have  fallen 
into  utter  disbelief  of  the  Christian  reve- 
lation ?  Doubtless  there  is  a  medium 
somewhere,  which  is  perfect  truth  and 
secure  faith;  and  we  believe — without 
arrogance  we  hope,  since  it  is  a  matter 
of  simple  sincerity  and  consistency  so  to 
believe— that  we  are  nearest  to  that 
medium. 

It  seems  to  us  not  a  little  extraordi- 
nary, and  it  illustrates  indeed  the  obser- 
vation with  which  we  commenced  these 
remarks,  that  while  our  Orthodox  breth- 
ren are  charging  us  with  these  disguised 
and  subtle  errors,  they  do  so  completely 
wrap  themselves  up,  as  to  all  the  diffi- 
cult points  of  this  controversy  concerning 


inspiration,  in  general  implications  with 
regard  to  their  own  faith  in  the  Scrip- 
tures, and  that  they  push  those  implica- 
tions to  an  extent  so  utterly  indefensible, 
so  utterly  unauthorized,  at  any  rate,  by 
many  of  the  highest  standards  of  their 
own  churches.  And  we  must  add  that 
it  seems  to  us  a  fact  still  more  irrecon- 
cilable with  candor  and  good  faith,  that 
while,  with  a  view  to  show  what  our 
faith,  or,  as  they  will  have  it,  what  our 
unbelief  is,  — while,  we  say,  for  this  pro- 
fessed purpose,  they  take  brief  sentences 
and  disjointed  members  of  sentences 
here  and  there  from  our  writings,  they 
altogether  suppress  the  strong  and  full 
declarations  we  make  of  our  belief  in  a 
supernatural  communication  t©  the  in- 
spired teachers  of  our  religion  ;  that 
they  never  tell  their  readers  or  hearers 
that  we  "  earnestly  contend  for  this  faith  " 
against  unbelievers,  and  profess  to  find 
in  it  the  highest  joy  and  hope  of  our 
being.  This,  we  must  remind  them,  is 
an  utter  violation  of  all  the  received  cour- 
tesies of  religious  controversy.  For  a 
reasoner  to  charge  upon  opponencs  his 
inferences  as  their  faith,  has  long  been 
branded  as  one  of  the  most  inadmissible 
practices  in  controversy.  But  pertina- 
ciously to  do  this,  in  the  face  of  the  most 
deliberate  protestations  to  the  contrary, 
and  without  noticing  such  protestations, 
and  this,  too,  before  communities  that 
either  have  not  the  means,  or  will  not 
use  them,  of  learning  the  truth,  is  a  con- 
duct for  which  we  would  gladly  see  any 
tolerable  apology.  -For  if  he  who  "  robs 
us  of  our  good  name  "  does  an  inex- 
cusable action,  what  shall  we  say  of  him 
who,  without  affording  us  any  remedy, 
robs  us  of  the  name  we  most  honor  and 
value  ?  We  will  not  say  what ;  we  re- 
gret the  necessity  of  saying  thus  much. 

But  we  would  invite  those  from  whose 
lips  the  charge  of  infidelity  so  easily  falls, 
to  forsake  the  convenient  covert  of  gen- 
eral implication,  and  to  tell  us,  in  good 
truth,  what  they  themselves  believe  on 
some  of  the  matters  of  accusation  that 
seem  to  them  so  weighty. 

In  laboring  to  fix  upon  us  the  charge 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


465 


of  infidelity,  they  quote  from  us,  as  proof, 
the  statement  that  "  the  inspired  pen- 
men wrote  in  conformity  with  the  phi- 
losophy of  their  respecti  ve  ages,  —  in  con- 
formity, therefore,  with  some  portions 
of-  natural  and  metaphysical  philosophy 
that  are  false."  We  ask  if  they  tliem- 
selves  believe  any  otherwise  .''  Do  they 
believe  that  the  sacred  writers  foresaw 
the  discoveries  of  modern  science  '^  If 
they  had  this  foresight,  these  matters 
would  not  have  been  left  for  discovery. 

Again,  we  have  said,  "  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  there  are  some  slight  dis- 
crepancies in  the  evangelical  narratives ;  " 
and  this,  too,  has  been  quoted  as  evi- 
dence of  our  unbelief.  But  can  it  be 
denied  ?  Does  any  intelligent  student 
of  the  Scriptures, — do  our  accusers, 
deny  it  ?  We  confess  that  we  are  sur- 
prised to  read  a  citation  like  this,  because 
we  consider  it  as  a  conceded  point,  in 
some  of  our  best  and  best-authorized 
books  of  evidences,  that  there  are  such 
discrepancies,  and  because  it  is  argued 
by  our  Christian  apologists,  as  it  was  by 
ourselves,  that  these  discrepancies  give 
additional  credit  to  the  evangelical  wit- 
nesses, by  showing  that  there  could  have 
been  '•  no  collusion  among  them." 

One  further  extract.  We  remarked 
that  "  unbelievers  have  derived  more 
plausible  and  just  objections  from  the 
prevailing  theological  assumptions  with 
regard  to  our  sacred  books,  than  from 
any  other  quarter  ;  "  and  then  went  on 
to  say,  that  "  the  attacks  which  are 
usually  made  upon  the  philosophy  of 
Moses,  the  imprecations  of  David,  the 
differences  among  the  apostles,  the  ob- 
scurities of  Paul,  and  upon  instances  of 
puerility,  coarseness,  and  indelicacy  in 
style,  and  inappositeness  in  illustration, 
are  all  of  this  nature."  These  expres- 
sions, again,  are  quoted  as  confirmation 
strong  of  our  infidelity.  On  each  of 
these  points  we  should  like  to  put  those 
who  arraign  us  to  the  question,  and  to 
see  where  t/iey  stand.  Do  they  believe 
in  the  philosophy  of  Moses  }  Do  they 
reject  the  Copernican  system  in  astron- 
omy,   and    maintain    with    Moses,  who 


wrote  in  conformity  with  Jewish  as- 
tronomy, that  the  heavens  are  a  solid 
concave,  in  which  the  sun,  planets,  and 
stars,  like  splendid  balls  of  light,  perform 
a  daily  revolution  around  the  earth  ? 
The  answer  of  the  rational  defender  of  a 
revelation  to  the  infidel  objection  arising 
from  this  quarter  is  easy.  He  says  that 
Moses  was  not  commissioned  to  teach 
philosophy,  but  religion.  But  of  this 
answer  our  opponents  deprive  them- 
selves, since  to  question  the  philosophy 
of  Moses  is  with  them  a  sign  of  in- 
fidelity. 

Next,  "the  imprecations  of  David,"  — 
do    they    undertake    to   defend    them  } 
Speaking   of    his    enemy,    David    uses 
the  following  tremendous   supplications: 
"  Set  thou  a  wicked  man  over  him,  and 
let  Satan  stand  at  his  right  hand.    When 
he    shall   be    judged,    let    him  be    con- 
demned, and  let  his  prayer  become  sin. 
Let  his  days   be  few,   and  let    another 
take    his    ofifice.      Let    his   children    be 
fatherless,  and   his  wife   a  widow.      Let 
his  children   be  continually  vagabonds, 
and  beg.     Let  the  extortioner  also  catch 
all  that  he  hath,  and  let   the  strangers 
spoil  his  labor.     Let  there  be  none  to 
extend    mercy    unto    him ;    neither    let 
there   be  any    to  favor     his    fatherless 
children.     Let  his  posterity  be  cut  off, 
and  in  the  generation  following  let  their 
name    be  cut  off.      Let  the    iniquity  of 
his    fathers    be    remembered    with    the 
Lord,  and  let  not  the  sin  of  his   mother 
be  blotted  out."      It  is  impossible  not  to 
say  with   Le  Clerc,  these  are  the  words 
of  a  man  "fuUof  excessive  choler,  and 
an  extreme  desire  to  be  revenged.    And 
yet,"  says   he,    "  some   famous    divines 
have  put  in  the  title  to  this  Psalm,  that 
David,  as  a  type  of  Jesus  Christ,  being 
driven  on  by  a  singular  zeal,  prays  that 
vengeance  may  be  executed  on  his  ene- 
mies !     But  where,"  he  says,  '-do  they 
find    that   Jesus    Christ  does  curse   his 
enemies  at  that  rate  ?"    Another  caption 
reads  that  "  David,   complaining  of   his 
slanderous  enemies,  under  the  person  of 
Judas,  devoteth  them."     But  the  truth 
is,  all  these  explanations  are  perfectly 


466 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


gratuitous.  They  are  worse  than  gratui- 
tous ;  they  sanction  a  wrong  principle. 
Can  it  be  right  to  curse  any  being,  and 
so  to  curse  him,  —  to  curse  not  only  him 
but  his  father,  his  mother,  his  children, 
and  his  whole  posterity,  for  his  sin?  In- 
deed, there  is  no  defence  to  be  made  of 
this  passage.  This  coiild  not  have  pro- 
ceeded from  the  good  and  merciful  spirit 
of  God.  It  was  the  imperfection  of 
David,  thus  to  feel.  It  was  the  imper- 
fection of  a  rude  and  barbarous  age.  It 
belonged  to  a  period  of  early  and  erring 
piety  to  use  such  a  prayer.  And  it  does 
not  disannul  the  evidence  furnished  by 
other  portions  of  his  writings,  that  the 
Psalmist  derived  an  inspiration  from 
heaven.  Those  lofty  conceptions  of  the 
spirituality  and  glory  of  God,  and  those 
sacred  and  transcendent  affections  which 
he  entertained,  considering  the  period  in 
which  he  wrote,  seem  to  us,  in  their  in- 
trinsic character,  to  warrant  the  claim  to 
more  than  human  teaching.  The  book 
of  Psalms,  as  a  whole,  appears  to  us,  the 
more  we  study  it  and  the  age  in  which 
it  was  composed,  to  bear  marks  of  an 
elevation  and  purity  that  are  supernat- 
ural. There  is  nothing  more  wonderful 
to  us  in  its  character,  than  that  in  an 
age  when  the  universal  reliance  was  on 
things  material,  when  all  the  ideas  of 
what  is  good  and  happy,  with  the  world 
at  large,  stopped  at  this  point,  — that  the 
mind  of  David  should  have  found  its 
rest,  its  portion,  its  all-sufficiency,  as  it 
did,  in  God ;  that  he  should,  in  this 
noblest  respect,  have  gone  so  far  beyond 
the  prevailing  piety  of  every  subsequent 
age.  But  we  must  not  dwell  upon  this 
subject.  Our  reverence  for  the  Psalmist 
is  great  ;  but  we  cannot  be  blind  to  the 
imperfection  of  such  a  passage  as  that" 
which  we  have  cited.  When  the  im- 
precations of  David  are  next  alluded 
to,  we  hope  there  will  be  some  attempt 
at  an  explanation  of  them  into  accord- 
ance with  the  received  ideas  of  inspira- 
tion, or  an  honest  confession  of  the 
hopelessness  of  the  task. 

We  insist  upon  these  instances  more 
than  we  should  do  with  any  reference 


that  is  personal  to  ourselves  or  others. 
They  present  difficulties,  in  truth,  to  the 
advocates  of  literal  and  plenary  inspira- 
tion which  we  could  wish  them  fairly  to 
meet. 

Our  reference  to  "  the  differences 
among  the  apostles,"  it  is  said,  is  an- 
other argument  to  prove  that  we  are 
infidels.  But  do  they,  we  ask  again, 
deny  that  there  wei'c  differences  and 
disputes  among  the  apostles, — differ- 
ences and  disputes  in  regard  to  their 
apostolic  conduct  and  work  ?  Did  not 
Paul  upbraid  Peter  at  Antioch  for  "  not 
walking  uprightly  according  to  the  truth 
of  the  Gospel,"  —  for  making,  in  fact,  a 
false  impression  in  his  apostolic  char- 
acter? Did  he  not  "withstand  him  to 
the  face,  because  he  was  to  be  blamed  "  ? 
Did  not  Paul  and  Barnabas  dispute  at 
the  same  place,  and  was  not  "  the  con- 
tention so  sharp  that  they  departed  asun- 
der one  from  the  other  "  ? 

Then,  as  to  "  the  obscurities  of  Paul." 
On  what  age  of  Biblical  criticism  have 
we  fallen,  when  it  is  denied,  even  by  im- 
plication, that  there  are  obscurities  in 
Paul, —  "things  hard  to  be  understood"? 
On  what  age  of  common-sense,  when 
the  mention  of  these  .obscurities  is  set 
down  as  confirmatory  evidence  to  sus- 
tain the  charge  of  infidelity  ?  And, 
further,  if  the  style  he  has  adopted  is 
obscure  and  hard  to  be  understood,  is 
that  style,  as  mere  style,  to  be  com- 
mended as  anything  more  than  a  human 
composition  ?  Are  the  words  that  com- 
pose it  either  "grammatically  or  rhe- 
torically the  best  words  "  ?  Still  further 
as  to  the  Scriptural  style,  —  the  allega- 
tion that  there  are  instances  of  puerility, 
coarseness,  and  indelicacy  has  been  re- 
ferred to  as  bearing  a  sceptical  aspect. 
But  has  any  man  ever  read  the  Old 
Testament  without  finding  such  in- 
stances ?  To  us,  they  have  no  more 
weight,  and  they  furnish  no  more  diffi- 
culty, as  affecting  the  question  of  a 
divine  communication,  than  the  cos- 
tume of  that  ancient  age.  We  should 
as  soon  think  of  requiring  good  breed- 
ing or  politeness  in  the  writers.     Such 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


467 


phraseology  belongs  to  the  period,  and 
its  absence  would  take  away  one  mark 
of  truth  from  the  record.  But  what  the 
advocates  of  a  literal  and  suggesting 
inspiration  are  to  do  with  such  in- 
stances, it  passes  our  comprehension 
to  devise.  '  We  beseech  them  to  con- 
sider those  instances,  — it  would  be  im- 
proper to  quote  them,  we  dare  not  refer 
to  the  text,  —  and  to  tell  us  whether 
they  are  ready  to  pledge  the  sense  and 
delicacy  of  Christian  men  for  the  pro- 
priety of  such  passages  in  sacred  books 
or  any  other  books.  We  warn  them,  if 
they  do  confound  the  claims  of  revela- 
tion with  the  defence  of  such  passages, 
if  they  dare  to  present  themselves  be- 
fore the  searching  and  free  spirit  of  this 
age  with  such  a  defence,  that  they  will 
have  something  to  do  with  infidelity  be- 
sides conjuring  up  a  phantom  of  it  in 
the  faith  of  their  fellow-Christians. 

Lastly,  "  inappositeness  in  illustra- 
tion." We  would  ask  any  man  learned 
in  the  Scriptures  whether  he  does  not 
believe  that  the  New  Testament  ex- 
hibits frequent  instances  of  Jewish  alle- 
gorizing ;  and  whether  these  instances 
do  not  conform  to  the  principles  of  that 
mode  of  illustration  ;  and  whether  he 
accounts  those  principles  to  have  been 
very  strict,  or  exact,  or  logical  ?  We 
will  refer  our  hasty  accusers  to  some 
of  their  own  authorities.  Dr.  Woods 
says,  "  It  is  no  objection  to  the  in- 
spiration of  the  Scriptures,  that  they 
exhibit  all  the  varieties  in  the  mode 
of  writing  that  are  common  in  other 
works."  Other  works,  we  suppose  he 
means,  of  the  same  period  ;  and  indeed 
he  instances  under  this  observation  the 
"allegory."  Were  the  allegories  of  Jew- 
ish "  works  "  always  exactly  apposite  ? 
He  maintains,  we  know,  that  there  is  a 
relevance  ;  but  does  this  amount  to  an 
exact  appositeness  ?  Bishop  Atterbury 
says,  "The  language  of  the  East"  — 
and  he  applies  this  observation  to  the 
Scriptures  —  "speaks  of  nothing  sim- 
ply, but  in  the  boldest  and  most  lofty 
figures  and  in  the  longest  and  most 
s/rained  ailegories."     Dr.  Powell,  Mas- 


ter of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge, 
says,  in  speaking  of  the  writings  of 
Paul,  "  Lastly,  he  abounds  with  broken 
sentences,  bold  figures,  and  hard,  ya?-- 
fetched  metapliors."  * 

We  introduce  two  or  three  criticisms 
of  Dr.  Jahn  on  some  of  the  prophets, 
which  we  presume  no  one  will  call  in 
question.  Of  Ezekiel,  Dr.  Jahn  says, 
'•  His  tropes  and  images  do  not  always 
exactly  correspond  with  nature  ; "  of 
Zechariah,  "  Many  novel  and  elegant 
tropes  and  allegories  occur,  but  they 
are  not  always  quite  in  character  with 
the  nature  of  the  things  from  which 
they  are  drawn."!  Can  any  critic  main- 
tain that  there  is  in  the  Scriptures  an  in- 
variable "appositeness  of  illustration  "  ? 
If  there  is,  then  the  language  is  not, 
as  Dr.  Woods  admits  it  is,  "completely 
human,"  but  perfectly  divine. 

But  all  this  proves,  say  our  reviewers, 
that,  "  in  regard  to  some  portions  of  the 
Bible,  Unitarians  no  more  believe  the 
ideas  inspired  than  they  do  the  words." 
Once  more,  we  ask,  do  they  believe  in 
the  inspiration  of  every  idea  that  is  con- 
tained in  the  Bible  ?  That  is  the  im- 
plication conveyed  by  their  words  ;  but 
do  they  believe  it  ?  Do  they  believe 
that  the  Psalmist  was  inspired  to  say, 
"  O  daughter  of  Babylon,  thou  art  to  be 
destroyed.  Happy  shall  he  be  that 
rewardeth  thee  as  thou  hast  served 
us.  Happy  shall  he  be  that  taketh  and 
dasheth  thy  little  ones  against  the 
stones."  Or  when  Solomon  says,  "  Be 
not  thou  one  of  them  that  strike  hands, 
or  of  them  that  are  sureties  for  debts," 
do  they  believe  that  this  injunction  was 
inspired  ?  Or  when  Paul  uses  this 
opprobrious  language  to  the  officer  that 
struck  him,  "  God  shall  smite  thee,  thou 
whited  wall  !  "  do  they  account  this  to 
be  the  fruit  of  inspiration  ?  "  Where," 
says  Jerome,  speaking  of  this  angry 
retort,  —  "  where  is  that  patience  of  our 
Saviour,  who,  as  a  lamb  led  to  the  slaugh- 
ter, opened  not  his  mouth,  but  answered 
mildly  to   him  that  struck    him,  "  If  I 

*  Dr.  Powell's  Sermon  on  Inspiration. 

+  Jahn's  Introduction  to  the  Old  Testament. 


468 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


have  spoken  ill   convince  me  of  the  ill  ; 
but  if  well,  why  do  you  strike  me  ?  " 

Let  us  take  an  instance  of  a  different 
character.  Paul  says  to  Timothy, 
"  Demas  hath  forsaken  me,  having 
loved  this  present  world,  and  is  departed 
unto  Thessalonica,  Crescens  to  Galatia, 
Titus  unto  Dalmatia.  Only  Luke  is 
with  me.  And  Tycliicus  have  I  sent  to 
Ephesus.  The  cloak  that  I  left  at  Troas 
with  Carpus,  when  thou  comest,  bring, 
and  the  books,  especially  the  parch- 
ments." Now  can  any  sensible  man 
believe  that  these  ideas  were  inspired  ? 
We  presume  not.  Well,  can  any  man 
believe  —  for  this  is  the  only  tolerable 
supposition  for  our  opponents  —  that 
Paul  was  specially  directed  to  say  these 
things  to  Timothy  ?  They  may  believe 
so,  but  to  us  it  seems  a  most  unnecessary 
exaction  upon  our  faith.  We  can  be- 
lieve that  they  were  specially  directed 
to  state  many  things,  which  were  derived 
not  from  divine  suggestion,  but  from 
memory  ;  to  state  many  things  that 
were  important  as  matters  of  fact  and 
testimony  ;  and  that  in  this,  the  only 
possible  sense,  such  things  were  in- 
spired. But  to  suppose  that  Paul  was 
divinely  prompted  to  request  that  his 
cloak  and  books  might  be  brought  from 
Troas,  and  especially  the  parchments, 
looks  to  us  more  like  an  attempt  to  cast 
contempt  on  the  doctrine  of  inspiration 
than  seriously  to  defend  it.  We  have 
opened  at  this  moment  on  a  passage  of 
Dr.  Woods's  Lectures,  where  he  com- 
ments on  this  text.  He  says  to  the  ob- 
jector, "  I  would  ask  him  what  reason 
he  has  to  think  that  the  direction  was 
unimportant  either  to  the  comfort  and 
usefulness  of  Paul,  or  to  the  interests  of 
the  churches."  To  the  interests  of  the 
churches,  we  suppose  he  means,  inas- 
much as  it  promoted  Paul's  comfort ; 
and  we  answer,  no  reason.  But  is  it 
to  be  thought  that  every  request  or  di- 
rection of  Paul's  that  concerned  his  own 
comfort,  and,  through  that,  his  useful- 
ness, was  a  matter  of  inspiration  ?  We 
might  as  well  say  that  when  he 
asked  for   food  at  the  daily   board   he 


was  inspired,  as  when  he  asked  for 
clothing  on  the  approach  of  winter  ;  for 
the  promise  of  divine  guidance  extend- 
ed, it  will  not  be  denied,  to  what  the 
apostles  spoke,  as  much  as  to  what 
they  wrote.  But  to  presume  that  this 
guidance  was  given  in  the  minutest 
affairs  of  every-day  convenience  and 
prudence,  is  not  only  an  extension 
of  the  promise  wholly  unwarranted  by 
the  terms  of  it,  as  we  think,  but  it  is  a 
stretch  of  inference  which  shows  that 
the  common  theory  of  inspiration  presses 
hard. 

For  ourselves,  we  feel  no  such  press- 
ure. Our  minds  are  so  much  at  ease  in 
this  argument,  that  we  are  ready  to  throw 
the  little  ball  we  have  just  been  winding 
up  to  our'  neighbors  for  their  further 
amusement.  We  cannot  help  referring 
those  —  we  mean  not  the  author  we  have 
just  quoted  —  but  those  who  are  so  fond 
•of  running  out  parallels  between  Uni- 
tarians and  Infidels,  who  have  lately 
studied  so  hard  upon  "  Bolingbroke, 
Hobbes,  Tindal,  Morgan,  Dodwell,  and 
Gibbon,"  —  referring  them,  we  say,  for 
it  must  cost  a  good  deal  of  labor  to  hunt 
up  so  many  references  on  both  sides,  to 
the  new  instances  we  have  just  given 
them,  to  be  added  to  their  useful  cata- 
logue. We  warrant  that  Bolingbroke, 
Hobbes,  Tindal,  Morgan,  Dodwell,  or 
Gibbon,  or,  perhaps,  Paine,  have  quoted 
the  same  passages  in  objecting  to  Chris- 
tianity, that  we  have  quoted  in  objecting 
to  the  Orthodox  views  of  inspiration. 
What  a  notable  argument  is  it,  and  what 
notable  minds  must  it  be  expected  to 
operate  upon!  Unitarians  believe  some 
things  that  Infidels  believe,  and  use 
some  of  the  same  methods  of  reasoning; 
therefore  Unitarians  are  Infidels  !  But 
let  us  try  a  different  application  of  this 
favorite  argument  and  see  how  it  will 
stand.  Orthodox  persons  believe  in  a 
Providence;  so  do  many  Infidels,  there- 
fore the  Orthodox  are  Infidels.  The 
Trinitarians  have  departed  from  the 
simple  unity  of  God,  and  conceive  of 
three  distinct  principles,  each  of  which 
is  God  ;  so  did  Plato  ;   therefore  Trin- 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


469 


itarians  are  Platonists ;  they  have  for- 
saken Christianity,  and  —  shocking  to 
relate  .'  — have  gone  back  to  Heathenism. 
Calvinists  decry  human  nature;  so  did 
the  French  philosophers;  therefore  Cal- 
vinists are  Infidel  philosophers.  They 
are  Necessitarians,  too  ;  so  were  some 
of  the  ancient  philosophers  ;  and  there- 
fore their  system  is  a  strange  mixture 
of  ancient  and  modern  scepticism.  The 
parallel  might  proceed  and  thus  it  would 
be.  "  Nay,  but  we  make  distinctions," 
these  several  sects  would  say.  We  can- 
not help  it ;  we  do  not  see  them  ;  these 
meshes  of  sophistry  are  all  broken  and 
crushed  before  the  step  of  this  '•  mighty 
and  grinding  dispensation"  under  which 
we  are  fighting  the  battle  for  truth. 
'•  Well,  but  we  profess  to  be  Christians." 
Ay,  profess  ;  no  doubt  you  profess. 
That  furthers  your  purposes  for  a  while; 
you  are  "'  Infidels  in  disguise  ;  "  you  are 
on  the  way  to  a  disclosure,  and  "the 
sooner  you  come  out "  the  better. 
"  Ah,"  our  opponents  will  say,  with  a 
serious  face  after  all,  "but  can  you  shut 
your  eyes  to  the  great  historical  fact 
that  some  of  the  German  theologians,  a 
few  years  ago,  speculated  on  some  points 
as  you  do,  and  that  they  have  now 
become  Infidels?"  The  Catholic  shall 
answer  for  us.  "  Can  you,  Calvinistic 
Protestants,  shut  your  eyes  to  the  great 
historical  fact  that  but  fifty  years  ago 
the  German  theologians  speculated  in 
all  respects  as  you  do,  unless  that  they 
speculated  less  freely,  and  that  now 
some  of  them  are  Infidels,  and  many  of 
them  Unitarians,  and  that  almost  all 
deny  the  Scriptural  obligation  of  the 
Sabbath,  the  eternity  of  future  punisii- 
ments,  and  hold  the  Old  Testament  to 
be  of  authority  inferior  to  that  of  the 
New?*  This  is  what  we  told  Luther 
and  his  coadjutors  long  ago,  —  told  them 

*  We  wish,  indeed,  that  those  whose  imaginations 
are  so  possessed  with  the  resemblance  which  we  bear 
to  the  Liberal  party  in  Germany;  who  have  rung 
all  the  changes  of  argument,  warning,  and  sarcasm, 
upon  it,  till  we  should  think  it  could  scarcely  yield 
another  note,—  we  wish  that  they  would  look  at  the 
state  of  the  Orthodox  party  in  that  country.  How 
easy  would  it  be  for  us,  if  we  were  disposed  to  prac- 
tise this  lately  perfected  art  of  seizing  occasions,  to 


SO  at  the  time.  We  told  them  that  they 
were  plunging  themselves,  or  tlieir  suc- 
cessors, at  any  rate,  into  infidelity.  Nay, 
Holy  Church  deems  but  little  better  of 
you  now  than  that  you  are  Infidels  !  It 
holds  you  outcasts  from  faith  and  hope  ; 
and  it  ill  becomes  you  to  protest  against 
this  exclusion  so  long  as  you  are  deal- 
ing out  the  whole  measure  of  its  sever- 
ity against  those  who  differ  from  you." 
We  commend  the  argument  of  the  Cath- 
olic to  those  whom  it  may  concern,  and 
return  to  our  discussion  ;  only  saying, 
as  we  pass,  that  the  Catholic  doctors 
have  more  ground  than  they  think  for 
to  support  the  sopiiism  by  which  they 
claim  Protestant  Christians  as  belong- 
ing to  the  one  infallible  and  undivided 
church.  Protestant  Christians  do  in- 
deed exhibit  too  many  proofs  of  belong- 
ing to  it  ;  and  this  we  say,  not  in  the 
spirit  of  sarcasm,  but  of  sober  and  sad 
reflection. 

It  is  time  to  ask  —  since  the  term  is 
so  vaguely  used  and  for  such  purposes 
■ — ^  What  is  Infidelity  ?  Let  the  modern 
Orthodox  luminaries  of  Germany,  Storr 
and  Flatt,  answer  for  us ;  for  they  an- 
swer wisely  and  with  discrimination. 
"  The  question,"  say  they,  "  is  not,  Shall 
we  believe  the  doctrines  of  Jesus  under 
the  same  conditions  that  we  believe 
the  declarations  of  any  other  teacher, 
namely,  provided  our  reason  discovers 
them  to  be  true  ?  but  the  question  is. 
Shall  we  believe  the  instructions  of 
Jesus  under  circumstances  in  which  we 
would  not  believe  any  other  teacher 
who  was  not  under  the  special  influence 
of  God  ?  It  is  useless  to  speak  of  a 
revelafioii,  if  we  attribute  to  Jesus  no 
other  inspiration  than  that  which  the 
Naturalist  will  attrii)Ute  to  him,  and 
which  may  just  as  well  be  attributed  to 
the  Koran,  and  to  every  other  pretended 

wage  this  petty  war  of  comparisons  and  illusions  and 
insinuations;  to  address  ourselves,  not  to  the  reflec- 
tions, but  to  the  imagination  of  the  people;  how  easy 
to  retort  and  to  spread  a  vague  horror  against  half  of 
the  Orthodox  clergy  of  New  England!  Rut  do  we 
live  at  a  period  when  there  is  no  discrimination?  Is 
the  learning  of  Germany,  with  its  hasty,  though 
monstrous  growth,  to  deter  all  the  world  from  in- 
quiry ? 


470 


THE    NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


revelation  ;  nay,  to  all  teachers  of  relig- 
ion;  that  is,  if  we  receive  only  those 
doctrines  whose  truth  is  manifest  to  the 
eye  of  reason,  and  call  them  divine  only 
because  all  truth  is  derived  from  God, 
the  author  of  our  reason."*  It  is  in 
this  vague  sense  that  some  Infidels 
have  called  the  Scriptures  divine  ;  that 
Bolingbroke  has  denominated  them 
"  the  word  of  God,"  and  that  Rousseau 
has  seemed  to  acknowledge  so  much, 
in  those  eloquent  testimonies  of  his,  to 
the  beauty  of  the  Scriptures  and  of  our 
Saviour's  character,  which  put  the  cold- 
ness of  many  Christian  teachers  to 
shame.  But  now  let  the  question  be 
fairly  stated:  Does,  or  did,  any  Infidel 
ever  admit  the  divine,  supernatural, 
miraculous  origin  of  that  system  of 
interpositions  and  instructions  that  is 
recorded  in  the  Bible  ?  And  was  any- 
thing ever  heard  of,  in  all  the  annals 
of  theological  extravagance,  more  mon- 
strous, than  to  charge  men,  who  devoutly 
and  gratefully  profess  to  receive  the 
Bible  in  this  supernatural  character, 
with  being  Infidels? 

Let  not  our  brethren  in  the  Christian 
faith  be  shaken  from  their  steadfastness 
by  this  senseless  cry,  or  the  vague  hor- 
ror which  it  is  designed  to  spread  abroad 
among  the  people.  Let  them  examine 
the  glorious  temple  of  their  faith,  too 
clear  in  their  perceptions,  too  strong  in 
their  admiration,  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
slight  appendages  which  the  tastes  and 
styles  of  different  ages  have  gathered 
around  it.  Let  them  study  the  sublime 
and  precious  record  of  heaven-inspired 
truth,  with  a  freedom,  with  a  faith,  with 
a  feeling,  that  standeth  not  in  the  letter, 
but  in  the  spirit. 

We  cannot  think  it  a  hard  case  to 
be  classed,  in  our  faith  on  this  subject, 
with  such  men  as  Grotius  and  Eras- 
mus, with  Paley  and  Burnet;  and  we 
are  really  curious  to  know  —  we  wish 
that  our  accusers  would  tell  us  —  what 
they  are  to  do  with  such  men.  Eras- 
mus   and   Grotius,   Burnet   and    Paley, 

•  Bibl.  Theol.  §  i6,  II.  3. 


Infidels  !  It  is  indeed  a  discovery  in 
the  Christian  world. 

We  shall  now  take  up  a  few  moments 
in  making  some  further  references  of 
this  nature  ;  for  it  is  time,  as  we  have 
already  said,  to  refer  to  some  of  the 
most  able  defenders  of  our  faith,  and 
to  inquire  whether  their  names,  too,  are 
to  fall  under  this  newly  devised  oppro- 
brium. 

St.  Jerome  says,  "  The  Prophet  Amos 
was  skilled  in  knowledge,  not  in  lan- 
guage : "  and  then,  in  a  comment  on  the 
third  chapter,  he  adds,  "We  told  you 
that  he  uses  the  terms  of  his  own  pro- 
fession, and,  because  a  shepherd  knows 
nothing  more  terrible  than  a  lion,  he 
compares  the  anger  of  God  to  lions." 
Did  not  Jerome,  then,  regard  the  lan- 
guage as  "  purely  human  "  ?  Did  he 
regard  it  as  "  rhetorically  the  best  lan- 
guage "  .'' 

The  learned  Le  Clerc,  whose  writings 
occupy  a  distinguished  place  in  all  our 
theological  hbraries,  says,  with  a  lati- 
tude of  expression,  indeed,  beyond  what 
we  should  use,  "Thus,  then,  according 
to  my  hypothesis,  the  authority  of  the 
Scripture  continues  in  full  force  ;  for 
you  see  I  maintain  that  we  are  obliged 
to  believe  the  substance  of  the  history 
of  the  New  Testament,  and  generally 
all  the  doctrines  of  Jesus  Christ,  all 
that  was  inspired  to  the  apostles,  and 
also  whatsoever  they  have  said  of  them- 
selves, so  far  as  it  is  conformable  to 
our  Saviour's  doctrine  and  to  right  rea- 
son. It  is  plain  that  nothing  further  is 
necessarily  to  be  believed  in  order  to 
salvation  ;  and  it  seems  also  evident  to 
me  that  those  new  opinions  brought 
into  the  Christian  religion  since  the 
death  of  the  apostles,  which  I  have 
here  refuted,  being  altogether  imaginary 
and  ungrounded,  instead  of  bringing  any 
advantage  to  the  Christian  religion,  are 
really  very  prejudicial  to  it.  An  in- 
spiration is  attributed  to  the  apostles 
to  which  they  never  pretended,  and 
whereof  there  is  not  the  least  mark  left 
in  their  writings.  Hereupon  it  hap- 
pens that  very  many  persons  who  have 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


471 


strength  enough  of  understanding  to 
deny  assent  to  a  thing  for  which  there 
is  no  good  proof  brought,  —  though 
preached  with  never  so  much  gravity, — 
it  happens.  I  say,  that  these  persons 
reject  all  tlie  Christian  religion,  because 
they  do  not  distinguish  true  Christian- 
ity from  those  dreams  of  fanciful  di- 
vines."* 

For  the  opinion  that  we  are  to  look 
to  the  substance  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
not  to  the  letter,  —  not  to  every  exact 
mode  of  phraseology, — let  us  see  what 
countenance  we  have  from  Dr.  Light- 
foot,  by  universal  consent  allowed  to  be 
one  of  the  most  learned  and  eminent 
men  in  the  English  Church.  After  say- 
ing that  the  evangelists  and  apostles 
used  the  Greek  versions  of  the  Old 
Testament  in  their  quotations  from  it, 
he  speaks  of  that  version  in  the  follow- 
ing terms  :  "I  question  not  but  the  in- 
terpreters (the  LXX.),  whoever  they 
were,  engaged  themselves  in  this  under- 
taking (the  translation  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment) with  something  of  a  partial  mind, 
and,  as  they  made  no  great  conscience 
of  imposing  on  the  Gentiles,  so  they 
made  it  their  religion  to  favor  their  own 
side  ;  and,  according  to  this  ill  temper- 
ament and  disposition  of  mind,  so  did 
they  manage  their  version,  either  add- 
ing or  curtailing  at  pleasure,  blindly, 
lazily,  and  audaciously  enough,  —  some- 
times giving  a  very  foreign  sense,  some- 
times a  contrary,  oftentimes  none,  —  and 
this  frequently  to  patronize  tlieir  own 
traditions,  or  to  avoid  some  offence  they 
think  might  be  in  the  original,  or  for 
the  credit  and  safety  of  their  own  na- 
tion, —  the  tokens  of  all  which  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  instance  in  very  great 
numbers,  would  I  apply  myself  to  it."f 
Now,  admitting  all  or  anything  of  this 
to  be  true,  is  it  possible  to  suppose  that 
the  apostles  held  the  authority  of  the 
Scriptures,  as  is  now  done,  to  depend 
on  their  verbal  accuracy  ?  There  is 
reason,  indeed,  with  Le  Clerc,  to  denom- 
inate these  views  of  inspiration  "  new 

*  Essay  on  Inspiration, 
t  Vol.  II.  p.  401. 


opinions  brought  into  the  church  since 
the  death  of  the  apostles." 

But  our  present  business  is  with  au- 
thorities. Bishop  Atterbury,  in  his  ser- 
mon on  2  Peter  iii.  16,  writes  thus  : 
"  For  consider  we  with  ourselves  what 
manner  of  men  the  apostles  were  in 
tiieir  birth  and  education,  what  country 
they  lived  in,  what  language  they  wrote 
in,  and  we  shall  find  it  rather  wonder- 
ful that  there  are  so  few,  than  that  there 
are  so  many,  things  that  we  are  at  a 
loss  to  understand,-  They  were  men 
(all  except  Paul)  meanly  born  and  bred, 
and  uninstructed  utterly  in  the  arts  of 
speaking  and  writing.  All  the  language 
they  were  masters  of  was  purely  what 
was  necessary  to  express  themselves 
upon  the  common  affairs  of  life  and  in 
matters  of  intercourse  with  men  of  their 
own  rank  and  profession.  When  they 
came,  therefore,  to  talk  of  the  great 
doctrines  of  the  cross,  to  preach  up  the 
astonishing  truths  of  the  Gospel,  they 
brought,  to  be  sure,  their  old  idiotisms 
[idioms]  and  plainness  of  speech  along 
with  them.  And  is  it  strange,  then,  that 
the  deep  things  of  God  should  not  al- 
ways be  expressed  by  them  in  words  of 
the  greatest  propriety  and  clearness  ? " 

Bishop  Chandler  says,  speaking  of 
Paul's  reasonings  on  certain  points, 
"  In  all  this  he  saith  no  more  than  that 
the  subject  of  his  mystical  reasons,  as 
they  relate  to  Christ,  was  taught  them 
by  the  Spirit  ;  the  doctrines  were  di- 
vine;  yet  the  means  and  topics  from 
whence  they  were  sometimes  urged  and 
confirmed  were  hufnan." 

The  following  observations  from 
Locke's  E=say  on  the  Understanding 
of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  we  presume  no 
judicious  critic  will  gainsay  ;  and  we 
see  not  how  the  inference  is  to  be  re- 
jected, that  the  manner  and  style  were 
altogether  his  own,  and  purely  human, 
and  plainly  imperfect. 

"  To  these  causes  of  obscurity,  com- 
mon to  St.  Paul  with  most  of  the  other 
penmen  of  the  several  books  of  the 
New  Testament,  we  may  add  those 
that  are  peculiarly  his,  and  owing   to 


472 


THE   NATURE    AND    EXTENT    OF   INSPIRATION. 


his  style  and  temper.  He  was,  as  it  is  vis- 
ible, a  man  of  quick  thought,  warm  tem- 
per, mighty  well  versed  in  the  writings 
of  the  Old  Testament,  and  full  of  the 
doctrine  of  the  New.  All  this  put  to- 
gether suggested  matter  to  him  in  abun- 
dance on  those  subjects  that  came  in 
his  way;  so  that  one  may  consider  him 
when  he  was  writing  as  beset  with  a 
crowd  of  thoughts  all  striving  for  utter- 
ance. In  this  posture  of  mind  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  him  to  keep  that 
slow -pace,  and  observe  minutely  that 
order  and  method  of  ranging  all  that  he 
said,  from  which  results  an  easy  and 
obvious  perspicuity.  To  this  plenty  and 
vehemence  of  his  may  be  imputed  many 
of  those  large  parentheses  which  a  care- 
ful reader  may  observe  in  his  Epistles. 
Upon  this  account,  also,  it  is  that  he 
often  breaks  off  in  the  middle  of  an 
argument,  to  let  in  some  new  thought 
suggested  by  his  own  words  ;  which 
having  pursued  and  explained  as  far  as 
conduced  to  his  present  purpose,  he 
reassumes  again  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course, and  goes  on  with  it,  without 
taking  any  notice  that  he  returns  again 
to  what  he  had  been  before  saying ; 
though  sometimes  it  be  so  far  off  that  it 
may  well  have  slipped  out  of  his  mind, 
and  requires  a  very  attentive  reader  to 
observe,  and  so  bring  the  disjointed 
members  together  as  to  make  up  the 
connection,  and  see  how  the  scattered 
parts  of  the  discourse  hang  together  in 
a  coherent,  well-agreeing  sense,  that 
makes  it  all  of  a  piece." 

We  should  not  proceed  with  these 
quotations  merely  for  our  own  defence  ; 
liut  we  think  they  deserve  attention  on 
their  own  account,  upon  a  subject  so 
little  understood,  and  so  likely  to  at- 
tract further  notice,  as  the  character  in 
which  the  Scriptures  are  to  be  received 
as  containing  a  revelation  from  God.  We 
shall  therefore  make  one  or  two  extracts 
from  Bishop  Burnet  and  Dr.  Paley,  in 
addition  to  those  given  in  a  former 
article. 

In  his  Exposition  of  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles,    Bishop    Burnet   thus    writes : 


"  And  thus  far  I  have  laid  down  such  a 
scheme  concerning  inspiration  and  in- 
spired writings  as  will  afford,  to  such  as 
apprehend  it  aright,  a  solution  to  most 
of  these  difficulties  with  which  we  are 
urged  on  the  account  of  some  passages 
in  the  sacred  writings.  The  laying  down 
a  scheme  that  asserts  an  immediate  in- 
spiration which  goes  to  the  style  and  to 
every  tittle,  and  that  denies  any  error  to 
have  crept  into  any  of  the  copies,  as  it 
seems  on  the  one  hand  to  raise  the  hon- 
or of  the  Scriptures  very  highly,  so  it 
lies  open,  on  the  other  hand,  to  great 
difficulties,  which  seem  insuperable  in 
that  hypothesis  ;  whereas  a  middle  way, 
as  it  settles  the  divine  inspiration  of 
these  writings,  and  their  being  contin- 
ued down  genuine  and  unvitiated  to  us, 
as  to  all  that,  for  which  we  can  only 
suppose  that  inspiration  was  given  ;  so 
it  helps  us  more  easily  out  of  all  diffi- 
culties, by  yielding  that  which  serves  to 
answer  them,  without  weakening  the 
authority  of  the  whole."  * 

We  give  an  extract  from  Dr.  Paley' s 
chapter  on  Erroneous  Opinions  imputed 
to  the  Apostles,  referring  our  readers, 
who  would  learn  his  views  in  detail,  to 
the  whole  chapter.  "We  do  not  usually 
question  the  credit  of  a  writer  by  reason 
of  any  opinion  he  may  have  delivered 
upon  subjects  unconnected  with  his 
evidence  ;  and  even  upon  subjects  con- 
nected with  his  account,  or  mixed  with 
it  in  the  same  discourse  or  writing,  we 
naturally  separate  facts  from  opinions, 
testimony  from  observation,  narrative 
from  argument. 

"  To  apply  this  equitable  consideration 
to  the  Christian  records,  much  contro- 
versy and  much  objection  has  been 
raised  concerning  the  quotations  of  the 
Old  Testament  found  in  the  New  ;  some 
of  which  quotations,  it  is  said,  are  ap- 
plied in  a  sense,  and  to  events,  appar- 
ently different  from  that  which  they 
bear,  and  from  those  to  which  they 
belong,  in  the  original.  It  is  probable 
to  my  apprehension,  that  many  of  those 
quotations  were  intended  by  the  writers 

*  P.  88,  2d  fol.  edition,  1700. 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


473 


of  the  New  Testament  as  nothing  more 
than  accommodatiotis.  Such  accommo- 
dations of  passages  from  old  authors  are 
common  with  writers  of  all  countries  ; 
but  in  none,  perhaps,  were  more  to  be 
expected  than  in  the  writings  of  the 
Jews,  whose  literature  was  almost  en- 
tirely confined  to  their  Scriptures." 
"  Those  prophecies  which  are  alleged 
with  more  solemnity,  and  which  are  ac- 
companied with  a  precise  declaration 
that  they  originally  respected  the  event 
then  related,  are,  I  think,  truly  alleged. 
But  were  it  otherwise,  is  the  judgment 
of  the  writers  of  the  New  Testament,  in 
interpreting  passages  of  the  Old,  or 
sometimes  perhaps  in  receiving  estab- 
lished interpretations,  so  connected  ei- 
ther with  their  veracity,  or  with  their 
means  of  information  concerning  what 
was  passing  in  their  own  times,  as  that 
a  critical  mistake,  even  were  it  more 
clearly  made  out,  should  overthrow  their 
historical  credit  ?  Does  it  diminish  it? 
Has  it  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  "  * 

It  is  well  known  that  the  doctrine  of 
inspiration  has  been  exceedingly  modi- 
fied by  the  progress  of  biblical  criticism 
within  the  last  half-century.  To  this 
purpose  we  quote  Jahn,  in  reference  to 
the  prevailing  state  of  opinion  in  Ger- 
many. "  Most  of  the  Protestants  formed 
a  very  strict  idea  of  inspiration,  and  de- 
fended it  as  late  as  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  But  after  the  pub- 
lication of  the  learned  work  of  Toellner 
on  inspiration,  in  1772,  and  of  Semler's 
examination  of  the  Canon,  1771-73,  many 
undertook  to  investigate  the  doctrine  of 
inspiration,  and  gradually  relaxed  in  their 
views  of  it,  until  at  last  they  entirely 
banished  the  doctrine,  so  that  at  present 
but  few  admit  it."f 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  prove  that 
there  has  been  a  similar,  though  not  an 
equal,  nor  equally  extended,  progress  of 
opinion  in  England.  We  have  in  a  for- 
mer article  referred  to  Dr.  Powell  and 
Bishop  Marsh. 

Dr.  Durell,  Principal  of  Hertford  Col- 

*  Evidences,  Part  iii.  chap.  ii. 

t  Introduction  to  the  Old  Testament,  §  23. 


I  lege,  Oxford,  and  Prebendary  of  Canter- 
bury, said  long  ago,  in  speaking  of  the 
imprecations  sometimes  occurring  in 
the  Psalms,  "  How  far  it  may  be  prop- 
er to  continue  the  reading  of  these 
Psalms  in  the  daily  service  of  our  church, 
I  leave  to  the  consideration  of  the  legis- 
lature to  determine.  A  Christian  of 
erudition  may  consider  these  impreca- 
tions only  as  the  natural  sentiments  of 
Jews,  which  the  benign  religion  he  pro- 
fesses abhors  and  condemns.  But  what 
are  the  illiterate  to  do,  who  know  not 
whence  to  draw  the  line  between  the 
Law  and  the  Gospel  ?  They  hear  both 
read,  one  after  the  other,  and,  I  fear, 
think  them  both  of  equal  obligation,  and 
even  take  shelter  under  Scripture  to  clov- 
er their  curses.  Though  I  am  conscious 
I  here  tread  on  slippery  ground,  I  will 
take  leave  to  hint  that,  notwithstanding 
the  high  antiquity  that  sanctifies,  as  it 
were,  this  practice,  it  would,  in  the  opin- 
ion of  a  7iutnber  of  wise  and  good  7nen, 
be  more  for  the  credit  of  the  Christian 
church  to  omit  a  few  of  those  Psalms, 
and  substitute  some  parts  of  the  Gospel 
in  their  stead." 

Speaking  of  Paul's  manner  of  writing 
in  his  Epistles,  Bishop  Marsh  says  :  "  The 
erudition  there  displayed  is  the  erudi- 
tion of  a  learned  Jew.  The  argumenta- 
tion there  displayed  is  the  argumenta- 
tion of  a  Jewish  convert  to  Christianity, 
confuting  his  brethren  on  their  own 
ground." 

Still  more  strongly.  Dr.  Maltby,  late 
preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  in  his  Ser- 
mons •  '  Whatsoever  doctrines  con- 
nected with  revelation  are  clearly  dis- 
coverable in  the  writings  of  St.  Paul,  we 
receive  with  reverence  and  faith,  as  the 
will  of  God.  But  let  us  beware  how  we 
misunderstand  the  meaning  of  a  writer, 
whose  meaning  from  so  many  causes 
may  be  misunderstood.  Let  us  discrim- 
inate when  he  is  addressing  his  adversa- 
ries  as  a  logician,  and  when  he  unequiv- 
ocally expresses  his  own  personal  con- 
viction." * 

The    Quarterly    Review,    which    has 

*  Maltby's  Sermons,  Vol.  I.  p.  311. 


474 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


been  considered  as  representing  the  sen- 
timents of  the  English  Church,  in  an 
article  on  Professor  Buckland's  Reli- 
qtiicE  Diliiviance,  uses  the  following  lan- 
guage. Addressing  the  friends  of  relig- 
ion, it  says  ;  "  We  would  call  to  their 
recollection,  also,  the  opinions  formerly 
maintained  as  to  the  plenary  and  even 
literal  inspiration  of  Scripture  ;  the  clam- 
or raised  against  the  first  collections 
of  various  readings,  in  the  copies  of  the 
New  Testament,  and  still  later  against 
those  of  the  Old. 

"Well  indeed  is  it  for  us  that  the 
cause  of  revelation  does  not  depend  on 
questions  such  as  these  ;  for  it  is  remark- 
able that  in  every  instance  the  controver- 
sy Uas  ended  in  the  gradual  surrender  of 
those  very  points  which  were  at  one 
time  represented  as  involving  the  vital 
interests  of  religion."  * 

But  we  have  wearied  ourselves,  and 
our  readers,  we  fear,  with  quotations. 
And  truly  what  need  of  authorities  ?  Let 
us  quote  Paul  himself.  So  personal,  so 
private  many  times,  so  peculiar  always, 
so  mixing  up  his  natural  feelings  and 
interests  with  the  ministration  of  the 
Gospel,  that  one  of  the  charms  of  his 
writings  is  the  charm  of  his  own  noble 
generosity  and  artlessness,  —  how  is  it 
possible  to  think  of  him,  in  many  of  these 
passages,  but  as  giving  utterance  to  feel- 
ings entirely  natural,  in  words  and  ar- 
guments purely  human  ?  Let  us  quote 
Paul,  we  say  ;  and  we  may  take  a  pas- 
sage almost  at  random,  and  leave  it  to 
the  judgment  of  our  readers.  "  Am  I 
not  an  apostle  ?  Am  I  not  free  ?  have 
I  not  seen  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord  ?  are 
ye  not  my  work  in  the  Lord.?  If  I  be 
not  an  apostle  unto  others,  yet  doubtless 
I  am  to  you  :  for  the  seal  of  mine  apos- 
tleship  are  ye  in  the  Lord.  Mine  answer 
to  them  that  do  examine  me  is  this  : 
Have  we  not  power  to  eat  and  to  drink  ? 
Have  we  not  power  to  lead  about  a  sis- 
ter, a  wife,  as  well  as  other  apostles,  and 
as  the  brethren  of  the  Lord,  and  Cephas  ? 
Or  I  only  and  Barnabas,  have  we  not 
power  to  forbear  working  1  Who  goeth 
*  Quarterly  Review,  No.  LXVII.  p.  142. 


a  warfare  any  time  at  his  own  charges  .^ 
who  planteth  a  vineyard,  and  eateth  not 
of  the  fruit  thereof  ?  or  who  feedeth  a 
flock,  and  eateth  not  of  the  milk  of  the 
flock?"* 

We  shall  now  leave  the  charge  of  infi- 
delity, and  shall  enter  upon  a  brief  con- 
sideration of  the  Lectures  which  we  have 
placed  at  the  head  of  this  article.  We 
feel,  in  doing  so,  that  we  are  breathing 
a  new  atmosphere,  that  we  are  passing 
from  storm  to  sunshine,  from  a  cloudy 
region  to  clearer  light;  and  truly  if  we 
are  to  fall  in  any  contest,  we  had  rather 
be  stricken  down  by  the  sunbeam  than 
by  a  driving  mist.  We  see  in  these 
Lectures  the  same  fine  and  cautious  dis- 
crimination for  which  we  have  long  con- 
sidered Dr.  Woods  as  distinguished,  and 
which,  we  believe,  would  render  him 
eminent  in  any  church  ;  and  though  he 
has  not  cleared  up  our  difficulties,  though 
he  has  not,  indeed,  grappled  with  the 
difficulties  that  most  press  upon  our  own 
minds,  yet,  if  we  are  wrong,  we  certainly 
•should  be  more  likely  to  be  reclaimed 
by  his  discriminating  arguments  than 
by  violent  anathemas  and  wholesale  de- 
nunciations. When  will  Christian  con- 
troversialists approach  but  so  distantly 
to  the  kindliness  of  our  common  faith 
as  to  recognize  the  claims  of  common 
humanity,  and  to  pay  any  tolerable  re- 
spect to  the  sincerity  and  worth  of  their 
opponents  '^. 

We  understand  Dr.  Woods.  We 
know  that  he  is  no  temporizer.  We  hear 
him  speak  of  dangers.  Perhaps  we  ad- 
mit that  there  are  dangers  ;  perhaps  we 
feel  it ;  perhaps  we  pray  for  light  and 
safety,  and  fear  lest  we  should  stretch 
out  a  rash  hand  to  the  ark  of  God  to  save 
it  from  the  hands  of  the  Philistines.  All 
this  may  be  ;  for  when  or  where  was  the 
speculative  or  moral  path  of  any  human 
being  free  from  dangers  't 

Dr.  Woods  commences  with  "  re- 
marks '  on  the  proper  mode  of  reason- 
ing, and  on  the  nature  and  source  of 
the  evidence  by  which  divine  inspira- 
tion is  to  be  proved."     In  the  course  of 

*  I  Cor.  ix.  1-7. 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


475 


these  remarks  he  introduces  with  appro- 
bation a  passage  from  Dr.  Knapp,  which, 
as  containing  some  important  discrimi- 
nations, we  will  quote.  "These  two 
positions,  the  contents  of  the  sacred 
books,  or  the  doctrines  taught  in  them, 
are  of  di^'ine  origin;  and  the  books 
themselves  are  giveti  by  inspiration  of 
God,  are  not  tlie  same,  but  need  to  be 
carefully  distinguished.  It  does  not  fol- 
low from  the  arguments  which  prove 
the  doctrines  of  the  Scriptures  to  be 
divine,  that  the  books  themselves  were 
written  under  a  divine  impulse.  A  re- 
vealed truth  may  be  taught  in  any  book  ; 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  the  book 
itself  is  divine.  We  might  be  convinced 
of  the  truth  and  divinity  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  from  the  mere  genuineness 
of  the  books  of  the  New  Testament  and 
the  credibility  of  their  authors.  The 
divinity  of  the  Christian  religion  can 
therefore  be  conceived  independently  of 
the  .inspiration  of  the  Bible.  This  dis- 
tinction was  made  as  early  as  the  time 
of  Melancthon." 

On  this  passage  we  have  two  remarks 
to  offer.  In  the  first  place,  according 
to  the  obvious  distinction  here  adopted 
by  Dr.  Woods,  we  could  take  refuge 
within  the  pahe  of  Christianity,  even 
though  we  believed  much  less  than  we 
do.  In  the  second  place,  believing  as 
we  do,  we  have  no  difficulty  in  admitting 
the  doctrine  of  inspiration  in  the  gen- 
eral terms  here  laid  down. 

We  do,  indeed,  differ  from  the  author 
of  the  Lectures  when  he  goes  into  detail. 
We  believe  that  the  truths  of  our  re- 
ligion were  inspired,  and  that  the  teach- 
ers of  our  religion  were  divinely  directed 
and  assisted  to  communicate  them  ;  but 
we  cannot  see  that  such  an  inspiration 
is,  or  need  be,  a  pledge  for  the  perfect 
accuracy  or  correctness  of  every  word 
they  wrote,  or  of  every  illustration  or 
argument  by  which  they  enforced  their 
message. 

But  this  brings  "us  to  the  question  ; 
and  on  this  question  Dr.  Woods  lays 
down  the  following  and  only  safe  rule, 
and,    as   we  may  venture  hereafter  to 


remind  him,  the  only  rule.  "  The  single 
argument,"  he  says,  ''  on  which  I  pro- 
pose to  rest  the  doctrine  of  inspiration, 
is  the  testimony  of  the  sacred  -writers 
themselves.'''' 

With  this  rule  before  him,  and  after 
clearing  the  way  to  his  main  subject  by 
several  qualifications,  to  which  we  shall 
soon  have  occasion  to  refer.  Dr.  Woods 
adduces  arguments  for  the  inspiration, 
first  of  the  Old,  and  then  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament. And  we  confess  that,  if  we  did 
not  read  the  illustrations  of  his  argu- 
ments, or  if  we  were  not  aware  before- 
hand that  our  views  differed  from  his, — 
that  if  we  took  his  arguments  just  as 
they  stand  in  their  simple  statement,  we 
should  never  suspect  that  they  were  de- 
signed to  establish  a  position  different 
from  that  in  which  we  ourselves  stand. 

The  first  argument,  of  course,  for  the 
inspiration  of  the  Old  Testament  is  from 
the  passages,  "  For  the  prophecy  came 
not  in  old  times  by  the  will  of  man,  but 
lioly  men  spake  as  they  were  moved  by 
the  Holy  Ghost,"  *  and  "  All  Scripture 
is  given  by  inspiration  of  God."  f  Now, 
not  to  insist  upon  learned  or  minute 
criticisms  on  these  passages,  from  which 
we  certainly  think  we  should  derive 
some  advantages  in  the  argument,  let 
them  be  taken  for  all  that  they  can  rea- 
sonably be  supposed  to  mean,  or  that, 
without  straining  them,  they  can  mean 
at  all.  "  Prophecy  "  and  "  all  Scrip- 
ture "  refer  to  the  Old  Testament  as  a 
whole,  as  a  collection  of  writings  ;  and 
those  writings  had  a  divine  and  super- 
natural origin.  They  had  a  higher  ori- 
gin than  the  will  of  man.  They  form  a 
body  of  divine  communications  ;  they 
are  the  authorized  records  of  a  divine 
religion.  Such  a  commentary  surely 
satisfies  the  obvious  meaning  of  these 
passages.  But  can  it  be  inferred  that 
Peter  and  Paul,  when  they  use  this  lan- 
guage, intend  to  claim  every  sentence 
and  phrase  as  of  divine  inspiration  ? 
These  passages  are  precisely  like  those 
general  declarations  which  we  constantly 
make   about   the   general    character   of 

*  2  Peter  i.  21.  t  2  Tim.  iii.  16. 


476 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


books,  when  we  have  no  intention  to  em- 
brace every  minute  particular.  We  give 
a  meaning  to  those  texts,  then,  a  very 
natural  and  a  most  important  meaning, 
without  involving  ourselves  in  what 
seems  to  us  the  mextricable  difficulties 
of  defending  every  word  in  the  Old 
Testament.  Storr  and  Flatt  say,  in 
commenting  on  the  passage  in  Timothy, 
"  It  is  certain,  from  the  declarations  of 
the  apostle  Paul,  that  those  books  are  in 
such  a  sense  inspired  and  given  by  God 
that  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  of  divine 
authority  ;  and  for  this  reason  they  are 
entitled  to  credence.  And  this  is  the 
precise  idea  of  divine  inspiration  which, 
in  the  days  of  Timothy,  was  instilled 
into  the  minds  of  all  the  Jews  from 
their  earliest  infancy  "  What  Josephus 
says  of  the  Jewish  faith  in  their  Scrip- 
tures, we  are  perfectly  ready  to  assent 
to  ;  that  they  "esteem  these  books  to 
contain  divine  doctrines  ;  "  and  he  says 
nothing  stronger  in  the  whole  passage,* 
to  which  the  German  theologians,  just 
quoted,  refer.  But  even  if  it  were  ad- 
mitted that  the  texts  in  question  mean 
all  that  they  can  mean,  —  that  the  words 
"prophecy  "  and  "all  Scripture  "  mean 
every  truth,  every  idea,  contained  in  the 
Old  Testament,  still  it  would  not  follow 
that  those  "  holy  men  "  were  indebted 
for  their  style,  or  for  any  direction  of 
their  style,  to  inspiration. 

Dr.  Woods's  "  next  argument  to  prove 
the  inspiration  of  the  Old  Testament 
Scriptures  is,  that  Christ  and  his  apos- 
tles treat  them  as  possessing  an  author- 
ity entirely  different  from  that  of  any 
other  writings."  To  this  we  give  en- 
tire assent ;  and  we  yield  to  the  infer- 
ence so  far  as  we  think  it  can  fairly  go. 
But  that  it  goes  to  the  sanctioning  of 
every  word  or  idea  in  those  Scriptures, 
we  cannot  see  reason  to  admit.  With- 
out attributing  to  them  any  such  per- 
fection, they  possess  to  our  minds  just 
such  an  authority ;  that  is  to  say,  an 
"  authority  entirely  different  from  that  of 
any  other  writings."  and  this  must  to  us, 
of  course,  be  a  decisive  consideration. 

*  Against  Apaion,  Bk.  I.  8. 


The  arguments  which  Dr.  Woods 
uses  to  prove  the  inspiration  of  the 
New  Testament  are  the  following. 
First,  "  that  Christ,  who  had  all  power 
in  heaven  and  earth,  commissioned  his 
apostles  to  act  in  his  stead  as  teachers 
of  the  Christian  religion,  and  confirmed 
their  authority  by  miracles  ;  "  secondly, 
that  "  Christ  expressly  promised  to  give 
his  apostles  the  Holy  Spirit  to  assist 
them  in  their  work  ;  "  and  thirdly,  "  that 
there  are  many  passages  in  the  New 
Testament  to  show  that  the  writers  con- 
sidered themselves  to  be  under  the  in- 
fallible guidance  of  the  Spirit,  and  their 
instructions  to  be  clothed  with  divine 
authority." 

Now,  we  wish  not  to  seem  perverse 
or  paradoxical  to  any  one,  certainly  not 
to  an  author  whose  reasoning  powers  we 
greatly  respect  ;  but  it  appears  to  us 
that  we  can  admit  all  these  propositions, 
and  we  have  no  doubt,  indeed,  of  their 
truth,  without  coming  to  the  conclusion 
to  wliich  Dr.  Woods  would  guide  us. 
We  believe  that  Jesus  authorized  the 
apostles  to  teach  his  religion,  that  he 
promised  them  special  aid,  and  that 
tiiey  considered  themselves  as  teaching 
the  great  truths  of  his  religion  under  a 
guidance  which,  with  reference  to  those 
truths,  was  infallible  ;  that  they  con- 
sidered their  instructions  as  clothed 
with  divine  authority  ;  and  yet,  to  the 
accomplishment  of  all  this,  to  the  bare 
making  of  the  covununication,  we  can- 
not perceive  it  to  be  necessary  that 
there  should  have  been  any  constant 
and  miraculous  interference  with  the 
natural  operations  of  their  own  minds, 
—  any  supernatural  guardianship  over 
their  reasonings  about  the  truths  they 
were  to  deliver,  or  over  their  illustrations 
of  it,  over  their  comparisons,  figures,  or 
their  phrases. 

He  who  maintains  that  inspiration 
does  extend  to  these  things  should 
bring  express  proof;  should  bring  "the 
testimony  of  the  w*riters  themselves." 
Now  here  it  is,  to  our  minds,  that  the 
argument  of  Dr.  Woods  is  essentially 
deficient.     It  is  a  negative  argument; 


THE  NATURE  AND  EXTENT  OF  INSPIRATION. 


477 


and  a  negative  argument,  certainly, 
against  the  strongest  positive  presurtip- 
tion.  The  sacred  writers  say  that  they 
were  directed  to  make  the  communica- 
tion, that  they  were  commissioned  to 
preach  the  gospel  ;  but  here  their  testi- 
mony ends.  They  do  not  say  that  they 
were,  or  would  be,  directed  minutely  in 
every  phrase,  figure,  and  illustration, 
how  to  preach  it.  On  the  contrary, 
they  preach  in  a  manner,  to  all  appear- 
ance, perfectly  natural  to  them.  They 
preach  as  occasions  arise,  and  their 
writings  are  mostly  called  forth  by  exi- 
gencies of  trial  and  danger  in  the  state 
of  the  churches.  And,  therefore,  the 
presumption  is  against  the  extension  of 
inspiration  contended  for. 

We  are  aware,  indeed,  that  Dr. 
Woods  insists  that  "as  the  writers  of 
Scripture  nowhere  Hmit  the  divine  in- 
fluence which  they  enjoyed,  to  the 
thoughts  or  conceptions  of  their  own 
minds,"  so  neither  should  we.  But  can 
this  canon  of  interpretation  be  sup- 
ported? God's  interposition  in  aid  of 
human  virtue  is  tau«ht  without  any 
express  limit.  Is  there,  therefore,  no 
limit  ?  Does  this  interposition  extend 
to  the  immediate  and  miraculous  control 
or  guidance  of  all  holy  affections  ?  So 
men  are  said  to  be  inspired  to  teach  the 
truth.  But  can  it  be  fairly  argued  from 
thence,  that  the  inspiring  influence  ex- 
tends, beyond  the  truths  revealed,  to 
the  words  of  the  communication  }  Be- 
sides, if  there  were  ;/<?  limit,  then  there 
must  have  been  an  instant  suggestion 
or  prompting  of  every  word,  and  the 
sacred  writer  must  have  been  the  mere 
amanuensis  or  secretary,  so  to  speak, 
of  the  inspiring  influence.  Does  Dr. 
Woods  believe  this?  We  presume  not; 
since  he  allows  that  the  inspired  writers 
"use  their  own  style,"  and  only  main- 
tains that  they  are  "under  such  direc- 
tion" as  "certainly  to  be  secured 
against  all  mistakes." 

The  truth  is,  undeniably,  that  the  act 
of  composition  —  the  act  of  selecting 
words  in  a  sentence  —  is  as  necessarily 
free,  as  much  the  writer's  own  act,  as 


the  act  of  choosing  right  from  wrong. 
The  very  business  of  writing  or  speak- 
ing, therefore,  implies  all  the  limitation 
we  contend  for.  A  man  may  write, 
indeed,  from  verbal  memory,  or  from 
an  express  dictation  of  words,  and  this 
is  a  different  case  ;  and  we  deny  not 
that  a  portion  of  the  Scriptures  fall 
under  this  condition.  Some  of  the 
prophecies,  that  is,  some  sentences, 
may  have  been  written  from  express 
dictation.  A  portion  of  the  discourses 
of  our  Saviour  were  undoubtedly  writ- 
ten from  an  exact  remembrance  of  the 
words.  And  yet  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
this  recollection  often  extends  only  to 
the  sense.  The  words  vary  ;  and  it  is  a 
remark  to  which  we  invite  particular 
attention,  that  they  vary  according  to 
the  style  of  each  particular  writer. 
John  is  repetitious  ;  and  the  discourses 
of  Jesus  under  his  report,  though  every- 
where showing  the  same  great  and  un- 
equalled Master,  take  something  of  the 
form  of  his  peculiar  style.  The  intro- 
ductory phrase,  "  Verily  I  say  unto 
you,"  has  the  adverb  repeated  in  John, 
—  "Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you." 
The  repetition  never  occurs  in  the 
other  evangelists  ;  in  John,  it  is  con- 
stant and  habitual  And  in  short,  if 
any  one  would  understand  how  strong 
is  the  aspect  of  naturalness  in  all  their 
writings,  and  of  peculiarity  in  each  in- 
dividual writer,  we  would  ask  him  to 
read  the  writings  themselves,  —  not  to 
reason  about  what  must  be,  or  ought 
to  be,  but  to  read  the  writings  them- 
selves. He  would  rise  from  this  perusal 
with  an  argument  stronger  than  we  can 
express^  against  the  doctrine  of  verbal 
inspiration,  or  of  special  guidance  in 
regard  to  the  style  of  writing  and  modes 
of  illustration. 

To  us  it  is  singular  that  Dr.  Woods 
admits  the  whole  force  of  this  presump- 
tion, and  yet  denies  the  inference.  In 
truth,  we  know  not  what  he  might  not 
admit,  and  yet,  with  the  mode  of  rea- 
soning he  adopts,  maintain  his  theory. 
He  might  admit  that  the  Bible  is  full 
of  the  evidences  of  human  imperfection, 


478 


THE   NATURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


that  it  is  full  of  mistakes  in  style,  in 
figures,  in  illustration,  and  yet  maintain 
—  to  use  his  cautious  phraseology  — 
that  the  Bible  is  "just  what  God  saw- 
to  be  suited  to  the  ends  of  revelation." 
Why,  the  conclusion  is  one  which  we 
have  no  difficulty  of  admitting  on  our 
own  principles.  It  was  best  that  the 
communication  should  be  left  to  be 
made  just  as  it  was  made. 

But  let  us  see  what  Dr.  Woods  does 
admit;  and  we  must  confess,  too,  our 
honest  surprise  at  the  main  and  leading 
answer  which  he  makes  to  his  own  con- 
cessions. He  admits,  what  it  has  been 
thought  so  great  an  offence  in  us  to 
assert,  that  "  the  language  is  completely 
human."  He  admits  that  "  in  writing 
the  Scriptures,  the  sacred  penmen  evi- 
dently made  use  of  their  own  facul- 
ties ;  "  that  "  the  language  employed  by 
the  inspired  writers  exhibits  no  marks 
of  a  divine  interference,  but  is  perfectly 
conformed  to  the  genius  and  taste  of 
the  writers,"  and  that '-even  the  same 
doctrine  is  taught,  and  the  same  event 
described,  in  a  different  manner  by 
different  writers."  And  his  constant 
answer  is  —  Very  well;  why  not.-'  — 
Why  should  not  the  writers  compose, 
each  one  in  his  own  style  and  manner  ? 
Why  should  they  not,  indeed,  we  say  ; 
but  is  this  the  proper  answer  to  the 
objection  .''  The  objection  is,  that  the 
style  is  natural,  and  therefore  is  not 
supernatural.  The  answer,  admitting 
as  it  does  the  first  quality,  should  show 
how  the  style  can  possess  the  other ; 
or,  in  other  words,  how  the  same  style 
could  have  been  formed  under  influ- 
ences at  the  same  time  natural  and 
supernatural. 

Dr.  Woods  does  indeed  say,  "  Is  it 
not  evident  that  God  may  exercise  a 
perfect  superintendency  over  inspired 
writers  as  to  the  language  they  shall 
use,  and  yet  that  each  one  of  them  shall 
write  in  his  own  style,  and  in  all  respects 
according  to  his  own  taste.''"  That  is 
to  say,  is  it  not  evident  that  the  thoughts 
may  be  perfectly  free,  and  yet  in  their 
freedom  be   perfectly  controlled   by  an 


influence  extraneous  and  foreign  to 
them.''  To  which  we  must  answer: 
No,  certainly,  it  is  not  eiiident,  even  if  it 
can  be  true.  If  it  is  evident,  we  wish 
that  the  Divinity  Proffessor  had  shown 
it.  We  wish  that  he  had  taken  us  into 
that  mysterious  region,  and  disclosed 
to  us  the  human  mind  acting  freely 
under  a  control  so  absolute  as  to  secure 
the  perfect  accuracy  of  its  operations  ! 
No  man  better  than  Dr.  Woods  knows 
the  way  to  this  region,  if  there  is  any, 
or  better  knows  there  is  no  way. 

Will  he,  then,  approach  it  by  analo- 
gies .''  Every  analogy,  we  think,  is  fatal 
to  his  position.  We  quote  a  sentence 
from  him,  which  he  introduces  in  this 
connection,  and  which,  we  think,  is  sin- 
gularly unfortunate  for  his  argument. 
"The  great  variety,"  he  says,  "existing 
among  men  as  to  their  rational  talents 
and  their  peculiar  manner  of  thinking 
and  writing,  may,  in  this  way,  be  turned 
to  account  in  the  work  of  revelation,  as 
well  as  in  the  concerns  of  common  life." 
But  have  men  any  infallible  direction  in 
the  common  concerns  of  life  ?  Or  in  the 
spiritual  concerns  of  the  soul,  have  they 
any  ?  And  yet  in  both,  divine  aid  is 
promised  to  the  faithful,  and  promised 
without  any  limit.  Till,  therefore,  some 
stronger  proof  is  brought  than  the  gen- 
eral promise  of  aid  and  guidance  in 
teaching  revealed  truths,  we  cannot  ad- 
mit, against  all  the  evidence  that  appears 
on  the  face  of  the  record,  that  this  guid- 
ance extended  to  the  very  form  and 
phraseology  of  the  communication.  The 
nature  of  the  action  itself  furnishes  a 
limit. 

"But,"  it  will  be  said,  "this  infallible 
guidance  in  the  mode  of  teaching  is  ne- 
cessary to  insure  to  us  a  sutificient  and 
satisfactory  communication."  This,  we 
cannot  doubt,  as  we  have  said  in  a  for- 
mer article,  is  the  great  difficulty.  "  Give 
us  a  perfect  book,"  we  believe  would  be 
the  language  of  our  opponents,  "  and  we 
care  not  how  it  was  made."  But  is  it 
right  to  make  any  a  priori  demand  of 
this  sort  ?  We  should  rather  say,  "  Give 
us  a  glorious  and  unquestionable  com- 


THE   NyVTURE   AND   EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


479 


munication,  and  we  are  not  solicitous 
as  to  the  manner  of  it."  We  do  say, 
"  Give  us  such  a  communication  as  it 
has  pleased  God  to  make,  and  we  are 
satisfied."  We  would  place  ourselves 
reverentl}'  before  the  shrine,  not  to  call 
in  question  its  form,  or  the  materials  of 
which  it  is  composed,  but  to  listen  to 
the  voice  that  proceeds  from  it.  We 
would  listen  to  the  oracle,  not  to  criticise 
the  tone  in  which  it  speaks,  but  to 
gather  the  import  of  what  it  utters.  Let 
us  drink  of  the  "  waters  of  life,"  and  we 
complain  not  if  they  are  brought  to  us 
in  "earthen  vessels." 

But  let  us  hear  the  objection.  Upon 
the  supposition  that,  "  as  far  as  language 
is  concerned,  the  writers  were  left  en- 
tirely to  their  own  judgment  and  fidelity," 
Dr.  Woods  says,  "  Here,  we  might  say, 
Paul  was  unfortunate  in  the  choice  of 
words  ;  and  here  his  language  does  not 
express  the  ideas  he  must  have  intended 
to  convey.  Here  the  style  of  John  was 
inadvertent  ;  and  here  it  was  faulty  ;  and 
here  it  would  have  been  more  agreeable  to 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  and  would  have 
more  accurately  expressed  the  truth,  had 
it  been  altered  thus."  But  how  seldom 
should  we  find  occasion  to  say  this  ! 
How  seldom  do  we  find  occasion  !  If 
a  communication  made  by  human  hands 
must  needs  be  so  precarious  and  uncer- 
tain, why  does  not  this  scepticism  appear 
in  our  commentaries  and  our  controver- 
sies ?  Why  does  it  not  extend  to  all 
other  books  ?  Why  are  we  not  in  con- 
stant and  grievous  uncertainty  about 
the  meaning  of  our  familiar  authors, 
because  they  have  not  had  the  aid  of 
inspiration  to  form  or  modify  their 
style  ? 

Why  also  do  we  not  find  it  difficult  to 
distinguish  between  the  point  which 
they  labor  to  prove,  and  tlie  illustrations 
and  arguments  which  they  bring  to  bear 
upon  it  ?  Let  any  one  look  into  the 
writings  of  Paul  or  John,  and  satisfy 
himself,  as  we  think  he  easily  may,  that 
there  is  no  difficulty  whatever  in  sepa- 
rating what  he  teaches  on  his  apostolic 
authority,  and  what  he  puts  forth  in  the 


shape  of  argument  addressed  to  the 
reason  of  his  readers. 

The  truth  is,  after  all,  we  are  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  different  views  taken 
of  this  point  arise  from  the  different 
views  that  are  entertained  of  the  sul> 
stance  of  the  communication.  If  we 
believed  that  the  New  Testament  con- 
tained a  fine,  extended,  philosophical,  or 
metaphysical  theory,  we  might  be  anx- 
ious for  the  infallibility  of  every  phrase 
and  word.  But  even  then  our  anxiety 
would  be  hypercritical.  The  works  of 
Aristotle  and  Kant  need  no  such  pledge 
in  order  to  satisfy  the  student  that  he 
understands  their  principles.  How  much 
less  is  this  pledge  necessary  to  satisfy 
us  as  to  a  few  great  facts,  doctrines,  and 
principles,  —  all  practical,  all  so  plain 
that  he  "  who  runs  may  read,"  all  de- 
signed for  the  comprehension  of  the  poor, 
the  ignorant,  and  unlearned!  And  how 
is  it  possible  for  our  opponents,  on  their 
principles,  to  rely  as  they  do  on  unin- 
spired translations  of  the  sacred  text  ? 
How  can  they  send  out  imperfect  trans- 
lations and  detached  books  of  this  vol- 
ume, as  they  do,  to  the  heathen  .?  Nay, 
if  the  infallibility  of  every  sentence  and 
word  is  so  essential  to  the  validity  of 
the  communication,  all  men  must  be 
learned,  before  they  can  be  put  in  a 
proper  condition  to  receive  it.  Neither 
would  this  help  them  ;  for  the  learned 
differ  as  much  as  others.  Infallible  sen- 
tences avail  nothing  without  infallible 
interpreters  ;  and  these  we  cannot  have. 
And  while  the  learned  thus  differ,  as 
they  always  have  and  always  will,  what 
reliance  can  there  be  for  the  body  of 
Christians,  but  on  the  substance  of  the 
communication  ;  what  reliance,  in  fact, 
that  is  satisfactory,  but  upon  those  views 
of  inspiration  which  we  maintain  ? 

On  this  subject  of  the  sacred  style,  we 
must  beg  our  readers  to  have  patience 
with  us  a  moment  longer.  We  have 
said,  in  a  former  article,  tliat  human  lan- 
guage is,  from  its  nature,  essentially 
fallible  ;  and  it  does  appear  to  us,  that 
if  this  point  were  fully  considered,  it 
would  settle  the  whole  question  about 


480 


THE   NATURE   AND    EXTENT   OF   INSPIRATION. 


infallibility  in  the  words  of  this  commu- 
nication. All  human  language,  when 
referring  to  what  is  intellectual,  to  what 
is  spiritual,  is  but  an  approximation  to 
the  truth.  Words  are  conventional 
signs  of  thought.  They  are  not  pictures, 
and  if  they  were,  they  could  be  pictures 
only  of  external  objects.  They  are  sym- 
bols, and  they  bear  no  relation  to  our 
intellectual  conceptions,  but  what  they 
bear  by  common  agreement.  Now  this 
point  we  press.  Was  this  agreement 
ever,  in  any  age  or  country,  perfect  and 
invariable  ?  Were  there  ever  two  per- 
sons, to  whom  words  expressive  of 
spiritual  qualities,  to  whom  the  same 
words,  though  purporting  the  same 
things  in  substance,  did  not  bear  differ- 
ent degrees  and  shades  of  meaning  ? 
How,  then,  can  the  idea  of  absolute  in- 
fallibility be  attached  to  such  an  instru- 
ment of  communication  ? 

Suppose,  for  example,  that  a  revelation 
were  now  made  to  us  in  the  English 
language.  It  is  perfectly  evident,  on 
the  one  hand,  that  so  far  as  the  matters 
of  that  revelation  were  simple  and  prac- 
tical, it  would  convey  to  us  all  substan- 
tially the  same  general  ideas.  Such  our 
Scriptures  do  convey  to  all  who  read 
them,  even  though  they  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  translation  ;  for  it  is  to 
be  kept  in  mind  that  we  have  only  a 
human  translation,  and  all  this  question 
about  verbal  inspiration  neither  avails 
nor  concerns  anybody  but  the  learned,  — 
a  fact  of  itself  sufficient  to  show  that  the 
validity  and  authority  of  a  revelation  de- 
signed for  all  nations  cannot  depend  on 
verbal  inspiration.  But  to  return  ;  we 
say,  on  the  one  hand,  that  from  an  in- 
spired communication  in  our  own  lan- 
guage all  would  receive  the  same  general 
ideas.  The  substance  of  the  communi- 
cation, if  it  were  an  intelligible  one, 
could  not  escape  them,  on  a  diligent 
reading  :  and  this  would  be  sufficient  for 
their  moral  instruction  and  improvement. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  equally  evi- 
dent that  the  moment  they  went  into  the 
minutiae  of  meaning,  the  moment,  espe- 
cially, that   they  went   into   matters   of 


speculation,  there  would  be  shades  of 
difference  in  their  conceptions.  For 
what  would  they  have  to  do  in  this  more 
particular,  definite  investigation  ?  They 
would  have  to  become  critics.  They 
must  resort  to  their  dictionaries.  And 
what  would  they  find  there  ?  Some  words 
with  ten,  some  twenty,  some  forty  mean- 
ings. What  principle  could  they  pos- 
sibly adopt,  that  would  lead  them  to  an 
unerring  and  uniform  selection?  What 
principle  would  enable  them  to  determine 
the  precise  shade  of  thought  which  one 
word  receives  from  its  connection  with 
another  .''  There  is  none  ;  there  never 
has  been  any  to  the  most  honest  and 
faithful  interpreters  who  read  the  Scrip- 
tures in  their  original  languages  ;  and  all 
this  solicitude  about  the  perfect  verbal 
accuracy,  the  verbal  authority  of  the 
Bible,  in  our  apprehension,  is  as  useless 
as  it  is  unphilosophical. 

Let  no  one  say,  "  The  question  is  not 
about  words."  Indeed  it  is  about  words. 
It  is  about  the  vehicle  of  communication, 
about  style,  about  the  manner  of  writ- 
ing. The  mode  of  communication  is 
the  point  in  debate  ;  and  this  includes 
phraseology,  figures,  metaphors,  illustra- 
tions, allegories,  arguments.  The  ques- 
tion is,  "  Did  the  inspired  teachers  take 
the  body  of  divine  truth  communicated 
to  them,  and  then  faithfully,  indeed,  but 
naturally,  humanly,  in  the  free  and  un- 
forced exercise  of  their  own  faculties, 
deliver  that  sacred  truth,  or  were  they 
so  controlled,  or  constrained,  or  super- 
naturally  guarded,  in  this  work,  that 
every  sentence  they  delivered  is  intrin- 
sically, philosophically,  divinely  accu- 
rate and  infallible  ? 

And  it  is  a  most  important  question. 
To  us,  at  least,  with  our  views,  it  is  one 
of  inexpressible  interest.  For  it  is  with 
such  an  interest  that  we  cherish  our  be- 
lief in  the  Scriptures  as  containing  a 
divine  revelation.  It  is  with  the  deep- 
est solicitude,  therefore,  that  we  have 
long  pondered  this  question.  The  con- 
viction has  been  forced  on  our  minds 
that  we  could  not,  in  any  fairness  or 
impartiality,  ascribe   to    the    Scriptures 


ON   FAITH,  AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY    FAITH. 


481 


that  kind  of  verbal,  illustrative,  or  logi- 
cal perfection  which  by  many  is  claimed 
for  tliem  ;  and  we  have  felt  unspeakable 
relief  in  the  conclusion  that  it  is  not 
.at  all  necessary  to  their  character  as 
authorized  records  of  a  communication 
from  Heaven.  If  others  entertain  a  dif- 
erent  opinion,  we  complain  not,  —  nay, 
we  rejoice  for  them  in  this,  that  they 
stand  '•  upon  the  foundation,"  though 
fencing  themselves  around  with  barriers 
that  seem  to  us  to  be  needless.  And 
we  hope  that  they  will  not  be  very  much 
displeased  that  ive,  too,  feel  the  "  rock 
of  our  salvation  "  to  be  strong  and  se- 
cure beneath  us. 

There  may  be  sceptics  cold  or  con- 
temptuous enough  to  look  with  indiffer- 
ence or  with  scorn  upon  this  transcen- 
dent, this  all-inspiring  interest  which  we 
feel  in  the  spiritual  objects  and  hopes 
and  destinies  of  our  existence.  They 
may  think  "this  intellectual  being"  too 
poor  a  thing  to  be  the  subject  of  such 
wide  contemplation,  and  of  such  intense 
and  overpowering  concern.  Yet,  what 
avails  the  feeble  hand  that  would  re- 
press and  bind  down  the  very  laws  of 
our  nature  ?  Still  the  thought,  the  feel- 
ing, the  desire,  invincible  and  immortal, 
springs  within  us,  and  craves  its  proper, 
satisfying,  soul-sufficing  good.     No  cre- 


ated might  on  earth  is  like  the  energy 
of  that  inward  and  undying  want  ;  no 
earthly  blessing  is  like  that  which  sup- 
plies it ;  and  no  sigh  of  human  despon- 
dency could  be  so  mournful  as  that  with 
which  we  should  sink  from  the  holy 
light  that  cheers  us.  We  stand  amidst 
erring  creatures,  ourselves  clothed  with 
imperfection  and  conscious  of  sin.  and 
the  vision  of  perfect  truth  and  perfect 
beauty  and  saving  goodness  in  the  per- 
son of  Jesus  is  "a  light  come  into  the 
world  "  that  would  otherwise  be  dark  to 
us.  We  stand  amidst  shadows  and  mys- 
teries, amidst  trials  and  sufferings  ;  and 
the  revelation  of  a  gracious  and  pitying 
Father  in  heaven  is  strength,  assur- 
ance, consolation,  which  nothing  else 
can  give.  We  stand  upon  "this  shore 
of  time,"  —  the  beloved,  the  cherished, 
the  hallowed  in  our  sorrows,  hav*e  gone 
from  us ;  and  the  Gospel  that  bringeth 
immortality  to  light,  that  places  them  in 
immortal  regions  and  invites  us  thither, 
is  a  message  sufficient  to  bear  us  in 
rapture  through  the  very  shadows  of 
death.  Tell  us  that  "  God  hath  spo- 
ken "  all  this  to  us,  and  we  cannot 
question  the  manner,  we  cannot  be 
solicitous  about  the  words ;  we  can 
only  "rejoice  with  joy  unspeakable  and 
full  of  glory." 


ON    FAITH,   AND   JUSTIFICATION    BY    FAITH. 


Mark  xvi.  16  :  "  He  that  believeth  and  is  bap- 
tized, shall  be  saved  :  but  he  that  believeth  not,  shall 
be  condemned." 

I  HAVE  translated  the  last  word  in 
the  text  "condemned,"  in  conformity 
with  the  best  English  versions  and  all 
the  foreign  ones,  and  with  the  undoubted 
sense  of  the  original ;  but  the  change 
does  not  materially  alter  the  meaning  of 
the  passage.  I  think  it  best  to  relieve 
the  text  from  a  word  which,  from  its  as- 
sociation with  the  language  of  the  pro- 
fane, shocks  us ;    but  still  this  passage 


teaches  us  undoubtedly  that  with  faith 
are  connected  God's  favor  and  our  safe- 
ty and  happiness  ;  and  with  unbelief, 
condemnation,  rejection  of  heaven,  and 
the  soul's  perdition.  What  now  is  to 
be  understood  by  this  faith  and  this  un- 
belief.? And  what  is  meant  when  it  is 
said  that  the  one  justifies  and  the  other 
condemns  us  .-* 

I  have  no  doubt  that  many  persons 
have  been  surprised  at  the  importance 
given  to  these  acts  or  states  of  mind 
in  the  New  Testament.     And  certainly 


31 


482 


ON   FAITH,   AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY    FAITH. 


it  can  be  accounted  for  only  on  one 
supposition  ;  and  that  is,  that  behef 
and  unbelief  in  Scripture  use  embrace 
in  their  meaning  essential  right  and 
wrong,  virtue  and  vice,  religion  and 
irreligion.  The  surprise  felt  at  their 
prominence  as  the  very  grounds  of  sal- 
vation and  perdition  must  have  aris- 
en from  the  idea  that  they  are  mere 
intellectual  or  involuntary  or  mystical 
states  of  mind.  But  this  is  not  true. 
The  Scriptures  do  not  mean  by  them 
any  mystery  nor  any  mere  mental  as- 
sent and  dissent.  They  involve  moral 
qualities.  True  faith  is  a  believing  with 
the  heart,  a  principle  that  works  by 
love.  Faith  is  a  feeling.  It  is  a  vital 
sense  of  things  divine.  It  is  a  state  of 
the  heart  in  accordance  with  the  thing 
believed.  In  fact,  love  is  the  very  root 
of  it,  as  it  is  of  every  virtue.  Faith  is 
but  the  form  which  the  principle  of  love 
takes.  And  unbelief  is  the  reverse  of 
all  this.  It  is  haired;  it  is  hatred  of 
truth  and  holiness.  "  Because  I  tell 
you  the  /r;////,"  says  our  Saviour,  "  ye 
believe  me  not."  "  Therefore  they  could 
not  believe,"  it  is  said  again.  Why  ? 
Because,  among  other  reasons,  "  their 
hearts   were  hardened." 

But  it  is  really  unnecessary  to  go 
into  a  detailed  examination  of  texts  on 
this  point,  because  there  is  one  general 
argument  that  establishes  it  beyond  all 
contradiction.  The  Bible  everywhere 
demands  repentance,  sanctification,  in- 
ward purity,  as  the  means  of  favor  with 
God,  and  true  happiness.  The  Bible  is 
a  book  of  conditions  throughout ;  and  it 
amazes  us  to  hear  it  said  and  preached, 
that  salvation  is  without  conditions  ;  the 
mere  gift  of  God's  mercy,  without  the 
doing  of  anything  on  our  part.  But 
the  condition  of  conditions  is  a  right 
heart.  Does  faith  mean  some  other 
thing  ?  Then  the  demand  of  it  contra- 
dicts everything  else  in  the  Bible.  It 
cannot  be. 

But  if  the  thing  required  be  essential, 
inward,  spiritual  virtue,  why  is  it  called 
faith  ?  If  love  be  the  radical  principle 
required,    why  is     not  love    the    thing 


specified  ?  Why  is  it  not  written,  "  He 
that  loveth,  shall  be  saved,  and  he  that 
loveth  not,  shall  be  rejected  "  .'' 

I  answer,  that  virtually  it  is  written  — 
actually  often,  virtually  always.  But  it 
is  doubtless  true  that  the  prominent 
for7n  given  to  saving  virtue  in  the  New 
Testament  is  faith.  In  the  New  Testa- 
ment, I  say  ;  for  it  is  not  so  in  the  Old. 
There  we  hear  much  of  being  upright, 
beneficent,  meek,  humble,  devout,  as 
conditions  of  acceptance  with  Heaven. 
But  the  New  Testament  puts  all  this 
most  frequently  in  the  form  of  faith. 
Why  ?     I  repeat,  and  I  answer  : 

First,  because  now  a  new  dispensation 
was  ushered  into  the  world,  and  a  new 
Teacher  presented  his  claims  ;  and  the 
natural  inquiry  was,  do  you  believe  ? 
The  very  form  of  the  act  of  reception 
was  belief. 

Secondly,  belief,  and  belief  avowed 
by  baptism  in  that  age  of  persecution, 
was  the  most  unequivocal  evidence  of 
virtue,  of  piety,  of  inward  and  heartfelt 
devotion  to  the  religion. 

Thirdly,  the  Gospel  was  a  more  spirit- 
ual dispensation  than  that  which  pre- 
ceded it  ;  it  insisted  more  upon  an  un- 
seen and  future  life ;  -and  the  appropriate 
act  of  the  soul  by  which  that  future  was 
laid  hold  of  and  made  real,  was  faith. 
The  thing  could  not  be  a  matter  of 
knowledge,    but  only  of  faith. 

These  reasons  are  so  obvious,  that  I 
need  not  dwell  upon  them.  They  ac- 
count, I  say,  for  Christians'  being  de- 
scribed as  men  of  faith.  What  radi- 
cally distinguished  them  was  their 
following  of  Christ,  their  likeness  to 
Christ  ;  hniwh'Sit  x\:i.i\ir<\\\Y  denominated 
them,  in  an  age  of  denial,  scepticism, 
and  persecution,  was  the  reception  of 
the  new  religion,  the  adherence  to  it  ; 
"these,"  men  would  say,  "are  the  be- 
lievers in  this  new  doctrine." 

4.  But  there  is  another  and  more  co- 
gent reason,  growing  out  of  the  time, 
which  gave  to  faith  its  prominence.  It 
was  an  a^e  of  reliance  on  ceremonial 
observances.  Alike  among  the  Pagans 
and  the  Jews,  the  great  body  of  religious 


ON    FAITH,  AND   JUSTIFICATION    BY    FAITH. 


4S. 


devotees  trusted  to  an  exact  ritual  fidel- 
ity, for  acceptance  with  God.     The  sac- 
rifices duly  offered,  tiie  times   and  the 
seasons    all  duly   observed,    and    every 
rite  fulfilled,    the  votary  thought  him- 
self entitled  to  acceptance  with  Heaven. 
Against  all  such  shallow  and  superficial 
claims,  therefore,  which  might  leave  the 
heart  completely  unregenerate  and  un- 
holy, —  against  all  such  Pharisaical  and 
proud  pretensions,  the  apostles  declared, 
with  great  emphasis  and  reiteration,  that 
the  means  of  acceptance  with  God  was 
spiritual  and  not  formal,  and  especially 
was  a  penitent  and  humble  reliance  on 
God's     mercy    through   Jesus    Christ ; 
upon  his  mercy,  i.  e.,  as  set  forth  in  the 
teachings  and   sealed  in    the   blood    of 
Christ.     It  was,  I  say,   the  demand  of 
an  inward  and  spiritual  virtue  in  opposi- 
tion to  an  outward  and  useless  formality. 
Justification   by   faith,    therefore,  i.    e., 
the  being  treated  as  if  just,  or,  in  otiier 
words,    the    being    pardoned    and    re- 
ceived to  heaven  through  faith,  was  the 
great  doctrine  of  Paul  when  contending 
against  a  world  of   Pagan  and  Jewish 
formalists.     "  Knowing,"  he  says,  "  that 
a  man  is  not  justified  by  the  works  of 
the  law,  i.  e.,  of  the  ceremonial  law,  but 
by  the  faith   of  Jesus  Christ,  even  we 
have  believed  in  Jesus  Christ,  that  we 
might  be  justified  by  the  faith  of  Christ, 
and   not    by    the    works    of  the     law  ; 
for  by  the   works  of   the  law  shall   no 
flesh    be    justified."      This    passage  is 
in  the  Epistle  to  the  Galatians.     If  you 
would  obtain  satisfaction  on  this  point, 
I    would   request  you  to  read  at   your 
leisure     the    whole    Epistle.     You   will 
see,  I  think,  that  the  Apostle  is  pleading 
the  argument  of  faith  against  the  Jew's 
reliance  upon  his  ritual.     The  ar^ument 
arose  upon  the  conduct  of  Peter  ;  upon 
his     timid   adherence    to   Jewish   rites. 
Paul  pursues  this  point  ;  he  keeps  him- 
selfto  it  in  the  main,  I  am  certain  :  and  I 
think,  entirely.      The  question  is  contin- 
ually about  circumcision  and  the  bond- 
age to  "  the  weak  and  beggarly  elements 
of  the  world."     "Ye   observe  days  and 
months,"  he     says,    "and     times    and 


years.  I  am  afraid  of  you,  lest  I  have 
bestowed  labor  on  you  in  vain."  It  is 
true  that  he  often  speaks  generally  of 
the  law,  and  it  may  be  said  that  he 
means  the  whole  law  of  Moses,  both 
moral  and  ceremonial.  I  have  no  ob- 
jection to  this  view,  except  that  it  makes 
the  Apostle's  reasoning  less  pertinent 
and  cogent. 

5.  I  have  no  objection  to  it,  because 
faith  is  undoubtedly  set  forth,  in  the  last 
place,  as  opposed  to  a  sense  of  merit 
founded  on  a  keeping  of  the  moral  law. 
This  is  the  great  subject  of  the  first 
eight  chapters  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Ro- 
mans. It  is  the  method  of  justification, 
or  of  acceptance  with  God.  And  this, 
the  Apostle  declares,  is  a  matter  not  of 
merit,  but  of  mercy.  He  draws  a  dark 
picture  of  the  wickedness  of  the  whole 
world,  both  Jewish  and  Gentile,  in  all 
ages,  and  comes  to  this  conclusion  : 
"  Therefore  by  the  deeds  of  the  law 
there  shall  no  flesh  be  justified." 
"  Therefore  we  conclude,"  he  says  again, 
"  that  a  man  is  justified  by  faith  without 
the  deeds  of  the  law."  Man  cannot 
stand  before  God,  demanding  heaven 
for  his  keeping  of  the  moral  law;  but 
he  must  stand  there  asking  heaven  as 
tlie  gift  of  God's  mercy  through  Jesus 
Christ.  His  only  hope  and  comfort 
must  come  through  believing  in  that 
mercy.  Faith  is  not  opposed  to  purity 
of  heart  at  all ;  it  is  purity  of  heart ;  it 
springs  from  a  right  mind;  it  works  by 
love  ;  but  it  is  opposed  to  a  proud  claim 
of  God's  favor  and  of  heaven,  set  up  on 
the  ground  of  complete  obedience. 

The  last  two  reasons,  I  may  observe, 
were  those  which  gave  to  tlie  doctrine  of 
justification  by  faith  its  significance  and 
prominence  at  the  time  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. The  Papal  Church  had  fallen  into 
a  perilous  reliance  upon  rites,  penances, 
and  personal  merits.  Luther  felt,  with 
bitter  pain,  that  these  could  not  insure 
to  him  the  favor  of  Heaven;*  and  he 
was  led  to  cast  himself  simply  upon  the 

*  Nor  was  this  the  feehng  of  Luther  aloTie;  but  it 
prevailed  to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  Catholic 
Church.    See  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes,  Book  II. 


484 


ON   FAITH,   AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY    FAITH. 


mercy  of  God  in  Christ.  Here  he  found 
relief;  and  justification  by  faith,  there- 
fore, became  his  great  doctrine.  But, 
educated  amidst  mysteries  and  miracles, 
he  was  led  to  conceive  that  this  faith 
had  some  mysterious  power  of  appro- 
priating the  merits  of  Christ ;  and,  urged 
on  by  the  enthusiasm  of  this  new  dis- 
covery, and  the  eagerness  of  dispute,  he 
pushed  his  idea  of  faith  to  the  point  of 
derogating  from  good  works  ;  an  error 
which  has  not  yet  spent  itself. 

An  error,  I  say;  for  faith  embraces  in 
itself  the  very  essence  of  all  good  works, 
all  good  affections.  Faith  is  not  some 
mysterious  and  technical  condition  of 
salvation.  It  is  simply  a  Christian 
grace.  It  is  essentially  a  right  heart. 
It  is  the  old,  the  everlasting,  the  univer- 
sal condition  of  happiness  and  of  God's 
favor  here  and  hereafter,  —  a  right  heart. 
And  this  is  prevailingly  represented  in 
the  New  Testament  as  putting  itself 
forth  in  the  act,  the  form  of  faith  ;  first, 
I  repeat,  because  a  new  dispensation 
now  appeared,  and  the  reception  of  it  of 
course  was  faith;  secondly,  because  this 
religion  was  persecuted,  and  the  most 
decisive  test  of  love  to  it  was  faith 
avowed,  —  avowed,  i.  e.,  in  baptism,  for 
that  was  the  specific  proselyte's  ordi- 
nance; thirdly,  because  this  religion  un- 
folded a  future  life,  and  the  appropriate 
act  for  receiving  that  doctrine  was  faith; 
fourthly,  because  the  world  was  full  of 
misguided  devotees,  relying  on  forms 
and  rites,  and  the  antagonist  principle 
was  faith,  a  reliance  on  God's  mercy; 
fifthly,  because  the  proud  assumption  of 
a  goodness  sufficient  to  claim  heaven  of 
right,  is  ever  to  be  resisted ;  and  that 
which  stands  in  contradiction  to  it,  is 
faith  ;  a  penitent  seeking  for  pardon  an'd 
a  reliance  on  that  infinite  compassion 
of  which  Christ  is  the  great  revelation 
and  pledge,  the  minister  and  the  mercy- 
seat,  the  priest  and  the  altar. 

The  essence,  then,  and  the  efficacy  of 
faith,  lie  in  the  goodness,  the  love,  which 
is  in  it.  This,  I  know,  is  denied.  There 
is  nothing  which  Calvin  and  his  school 
more    vehemently    repudiate    than    the 


idea  that  there  is  any  worth  or  worthi- 
ness in  faith,  affording  a  reason  for  its 
being  accepted  of  God,  as  the  condition 
of  his  favor.  It  is  maintained,  on  the 
contrary,  that  faith  is  a  mere  arbitrary 
condition.  But  what  right  has  any  one 
to  say  this  ?  Where,  in  the  Scriptures, 
is  it  said  that  faith,  as  a  passport  to 
heaven,  is  regarded  without  any  refer- 
ence to  the  virtue  that  is  in  it?  No- 
where. Where,  then,  is  it  implied } 
Here  is  the  point,  I  conceive,  at  which 
mistake  has  arisen.  It  is  thought  to  be 
implied  in  those  passages  which  oppose 
faith  to  works.  The  mistake  has  arisen 
from  failing  to  observe  that  it  is  the 
claimed  merit  in  those  works  which  is 
opposed,  and  not  the  real  virtue.  "  Do 
we  then  make  void  the  law  through 
faith  ?"  says  Paul.  "God  forbid.  Yea, 
we  establish  the  law."  "The  righteous- 
ness of  the  law  is  fulfilled  in  us,  who 
walk  not  after  the  flesh,  but  after  the 
spirit." 

Justification  by  faith,  then,  is  no  un- 
reasonable doctrine  nor  confounding 
mystery.  It  may  be  all  made  very  plain 
by  a  simple  comparison.  You  have 
given  certain  commands  to  your  child, 
let  us  suppose,  and  you  have  promised 
certain  rewards  to  obedience.  The  child 
has  disobeyed.  How,  then,  can  he  ob- 
tain the  forfeited  rewards  ?  Evidently, 
if  at  all,  it  must  be  through  your  free 
grace,  and  not  through  his  merit.  But 
what  condition  will  you  naturally  and 
necessarily  appoint  for  his  recovery  of 
the  lost  blessings  ?  He  must  repent,  you 
will  say ;  he  must  penitently  believe  in, 
i.  e.,  receive,  the  offered  mercy.  With- 
out his  believing  in  this  mercy,  and  thus 
rejecting  all  just  right  to  it,  it  is  morally 
impossible  that  he  should  receive  it. 

Let  us  now  add  another  consider- 
ation, to  make  the  comparison  com- 
plete. The  child,  let  us  suppose,  is 
obstinate,  and  refuses  to  repent  and 
believe.  At  this  juncture  one  of  his 
brothers  interposes,  and  attempts  the 
work  of  his  recovery.  With  many  la- 
bors and  sacrifices,  which  wear  upon 
his  health,  .and  at  length  bring  him  to 


ON   FAITH,  AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY    FAITH. 


485 


the  grave,  he  pleads  and  strives  with 
the  guilty  one  to  return  ;  or  while  en- 
gaged in  the  work  he  innocently  comes 
into  collision  with  the  laws  of  the  coun- 
try, and  he  dies  a  sacrifice  for  his  broth- 
er. With  all  this,  let  us  suppose  that 
the  heart  of  the  erring  child  is  touched. 
He  repents.  With  faith  in  the  offered 
mercy,  he  comes  and  humbly  asks  that 
it  may  be  bestowed  upon  him.  What 
uow  is  the  character  of  this  faith  .^  It 
has  taken,  you  perceive,  a  new  ele- 
ment. It  is  faith  in  his  brother's  sacri- 
fice. It  is  faith  in  his  father's  mercy, 
through  that  martyred  brother.  And 
this  faith,  it  is  evident,  proceeds  out  of 
a  changed  heart.  It  is  the  very  form 
which,  in  the  circumstances,  a  changed 
heart  naturally  takes. 

This,  I  believe,  is  the  simple  ground 
of  that  which  is  often  construed  in  so 
strange  a  manner,  —  Gospel  acceptance. 
The  representation  of  it  by  Christ  and 
his  apostles,  we  should  consider,  grew 
out  of  circumstances  and  states  of  mind 
existing  at  that  time.  Thus,  when  our 
Saviour  appeared,  he  came  as  Messiah. 
Would  the  Jews  receive  him  as  such  ? 
This  was  the  great  question  to  them. 
This  was  the  special  burden  of  the 
time,  that  was  pressed  upon  the  Jew- 
ish conscience.  Therefore,  our  Saviour 
says,  "  This  is  the  work  of  God,  that 
ye  believe  on  him  whom  he  hath  sent." 
That  is,  reverence  for  God,  the  love  of 
God,  would  certainly  manifest  itself  in 
this  way.  Thus,  again,  Paul  had  to  con- 
tend with  self-justifying  votaries,  who 
claimed  heaven  on  the  ground  of  their 
ceremonies  or  merits.  He  takes  them 
on  their  favorite  ground,  —  justification. 
He  takes  up  their  very  word.  He  shows 
tiiem  that  they  cannot  be  justified  in  the 
way  they  propose;  and,  still  using  their 
word,  though  in  strictness  it  cannot  be 
applied  to  any  human  creature,  he  tells 
them  that  the  only  justification  possi- 
ble is  of  another  kind, — a  gratuitous 
one,  being  treated  as  if  just,  —  and  this 
through  faith  in  God's  mercy.  The 
word,  I  say,  as  a  representation  of 
acceptance  with  God,  is  extremely  fig- 


urative. Justification  for  us  sinners  ! 
Justification  before  God  !  The  word 
almost  shocks  us.  Literally  it  can  have 
no  application  to  us  whatever.  Only  fio-. 
uratively,  and  indeed  as  a  violent  figure, 
can  it  be  tolerated  for  a  moment ;  and 
the  Apostle  never  would  have  adopted 
such  a  word  if  circumstances  had  not 
pressed  it  upon  him.  But  this  figure 
adopted,  Paul  is  naturally  led  to  sur- 
round it  with  many  fiourative  illustra- 
tions drawn  from  the  relations  of  debtor 
and  creditor,  principal  and  surety,  slave 
and  freeman  ;  and  upon  these  figures 
has  been  built  up  a  vast  system  of  the- 
ology, of  which  —  constructed  no  doubt 
vi'ith  honest  intent — ^I  do  not  wish  to 
say  anything  more  harsh  than  that  it 
seems  to  me  an  unsightly  encumbrance 
upon  the  fair  foundations  of  Christian- 
ity. The  simple  truth  at  the  bottom  of 
all  is  this :  the  good  man,  continuing 
such,  is  happy  and  blessed,  and  shall 
be  forever,  —  not  as  a  matter  of  merit, 
but  through  the  mercy  of  God  revealed 
in  Jesus  Christ  ;  the  bad  man,  while 
such,  is  miserable  and  ruined,  and  that 
without  remedy. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  make  it 
appear  that  faith,  being  but  the  Chris- 
tian form  of  essential  goodness,  is  the 
reasonable  condition  of  happiness  and 
God's  favor,  and  that  the  want  of  faith 
reasonably  draws  upon  it  the  forfeiture 
of  all  this.  Let  me  now  occupy  the 
remainder  of  this  discourse  with  some 
distinct  illustration  of  the  natural  place 
which  faith  holds  in  the  system  of  re- 
ligious efforts  and  influences,  for  I  con- 
ceive that  there  is  a  significance  in  the 
Scripture  demand  for  faith  beyond  what 
is  ordinarily  seen,  —  not  only  a  perti- 
nence in  the  word,  in  the  form,  but  a 
significance  in  the  thing. 

Let  me  explain  this  view  before  I 
proceed  to  make  it  the  ground  of  some 
more  practical  consideration.  Of  all 
true  excellence,  then,  love  is  the  root, 
the  primal  form,  the  comprehensive 
character.  God  is  love,  not  faith.  Faith 
is  an  attribute  of  imperfect  natures. 
But  now,   in   such   natures  wiiat  place 


486 


ON   FAITH,   AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY   FAITH. 


does  faith  hold  ?  I  answer,  that  of  the 
most  immediate  motive  power.  I  can- 
not act  as  an  intellectual  and  moral 
being  without  faith,  —  i.  e.,  without  con- 
viction. I  cannot  obey  God  unless  I 
believe  in  him.  I  cannot  follow  Christ 
unless  I  believe  in  him.  I  cannot  yield 
to  the  influence  of  any  truth  unless  I 
believe  in  it.  I  cannot  care  for  the  soul, 
my  own  or  another's,  unless  I  believe 
in  the  soul.  I  cannot  resist  tempta- 
tion unless  I  believe  in  virtue  and 
purity.  I  cannot  live  in  hope  of  im- 
mortality unless  I  believe  in  a  future 
life.  The  immediate  motive  power, 
then,   is   faith. 

Faith,  if  I  may  say  so,  stands  be- 
tween love  and  works.  To  draw  a 
comparison  from  the  mill  that  grinds 
corn  :  love  is  the  stream,  faith  is  the 
water-wheel,  good  works  are  the  prod- 
uct. Thus  faith  works  by  love,  and 
purifies  the  soul,  —  purifies  the  life. 
And  the  result  is  certain  ;  it  is  involved 
in  the  principle  that  produces  it.  Thus 
when  St.  Paul  says  that  men  are  saved 
by  faith,  and  St.  James  that  they  are 
saved  by  works,  both  mean  the  same 
thing  ;  the  one  speaks  of  the  necessary 
impulse,  the  other  of  the  inevitable  act 
that  follows. 

From  all  this,  then,  it  appears  that 
the  immediate,  manifest,  practical  ob- 
stacle to  our  salvation  appears  in  the 
form  of  unbelief.  Let  us  consider  for 
a  few  moments  in  this  serious  light  this 
great  evil  of  unbelief. 

The  divine  goodness  has  provided  a 
vast  array  of  means  for  our  recovery 
from  sin  and  growth  in  virtue  and  piety. 
Why  are  they  attended  with  so  little  ef- 
fect? What  is  it  that  thwarts  Heaven's 
great  design  ?     It  is  unbelief. 

Let  us  enter  into  this  matter  a  little. 
Religion  is  not  a  subject  that  we  pass 
by  altogether.  We  suffer  it  to  speak 
to  us.  We  assemble  ourselves  to  listen. 
It  is  a  solemn  occasion.  If  it  is  a  light 
or  formal  thing  to  any  one  here,  I  must 
tell  him  that  it  is  not  so  to  me.  This 
weekly  assembling  together  is  to  me  a 
momentous  fact   in  life.     Relijrion,   in- 


vested with  the  grandeur  of  heaven, 
speaks  to  us,  —  and  how  .''  As  a  reason- 
able claim,  as  a  sovereign  authority,  as 
a  momentous  interest,  as  an  all-sufficing 
good.  The  preacher  discourses  upon 
all  these  things.  He  speaks  of  the 
blessedness  and  glory  of  a  sacred  vir- 
tue. He  holds  up  a  grand  and  sublime 
spirituality,  a  divine  inward  sufficiency, 
as  reigning  over  all  other  distinctions, 
all  other  advantages,  all  other  joys.  He 
teaches  every  man  that  he  may  walk  in 
the  divinest  purity  and  gladness,  and  in 
the  noblest  independence,  not  only  of 
other  men,  but  of  his  own  base  pas- 
sions. He  shows  him  that  the  walk  of 
daily  life,  strewed  with  virtues,  may  be 
brighter  than  the  starry  pathways  of 
heaven.  Oh,  what  a  blessed  thing  were 
it,  if,  when  the  hearer  leaves  the  thresh- 
old of  the  church,  he  should  enter  upon 
that  glorious  course!  Why  does  he  not? 
This  stupendous  truth  of  the  Gospel 
message,  —  great  enough  to  revolution- 
ize the  world,  to  renovate  society,  to 
regenerate  the  heart,  to  fill  the  man 
with  the  very  light  and  joy  of  heaven, 
—  why  does  it  avail  him  so  little  ?  Be- 
cause verily  he  does  not  believe  it  !  — 
because  he  has  no  inward  sense  of 
things  divine  and  immortal,  that  makes 
it  all  a  reality.  An  evil  heart  of  un- 
belief it  is,  that  spreads  mist  and  dark- 
ness, doubt  and  indifference,  over  the 
whole  glorious  theme. 

But  again,  what  is  to  penetrate,  and 
scatter  this  cloud  of  unbelief  ?  It  is  at- 
tention ;  fixed,  piercing  thought  and  de- 
voted meditation.  This,  by  the  law  of  our 
nature,  and  by  every  law  of  the  Gospel, 
is  the  grand  means  of  impression.  Why 
does  not  every  man  give  this  attention  ? 
Why  does  not  every  man  say,  "  I  will 
think  and  read  ;  I  will  consider  ;  I  will 
pray ;  I  will  earnestly  seek  the  great 
blessing  of  the  beatitudes"?  Again,  I 
say,  because  he  does  not  believe  in  the 
thing  thus  urged  upon  his  attention. 
Ah  !  no ;  men  do  not  believe  in  being 
good.  We  hear  much  of  the  great  and 
distant  things  they  do  not  believe  in. 
They  do  not  believe  in  heaven,  nor  hell, 


ON    FAITH,   AND   JUSTIFICATION   BY   FAITH. 


487 


nor  eternity.    I  would  that  they  believed 
in  bcini^  good  ! 

There  is  a  worldly  nonchalance  about 
this  matter  of  religion,  most  painful, 
most  discouraging  to  witness.  In  this 
deepest  concern  of  their  nature  men 
suffer  themselves  to  be  governed  by 
every  sort  of  worldly  policy  ;  by  the 
wishes  of  friends,  by  the  fashions  of 
society,  by  the  vainest  and  idlest  con- 
siderations. Religion! — what  in  the 
world  is  so  cast  aside  among  the  things 
of  convenience  and  favor  and  fashion 
and  utter  folly  ?  Yes,  religion  is,  as  it 
were,  foolishness  to  multitudes.  They 
do  not  feel  its  serious  import.  They  do 
not  believe  in  it.  Business  they  be- 
lieve in.  Pleasure  they  believe  in. 
Houses  and  lands,  luxuries  and  honors, 
they  believe  in.  On  these  points  they 
are  decided  enough.  Present  a  chance 
for  acquisition  of  property,  and  though 
it  be  necessary  to  take  a  distant  jour- 
ney, or  to  spend  all  day  and  all  night 
at  the  warehouse,  or  to  peril  health, 
yet  —  let  family  and  children  and  so- 
ciety and  the  world  say  what  they  will 
—  yet  they  will  do  it;  they  must  do  it. 
They  take  a  firm  stand  and  a  decided 
step.  It  is  a  serious  interest,  and  they 
must  attend  to  it.  But  religion  !  —  why 
it  is  somebody s  notion  /  That  is  their 
account  of  it.  Religion  !  —  it  seems  as 
if  the  very  substance  of  the  thing  dis- 
solved away  into  nothing  ;  as  if  the  let- 
ters that  compose  the  word  lost  their 
coherence,  and  sunk  away  like  fading 
points  of  liglit  in  a  thickening  mist. 
How  can  men  be  fixed  and  resolute 
about  a  thing  seen  in  that  way  ?  They 
cannot.  And  so  a  man  says,  with  an 
air  of  oracular  wisdom,  "  It  is  no  small 
thing  to  take  a  decided  stand  in  the 
matter  !  "  or,  "  It  is  no  small  thing  to 
take  a  decided  stand  in  an  unpopular 
cause  or  communion  !  "  Q  heaven  ! 
why  does  he  not  feel  that  conscience  is 
no  small  thing  ;  that  his  spiritual  im- 
provement is  no  small  thing,  but  is  the 
infinite  thing?  Because  he  does  not  be- 
lieve in   that  conscience  ;  he  does   not 


feel  in  himself  how  priceless  that  spirit- 
ual improvement  is. 

And  thus  again  the  reason  why  he 
does  not  put  forth  that  deepest  act  of 
all,  —  the  solemn  and  determined  effort 
to  be  good  and  pure,  —  why  he  does  not 
work  out  his  own  salvation  ;  the  reason, 
I  say,  is,  that  in  this  depth  of  the  heart 
where  all  human  power  lies,  there  are 
no  living  springs  of  faith.  All  is  cold 
and  barren  there.  That  which  should 
be  the  deepest  soil  from  which  fair  and 
heavenly  graces  spring,  is  a  dead  lump 
of  obstinate  unbelief  and  indifference. 
The  spirit  of  God  never  breathes  upon 
that  sterile  spot.  It  is  closed  and  barred 
up  against  the  sacred  influence  by  pride 
and  vanity,  by  cares  and  pleasures, 
by  ambition  and  gain.  And  the  worldly 
man  chooses  it  should  be  so.  There  is 
no  faith  in  him  to  make  him  think  that 
tliere  is  anything  better.  And  so  every- 
thing that  might  help  him  is  resisted; 
the  pleading  of  truth,  the  demand  for 
attention,  the  call  to  effort. 

If  now  it  be  asked,  in  fine,  what  good 
end  is  to  be  served  by  saying  and  show- 
ing all  this  ?  I  answer,  first,  that  it  vin- 
dicates the  Gospel  demand  for  faith  as 
pertinent  and  reasonable.  This  is  al- 
ready sufficiently  apparent.  But  I  an- 
swer, further,  that  it  shows  the  defect, 
the  fault,  to  be  in  us,  and  not  in  the 
motives  which  religion  itself  proposes. 
There  is  power  enough  in  religion  to 
save  us,  —  God  ever  helping  it,  —  if 
we  would  let  it  work  within  us.  It  is 
sufficient  to  make  us  happy  and  blessed 
if  we  would  give  it  a  trial.  No  man 
ever  truly  gave  it  a  trial  and  denied  its 
power.  Yes,  it  is  all  true  —  that  which 
we  profess  to  believe,  and  do  not  believe. 
It  is  as  true  as  if  the  whole  horizon 
around  us  and  the  whole  heaven  above 
us  were  filled  with  shapes,  with  pictures 
of  the  solemn  and  glorious  verities  of 
our  faith.  It  is  as  true  that  sin  in 
the  heart  will  eat  and  canker,  poison 
and  destroy,  as  if  a  man  could  lay  his 
finger  upon  the  very  spot  where  this 
awful  work  is  eoins:  on.     It  is  as  true 


488 


ERRORS   IN   THEOLOGY,   FROM 


that  the  good  deed  is  a  glorious  and 
blessed  thing,  as  if,  when  it  is  done,  a 
halo  of  heavenly  light  should  instantly 
surround  it.  It  is  as  true  that  peni- 
tence, purity,  humiUty,  goodness,  self- 
sacrifice  in  the  heart,  is  the  divinest  joy 
and  glory,  as  if  all  the  treasures  and 
splendors  of  the  universe  drew  near  and 
gathered  around,  to  pay  it  homage.  The 
faith  of  the  heart  is  a  stronger  assur- 
ance  than  all   the   visions  of  the    out- 


ward sense.  When  fortune  smiles 
around  me,  I  may  think  that  I  am  happy  ; 
when  sanctity  and  love  breathe  within 
me,  I  know  it.  And  therefore  it  is  cer- 
tain and  it  is  evident  that  he  who  be- 
lieveth  shall  be  saved,  shall  be  blessed 
in  God  and  in  the  love  of  God  ;  and 
that  he  who  believeth  not,  must  fail  of 
the  infinite  blessing,  the  only  blessing, 
the  blessing  of  the  beatitudes  ! 


THAT   ERRORS   IN   THEOLOGY   HAVE   SPRUNG   FROM 
FALSE    PRINCIPLES    OF   REASONING. 


I  Timothy  vi.  20,  21:  "O  Timothy,  keep  that 
which  is  committed  to  thy  trust,  avoiding  profane  and 
vain  babblings,  and  oppositions  of  science,  falsely  so 
called;"  (i.e.,  vain  disputes  about  words,  and  scho- 
lastic subtilties  ;)  "  which  some  professing,  have  erred 
concerning  the  faith." 

That  errors  in  theology  have  sprung 
from  false  principles  of  reasoning,  is  the 
hint  in  the  text,  from  which  I  shall 
draw  the  subject  of  my  present  dis- 
course. It  is  a  large  theme  ;  it  will 
lead  me  to  consider  some  important 
departments  of  theology  ;  and  I  must 
bespeak  your  patience. 

If  I  were  called  upon  to  say  on  what 
subject  the  greatest  errors  had  prevailed 
among  mankind,  I  should  answer,  un- 
doubtedly on  that  of  religion.  In  this 
I  suppose  all  thinking  men  are  agreed. 
Paganism,  for  example,  has  embodied 
more  enormous  errors  than  ever  were 
found  in  philosophy.  To  place  the 
earth,  for  instance,  at'  the  centre  of  the 
solar  system  is  a  small  mistake  com- 
pared with  the  setting  up  a  hideous  idol 
to  represent  the  living  God,  or  with  sac- 
rificing human  victims  to  that  idol.  No 
delusions  so  mournful  have  ever  over- 
spread the  world  as  those  on  demonol- 
ogy  and  witchcraft,  the  Inquisition,  the 
purchased  absolution  of  sins,  and  the 
unchallenged  supremacy  of  the  spiritual 
power. 

If,  again,  I  were  called  upon  to  say 
from   what   subject    error   would    most 


slowly  disappear,  I  should  still  answer, 
from  that  of  religion  ;  and  for  this  sim- 
ple and  sufficient  reason,  that  on  no 
subject  have  men's  minds  so  little  free- 
dom. Emancipation  from  error  is  al- 
ways achieved  by  free  and  courageous 
inquiry ;  but  the  arm  that  is  stretched 
out  into  the  spiritual  realm  is  paralyzed 
by  fear.  To  tell  men  that  they  dare 
not  think  freely  on  religion,  would  pro- 
voke, it  is  very  likely,  a  hasty  denial. 
But  the  very  conditions  of  all  past  relig- 
ious investigation  involve  this  inevitable 
consequence.  Can  men  think  freely, 
under  peril  of  eternal  perdition  for  err- 
ing in  their  thought?  Can  they  freely 
examine  the  claims  of  a  revered  church, 
or  the  tenets  of  an  exclusive  orthodoxy, 
which  says,  "  Every  step  of  departure 
from  me  is  a  step  out  of  the  only  pale 
of  safety  "  ?  It  is  clearly  impossible. 
And  therefore  it  is  not  to  be  thought 
surprising  if  the  religion  of  the  world 
has  been  and  is  involved  in  deeper 
error  than  any  other  subject  of  its 
thought.  There  have  been  dark  ages 
in  science,  but  there  have  been  darker 
ages  in  religion.  From  science  the  dark- 
ness has  passed  away.  Has  it  passed 
away  from  rehgion  ? 

This  leads  me  to  another  observation. 
While  there  has  been  a  grand  reform  in 
science,  a  revision  of  the  theories  of  the 
dark  ages,   there   has  been  no  similar 


FALSE   PRINCIPLES   OF   REASONING. 


489 


reform,  on  a  great  scale,  in  religion. 
Lord  Bacon  led  the  reform  in  science  ; 
but  there  has  been  no  Lord  Bacon  in 
religion.  Luther  was  not  a  reformer  of 
that  cast.  No  deep  and  philosophical 
inquiry,  but  onl\'  an  earnest  and  eflfec- 
tual  protest  against  religious  domina- 
tion, was  his  mission.  Some  freedom 
for  religion  he  gained ;  some  partial 
change  in  doctrine  he  effected  ;  but 
there  was  no  free  and  thorough  investi- 
gation of  the  nature  of  religion  in  his 
time.  A  political,  not  a  doctrinal  refor- 
mation was  the  great  change  which  he 
accomplished. 

I  say  there  has  been  no  Lord  Bacon 
in  religion,  no  novum  orgmiutn  reli- 
gionis.  And  this  I  say  without  any 
prejudice  to  the  eminent  persons  who, 
within  the  last  three  centuries,  have  at- 
tempted to  reform  the  religion  of  their 
age.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  even  with 
equal  merit  they  could  not  have  equal 
success.  If  a  new  discovery  be  made  in 
chemistry  or  astronomy,  all  the  world  is 
comparatively  ready  to  receive  it.  But 
let  a  new  proposition  be  brought  for- 
ward in  religion,  and  not  only  is  it  less 
susceptible,  from  its  very  nature,  of 
demonstration,  but  a  host  of  prejudices 
and  fears  is  arrayed  against  it.  Sci- 
ence, it  is  true,  has  sometimes  met 
with  a  hard  fate  in  the  world  ;  but  re- 
ligion has  never  met  with  any  other. 
One  Galileo  has  been  imprisoned,  but 
ten  thousands  of  heretics  have  been  cast 
into  dungeons,  there  to  waste  away  the 
slow,  forgotten  years  ;  unless,  as  has 
been  common,  the  malice  of  their  perse- 
cutors demanded  the  infliction  and  the 
sight  of  sharper  agonies.  Little  chance 
was  there  for  free  thought  to  advance 
under  such  auspices  ;  and  little  has  it 
advanced,  even  till  now. 

In  fact,  has  the  true  method  of  inquiry 
ever  yet  been  fairly  introduced  into 
the  prevalent  theology  of  Christendom  ? 
Rejecting  all  presumptuous  and  precon- 
ceived theories,  Lord  Bacon  proposed  to 
enter  the  field  of  nature,  and  to  ask 
what  are  the  facts,  and  then  upon  this 
basis  to  build  up  the  true  theory.     But 


in  theology,  a  totally  opposite  method, 
i.  e.,  the  old  scholastic  method,  has  been 
pursued.  Theories  have  taken  pre- 
cedence of  facts,  not  facts  of  theories. 
What  are  our  modern  creeds  but  the- 
ories ?  What  are  the  Thirty-nine  Arti- 
cles, and  the  Westminster  Catechism, 
and  the  Augsburg  Confession,  but  the- 
ories of  religion  ?  I  do  not  deny  that 
theories  have  their  place  in  philosophy, 
and  might  have  in  religion  ;  i.  e.,  as  mere 
hypotheses  to  explain  the  facts.  Only 
as  mere  suppositions  are  they  philo- 
sophically safe.  But  what  are  they  in 
religion  ?  Minatory  creeds,  catechisms 
for  children.  I  pray  you  to  conceive  of 
it.  Theories  in  philosophy  have  been 
held  to  be  perilous  enough,  —  bars  to 
progress  ;  but  on  what  other  subject  be- 
sides theology  were  theories  ever  taught 
to  children  1  Nay,  more,  not  only  do 
modern  creeds  and  catechisms  thus 
forestall  our  decisions,  but  the  Bible  it- 
self is  placed  in  a  position  which  is  hos- 
tile to  the  true,  philosophical,  inductive 
method  of  inquiry.  The  Bible  is  re- 
garded not  merely  as  throwing  the  light 
of  teaching  and  interpretation  upon  the 
paths  of  our  religious  inquiries,  but  as 
the  only  source  of  light ;  not  merely 
as  illustrating  the  facts  of  religious  ex- 
perience, but  as  furnishing  all  the  facts; 
not  merely  as  a  guide  in  the  field  of  in- 
vestigation, but  as  the  field  too.  The 
theologian  sits  down  to  the  reading  of 
the  Scriptures,  disdaining,  repudiating, 
abhorring,  all  philosophical  explanation 
from  without.  His  aim,  he  says,  is  a 
single  one.  He  boasts  that  he  takes  the 
sentences  of  holy  writ  just  as  they  are  ; 
that  he  explains  each  sentence  by  itself, 
not  even  admitting  any  "  analogy  of 
faith  "  to  guide  him  ;  that  one  text  for  a 
doctrine  is  as  good  as  a  thousand  ;  and, 
in  fine,  that  his  nature,  his  reason,  his 
conscience,  are  to  bow  down  and  to 
be  as  nothing,  in  the  presence  of  this 
record.  This  is  the  very  chivalry  of 
theology  ;  to  make  of  the  man,  the  in- 
quirer, nothing,  and  of  the  matter  to 
be  inquired  into,  everything. 

But  let  us  consider  more  particularly, 


490 


ERRORS    IN   THEOLOGY,   FROM 


for  a  moment,  what  is  the  true  method 
of  inquiry.  It  is  to  study  facts  in  re- 
ligion as  we  study  facts  in  nature  ;  and 
upon  them  to  build  up  our  system  of 
doctrine.  It  is  to  hold  theory  in  strict 
subjection  to  facts.  Theory,  hyj^othe- 
sis,  has  its  place  in  philosophy,  —  but 
what  place  ?  That,  I  repeat,  of  mere 
supposition,  liable  always  to  be  modi- 
fied by  the  facts.  It  is  natural  for  us  to 
seek  explanation  ;  i.  e.,  to  frame  a  gen- 
eral scheme  or  plan  of  thought  or  belief, 
under  which  the  known  facts  may  ar- 
range themselves,  and  by  which  they 
may  be  accounted  for.  Thus  there  have 
been  theories  in  geology  ;  one,  for  in- 
stance, which  explained  the  structure 
and  condition  of  the  earth  by  the  action 
of  fire  ;  another,  by  the  action  of  water. 
But  what  rational  geologist  ever  rea- 
soned as  if  his  theory  were  to  goveru 
the  facts  ?  So  in  the  study  generally, 
whether  of  nature  or  of  the  mind.  What 
true  philosopher  makes  it  his  business 
to  bend  the  facts  to  his  theory,  or,  when 
some  new  and  hostile  fact  is  presented, 
permits  himself  to  say,  '■'■That  is  opposed 
to  one  of  my  five  points,  or  of  my  thirty- 
nine  articles,  and  therefore  it  cannot  be; 
nay,  the  assertion  of  it  shall  be  punished 
as  heresy"?  Or,  when  some  irrecon- 
cilable contradiction  of  ideas  is  charged 
upon  his  theory,  what  philosopher  is 
permitted  to  say,  "  Ah  !  that  is  a  mys- 
tery ;  and  it  is  only  your  proud  reason 
that  resists,  which  God  will  confound!" 
But  is  the  true  method  one  thing  in 
philosophy  and  another  in  religion  ? 
That  is  the  grand,  fatal,  false,  unphilo- 
sophical  presumption  on  which  most 
religious  argument  has  proceeded  ;  that 
the  ordinary,  philosophical  method  of 
reasoning  may  not  be  applied  to  religion. 
And  the  whole  weight  of  church  power 
for  ages  has  been  brought  to  crush 
down  facts  beneath  tlieories,  and  simple 
inquiry  beneath  authoritative  creeds. 
And  every  martyr's  stake,  and  fire,  and 
blood,  have  been  witnesses  to  that  stu- 
pendous perversion.  For  this  is  no 
matter  of  mere  speculation.  Religious 
freedom,  freedom  to  think  on  religion,  — 


this  highest  blessing  on  earth,  —  has 
paid  the  dearest  price.  Nothing  on 
earth  has  cost  such  pain.  It  has  brought 
not  peace,  but  a  sword.  Its  baptism 
has  been,  not  in  joy,  but  in  agony.  Its 
keen  and  23iercing  eye  has  looked  out 
into  the  v/orld,  has  looked  out  to  eter- 
nity, beneath  bloody  brows,  and  from 
eyelids  seared  with  fire.  "  I  have  ex- 
periences," says  tlie  confessor,  "  convic- 
tions, facts,  texts,  that  do  not  agree  with 
your  theory,  your  creed."  '  Go,"  has 
been  the  answer,  "  go  and  tell  us  if  you 
can  see  them  through  the  living  flame  ! 
Or,  go  and  brood  over  them  in  the 
loneliness  of  universal  desertion  and 
obloquy  !  " 

But  where  now,  let  us  ask  again,  are 
the  religious  facts  to  be  found  and  stud- 
ied ?  I  answer,  in  human  nature,  und 
in  the  Bible  ;  not  in  one  alone,  but  in 
both.  Nay,  more  ;  the  relation  between 
these  two  sources  of  knowledge  is  such 
that  human  nature  and  experience  must 
interpret  the  book.  "The  Bible,  the 
Bible,"  —  be  it  our  religion  ;  but  the 
Bible  as  against  theories,  creeds,  tra- 
ditions, all  coercive,  combined  power; 
not  as  against  individual  human  expe- 
rience, not  as  distinct -from  that  experi- 
ence. 

Consider,  whether  to  make  it  so  be 
not  fatal  alike  to  every  claim,  whether 
of  Scripture  or  reason.  The  Bible  is 
predicated  upon  human  experience,  is 
based  upon  it,  addresses  that  experience, 
adopts  its  very  language,  uses  words 
which  could  have  no  meaning  at  all,  un- 
less their  interpretation  were  found  in 
the  human  heart.  The  Bible,  we  say, 
is  a  revelation  concerning  God's  nature 
and  man's  duty.  But  it  could  be  no 
revelation  at  all  to  a  race  which  had  no 
ideas  of  that  nature  and  that  duly. 
When  it  said  to  man,  "Be  pure,  humble, 
upright,  good,"  it  went  upon  the  pre- 
sumption that  he  had  already  some  sense 
and  experience  of  these  qualities  ;  else  it 
had  been  as  words  to  the  deaf.  Its  in- 
tent was  to  elevate  this  experience,  not 
to  supersede  it.  To  set  it  aside,  to  fling 
it  out  of  the  account,  were  suicidal,  fatal 


FALSE    PRINCIPLES   OF    REASONING. 


491 


to  the  end,  subversive  of  all  just  prin- 
ciples of  reasoning. 

Suppose  that  a  revelation  were  given 
concerning  nature  without  us.  To  inter- 
pret the  revelation,  should  we  not  be 
obliged  to  consult  nature,  and  to  give  it 
a  fair  hearing?  Should  we  say,  "  It  is 
a  coarse,  material  clod,  and  before  the 
divine  light  of  revelation  it  is  as  noth- 
ing; not  worth  listening  to"?  And  if 
the  facts  of  nature  seemed  to  conflict 
with  the  words  of  the  Book,  should  we 
not  say,  "  The  discrepancy  must  be  re- 
moved, by  some  new  understanding  of 
the  facts,  or  better  interpretation  of  the 
words  "  ?  And  if  the  facts,  after  all  in- 
quiry, stood  open,  unquestionable,  irre- 
fragable, against  our  interpretation, 
should  we  not  feel  that  the  interpretation 
must  inevitably  give  way? 

And  so  with  regard  to  the  Bible  and 
the  facts  of  human  nature  ;  is  it  to  nul- 
lify those  facts  ?  Was  it  intended  to 
foreclose  and  seal  up  all  other  sources 
of  spiritual  knowledge?  Is  the  Bible  to 
stand  by  itself,  apart  and  alone  ;  and  are 
its  declarations  to  be  interpreted  without 
any  aid  of  human  experience  ?  If  so,  I 
pray  to  be  told  what  interpreting  means. 
I  interpret  what  I  do  not  know,  by  what 
I  do  know.  I  interpret  the  book  with- 
out me,  by  the  reason,  conscience,  ex- 
perience, within  me.  It  is  not  possible 
for  me  to  do  otherwise.  Is  it  said  that 
divine  aid  is  to  be  sought,  to  assist  our 
reason  and  conscience  ?  It  is  true.  But 
what  is  meant  by  aiding  any  faculty? 
To  supersede,  discard,  deny  it,  —  is  that 
aiding  it  ? 

No,  the  Bible  is  to  throw  light  on 
human  nature,  not  to  blot  it  out  or  to 
treat  it  as  if  it  were  a  blot  or  a  blank,  or 
a  mass  of  darkness.  It  is  to  elicit  those 
truths  that  lie  deep  in  humanity,  and  not 
to  cast  it  aside  as  having  no  truth  in  it. 
It  is  kindly  and  generously  to  cultivate 
the  soul,  and  not  to  crush  it  down  to  ig- 
nominy and  despair.  Nay,  more,  if  there 
is,  or  seems  to  be,  any  certain  fact  in  hu- 
man nature,  the  interpreter  is  to  pause 
upon  that  fact,  and  to  take  care  how  he 
explains  anything  against  it.     If  it  be  a 


fact,  established  and  sure,  nothing  in  the 
record  of  truth  can  be  against  it.  The 
theologian,  for  a  while,  stood  against 
the  facts  of  science,  the  science  of  astron- 
omy, the  true  theory  of  the  solar  system  ; 
but  he  found,  at  length,  that  rolling  of 
worlds  would  not  obey  the  laws  of  crit- 
cism,  and  criticism  was  obliged  to 
yield.  And  so  against  the  fact  of  moral 
freedom  in  man,  he  has  held  dogmas  and 
theories,  but  he  will  find  that  those  dog- 
mas and  theories  must  give  way.  And 
thus,  also,  if  there  be  anything  in  his 
constructions  of  the  Trinity,  tlijs  atone- 
ment, or  of  human  depravity,  which  di- 
rectly conflict  v/ith  unquestionable  facts 
in  the  mind,  he  may  be  sure  that  those 
constructions  must  share  the  same  fate. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  carry  these 
principles  into  a  brief  survey  of  certain 
questions  in  Theology. 

The  first  question  to  which  I  shall 
invite  your  attention  is  that  which  has 
been  so  long  agitated  concerning  the 
nature  of  God  ;  the  question,  that  is  to 
sa}',  whether  God  exists  in  Trinity  or 
in  Unity  ;  or  whether  Trinity  and  Unity, 
as  held  in  Theology,  are  compatible  with 
each  other. 

To  proceed  inductively  with  this  in- 
quiry, to  proceed  on  the  ground  of  knowl- 
edge and  not  of  presumption,  we  should 
ask  for  the  revelation  of  God,  first,  in 
our  own  minds;  secondly,  in  nature; 
and,  thirdly,  in  Scripture.  Now  from 
each  of  these  we  gain  the  conviction  that 
God  is  one.  And  when  we  say  he  is 
one,  we  mean  that  he  is  one  self-con- 
scious Agent,  one  and  the  self-same  Cre- 
ator, Sustainer.  and  Benefactor,  the  living 
and  the  only  living  and  true  God.  We 
mean  this,  or  we  mean  nothing  that  is 
intelligible  in  the  case.  There  are  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  Unity.  There  is  a  unity 
of  plan,  of  powers,  of  principles.  That 
is  one  thing.  But  when  we  speak  of 
unity  in  a  being,  we  mean  that  he  is  self- 
conscious  ;  conscious  that  he  is  himself 
and  no  other.  The  being  that  can  say, 
"  I,"  cannot  turn  to  another  and  say 
"you,"  and  yet  mean  himself.  Now  it 
is  in  this  sense,  if  we  ascribe  person- 


492 


ERRORS    IN   THEOLOGY,    FROM 


ality  to  God,  that  we  must  say  he  is 
one. 

But  may  not  this  unity  admit  of  some 
kind  of  modification  ?  May  we  not  con- 
ceive of  God  as  one  in  one  sense,  and 
three  in  another?  Certainly  we  may; 
and  not  only  as  three,  but  as  more  than 
three.  As  many  attributes,  as  many 
modes  of  action  as  he  has,  may  he  be 
in  this  sense  more  than  one.  But  can 
we  conceive  him  to  be  one  and  three  in 
such  a  sense  as  to  lay  a  foundation  for  the 
application  of  the  personal  pronouns,  I, 
thou,  he :  so  that  one  portion  of  his  be- 
ing can  say  to  another  portion  of  his 
being,  "  I  send  you,"  or,  "  I  commission 
you  to  send  forth  him "  .''  This  I  am 
obliged  by  the  very  principles  of  my 
mind,  of  my  nature,  to  deny.  It  is  in- 
conceivable and  incredible,  because  it 
involves  an  inevitable  contradiction  of 
ideas.  It  is  not  something  which  we  re- 
fuse to  believe  because  it  is  mysterious, 
but  which  we  cannot  believe  because  it 
is  impossible.  There  is  no  possible  con- 
ception of  an  intelligent  and  conscious 
being,  which  will  permit  him  to  commis- 
sion or  to  send  himself,  to  do  that  which 
he  himself  does  not  do.  You  see  that 
the  very  language  in  which  such  a  prop- 
osition is  announced,  creates  an  inex- 
tricable confusion  and  contradiction  of 
thought. 

But  observe,  now,  that  this  is  the 
Trinity  that  is  taught  to  us  and  urged 
upon  our  faith.  The  question  is  not 
whether  God  may  exist  in  some  triuned 
form,  —  a  question  abstractly  of  no  inter- 
est to  us  ;  but  whether  he  exists  in  that 
relation  of  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit,  which 
is  recognized  in  the  prevailing  creeds. 
These  three,  according  to  those  creeds, 
devised  a  scheme  of  redemption  in  heav- 
en. They  assumed  different  offices, 
acted  different  parts  in  its  accomplish- 
ment. The  Father  sent  the  Son  on  this 
mission.  The  Holy  Spirit  followed  to 
make  it  effectual.  Here  are  represented 
three  beings.  Suppose  it  were  said  that 
they  held  "  sweet  and  ineffable  society 
together."  This  was  said  in  a  former 
age  :  it  was   the  theme  of   many  pious 


raptures.  The  idea  is  now  discarded, 
because  it  is  found  to  be  at  variance  with 
the  Unity.  But  the  scruple,  it  appears 
to  me,  is  unnecessary.  Three  persons, 
of  whom  one  can  send  another,  and  the 
third  can  go  forth  to  accomplish  their 
design,  are  as  truly  three  beings,  as  if 
they  had  friendship  and  held  converse 
with  each  other- 
It  pains  my  reverence  for  things  sa- 
cred, to  speak  with  this  freedom  of  the 
nature  of  the  Infinite  Being.  But  I  am 
driven  into  it  by  the  exigencies  of  this 
argument.  And  I  must  be  permitted 
also  to  say  that  I  do  not  feel  myself  to 
be  speaking  so  much  of  the  divine  nature, 
as  of  the  conceptions  which  men  enter- 
tain of  it.  And  I  must  press  you  to  con- 
sider that  these  are  the  prevailing  con- 
ceptions of  the  Trinity.  It  will  not  do 
for  any  one  to  shrink  back  or  to  with- 
draw this  subject  into  the  shadows  of 
obscurity  and  mysticism,  and  to  say,  "  I 
do  not  profess  to  understand  it  ;  doubt- 
less it  is  a  mystery  ;  all  that  I  know  is, 
that  so  I  am  taught,  and  so  I  believe." 
Nay,  I  reply,  but  you  do  profess  to  under- 
stand it  to  this  extent  ;  that  you  have 
distinct  conceptions  of  the  three  distinct 
persons  ;  and  so  distfnct  are  these  per- 
sons of  the  Trinity  in  your  idea  of  them, 
that  no  power  of  human  reason  or  imagi- 
nation can  make  them  one  being. 

Nor  with  the  Bible  in  your  hands  can 
you  blend  this  distinctness  into  confu- 
sion. The  Son  sent  into  the  world  by 
the  Father  ;  the  Son  united  to  human- 
ity, and  tiius  constituting  a  peculiar  per- 
son, God-man,  and  in  this  character 
laboring  and  suffering  to  work  out  our 
salvation,  —  the  Son,  I  say,  offering  a 
sacrifice  on  earth  to  the  Father  in  heav- 
en, is  a  distinct  actor,  a  distinct  being 
to  your  thought,  nor  can  you  conceive 
of  him  otherwise.  And  this  conception, 
I  say,  which  you  cannot  help,  is  fatal  to 
the  Unity. 

Let  the  believer  in  the  Trinity  bear 
with  me,  for  I  mean  him  no  disrespect. 
He  will  say  that  he  does  believe  both  in 
the  Trinity  and  Unity.  Let  us  in  this 
matter     look    beneath    words    for  one 


FALSE    TRINCIPLES   OF   REASONING. 


493 


moment.  When  he  thinks  at  one  time 
of  the  Father  as  God,  and  at  another  of 
the  Son  as  God,  and  at  another  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  as  God,  he  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  Trinitarian;  At  no  one  of  these 
times,  probably,  does  he  think  of  more 
than  one  of  these  persons  as  God. 
So  the  Swedenborgian  worships  Jesus 
Christ  as  God,  and  as  the  only  God  ; 
and  he  is  a  Unitarian.  Again,  when  he 
conceives  of  the  one  only,  self-conscious, 
Infinite  Being,  as  manifesting  himself 
now  in  the  Father,  now  in  the  Son,  and 
now  in  the  Holy  Ghost,  he  is  not  a 
Trinitarian,  but  a  Sabellian.  And  when 
he  says  in  his  prayer,  "  O  holy,  ador- 
able, and  ever-blessed  Trinity,"  still  is 
he  not  worshipping  a  name,  rither  than 
what  the  Trinity  means  in  theology  ? 
Could  he  pray  in  this  manner  ?  "  O 
Father,  Christ,  and  Holy  Ghost,  I  im- 
plore each  of  you  to  help  me ;  I  pray 
Thee,  Christ,  to  intercede  for  me  ;  Thee, 
Father,  to  pardon  me  ;  and  Thee,  Holy 
Ghost,  to  apply  the  benefits  of  redemp- 
tion to  my  soul.  I  beseech  you  to  com- 
bine your  respective  counsels  and  to 
employ  your  respective  interpositions 
for  my  relief."  This  would  be  a  prayer 
in  accordance  with  dogmatic  Trinita- 
rianism  ;  but  I  believe  that  such  a  prayer 
has  seldom  or  never  been  offered  in  the 
world. 

The  dogma  of  the  Trinity,  I  say,  de- 
stroys every  kind  of  unity  that  can  be 
conceived  of  in  an  intelligent  being. 
And  if  it  does,  I  maintain  that  it  must 
be  given  up.  We  cannot  believe  in  an 
essential  contradiction.  Here  stands  a 
fact  in  the  mind,  which,  like  a  fact  in 
nature,  like  the  order  of  the  solar  sys- 
tem, is  not  to  be  set  aside  by  any  inter- 
pretation. That  three  self-conscious 
persons  are  one  and  the  same  self-con- 
scious Being,  we  cannot  believe.  Once 
it  was  held  that  absurdity  is  no  bar  to 
faith;  nay,  "the  greater  the  absurdity 
the  greater  the  faith  :  "  this  was  the 
hardness  of  the  old  Theology.  But 
pliilosophy  has  been  slowly  wresting 
from  theology  the  admission  that  absurd- 
ity is  essentially  incredible. 


An  attempt,  indeed,  has  been  made  to 
show  that  we  can  believe  in  such  a  con- 
tradiction, by  alleging  that  there  are 
similar  contradictions  in  science.  But 
the  instances  cited,  as  might  be  antici- 
pated, fall  under  the  head  of  mysteries, 
not  absurdities.  There  are  paradoxes  ; 
i.  e.,  there  are  ideas,  there  are  pure 
mathematical  calculations,  which,  when 
applied  to  matter,  involve  us  in  inex- 
tricable confusion  of  thought  :  but  it  is 
a  new  thing  to  say  that  there  are  "irre- 
concilable contradictions  "  in  science. 
The  strongest  instance  of  the  sort  is 
taken  from  the  infinite  divisibility  of 
matter.  A  world  and  a  grain  of  sand 
are  infinitely  divisible  ;  i.  e.,  they  can 
be  divided  into  an  infinite  number  of 
parts.  But  infinites  are  equal.  There- 
fore the  world  and  the  grain  are  of  equal 
size.  Nay,  why  stop  here .''  There- 
fore both  the  world  and  the  grain  of 
sand  are  infinite  ;  for  that  which  con- 
sists of  an  infinite  number  of  parts 
must  be  infinitely  large.  Infinites  I  in- 
finites !  Is  the  obscurity  which  rests 
upon  that  which  has  no  limits,  to  blind 
us  to  a  plain  and  palpable  contradiction, 
presented  to  us  by  human  minds,  with- 
in the  confines  of  a  human  creed  ?  * 

Presented  to  us,  I  say,  by  human 
minds  ;  for  I  deny  that  any  such  doc- 
trine is  presented  to  us  by  the  divine 
Mind.  In  other  words,  we  deny,  with 
the  utmost  strength  of  conviction,  that 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  is  taught 
in  the  Scriptures. 

With  regard  to  the  argument  from  the 
Scriptures,  it  will  not  be  expected,  in  a 
discourse  of  this  nature,  that  I  should 
enter  upon  it.  I  will  only  make  two 
brief  observations  in  consonance  with 
the  views  upon  which  I  am  insisting. 

When  we  take  up  the  New  Testa- 
ment, we  immediately  begin  to  read  of 
Jesus.  He  is  the  great  subject  of  the 
book.     He  is   a  child  ;  he  is  a  youth  ; 

*  It  is  as  if,  because  matter  is  infinitely  divisible,  we 
were  required  to  believe  that  a  world  and  a  grain  of 
sand  are  of  equal  size  ;  or,  to  state  the  parallel  more 
exactly,  —  since  there  can  be  but  <7«^  infinite, — that 
both  the  world  and  the  grain  of  sand  are  one  and  the 
same  identical  substance. 


494 


ERRORS   IN    THEOLOGY,   FROM 


he  grows  up  to  maturity  ;  he  teaches 
the  people  ;  he  is  the  most  devout  and 
pure  of  all  that  ever  dwelt  on  earth  ;  he 
lives  ;  he  dies  ;  he  ascends  to  heaven, — 
"to  his  Father  and  our  Father,  to  his 
God  and  our  God."  Now,  had  not 
the  early  Platonizing  fathers  introduced 
among  the  subtilties  of  their  philosophy 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity ;  had  we,  in 
these  more  enlightened  times,  never 
heard  of  the  Trinity  ;  had  we  been  left 
simply  to  take  the  impression  of  the 
New  Testament  just  as  it  is, —  I  suppose 
nothing  could  have  equalled  the  amaze- 
ment with  which  we  should  have  heard 
it  asserted  that  this  Jesus  was  God  ; 
the  very  God  who  sent  him  into  the 
world  ;  the  Creator  of  the  very  earth 
on  which  he  walked,  of  the  very  men 
who  put  him  to  death  ! 

My  second  observation  I  wish  to  pref- 
ace with  a  single  remark.  It  is  this : 
we  are  to  arrive  at  the  meaning  of  the 
evangelists  and  apostles  through  their 
language,  just  as  we  are  to  come  at 
the  meaning  of  any  other  writers  through 
their  language.  Inspiration  did  not 
change  the  natural  style  of  those  men, 
for  each  one  has  his  own.  This,  among 
the  learned,  is  now  generally  admitted. 
My  observation,  then,  is  to  the  follow- 
ing effect :  that  is  to  say,  /  will  take  the 
biography  of  any  great  jnan  that  has 
lived,  and  I  will  draw  from  it  the  saine 
kind  of  evidence  for  his  divinity  as 
that  on  which  the  Trinita?'ian  relies  in 
proof  of  the  Deity  offesiis.  "  He  shall 
be  supreme  and  alone  in  the  love  and 
confidence  "  of  the  people,  is  a  language 
applied  to  a  statesman  of  our  own.  Had 
these  identical  words  been  found  in  the 
New  Testament,  applied  to  Christ,  how 
certainly  would  they  have  been  quoted 
in  support  of  his  divine  claims!  "Su- 
preme and  alone  in  men's  love  and  con- 
fidence "  ?  That  is  the  very  description 
of  what  is  due  to  God.  Again,  in  a  no- 
tice of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Pitt,  occurs 
the  following  language  :  "The  penetra- 
tion of  his  mind  was  sagacious,  was 
infinite.  His  history  is  the  historv  of 
civilized  nations,  as  his  counsels  influ- 


enced and  directed  every  movement  in 
every  corner  of  the  habitable  globe." 
A  penetration  that  was  infinite  ;  an  in- 
fluence that  ruled  the  habitable  w^orld  ! 
Do  the  proof  texts  of  the  Trinitarian 
argument  contain  stronger  phraseology 
than  this  ?  And  what  does  all  this 
prove  ?  Why,  that  the  Trinitarian  con- 
structions are  forbidden  by  all  just  criti- 
cism. And  I  do  surely  and  solemnly 
aver  —  indeed,  the  case  is  too  plain  to 
admit  of  any  doubt  —  that  he  who  re- 
jects this  conclusion,  does  so  because  he 
holds  that  the  Bible  is  not  to  be  inter- 
preted as  other  books  are. 

I  cannot  refrain  from  one  further  ob- 
servation upon  the  Scriptures,  to  show 
that  this  rule  of  interpretation,  and  the 
conclusion,  too,  are  strictly  and  expressly 
sustained  by  a  rule  of  Bible  criticism 
upon  the  Bible  itself.  Recollect  that 
the  Trinitarian  hypothesis  sets  forth 
that  the  Messiahship  of  Jesus  was  a 
laying  aside  of  his  Godlike  dignity,  and 
that,  on  this  account,  he  is  represented 
as  inferior.  We  should  expect,  then, 
that  when  he  had  accomplished  this 
work  he  would  reassume  his  supreme 
grandeur.  Listen,  then,  to  the  following 
language  ;  enough,  one  would  think,  to 
settle  the  whole  question  :  "  Then  Com- 
eth the  end,  when  he  shall  have  delivered 
up  the  kingdom  to  God.  even  the  Father. 
For  he  must  reign  till  he  hath  put  all 
enemies  under  his  feet.  But  when  he 
saith  all  things  are  put  under  him,  it  is 
manifest  that  he  is  excepted  which  did 
put  all  things  under  him."  Is  it  not 
amazing  that  the  doctrine  of  Christ's 
Deity  should  be  maintained  against  this 
divine  canon  of  criticism  .''  As  if  it  were 
said,  "Of  course,  no  one  will  imagine 
that  any  lofty  ascriptions  of  power  and 
glory  to  Christ  are  to  bring  into  ques- 
tion the  undisputed  supremacy  over 
him,  of  God  himself.  It  is  manifest  that 
He  is  forever  to  be  excepted  from  all 
such  inferences."  But  hear  the  Apostle's 
conclusion,  and  then  judge  what  is  to  be 
thought  of  this  hypothesis  of  Christ's 
temporary  and  apparent  inferiority  and 
real   equality.     "And  when   all   things 


FALSE   PRINCIPLES   OF   REASONING. 


495 


shall  be  subdued  unto  him,  then  shall 
the  Son  also  himself  be  subject  unto 
him  that  put  all  things  under  him  ;  that 
God  may  be  all  in  all." 

But  I  must  hasten  to  leave  tliis  part 
of  mv  subject.  So  powertul,  so  over- 
whelming has  appeared  to  me  the  argu- 
ment against  the  Trinity,  that  for  years 
I  confess  I  have  been  looking  for  its 
effect  upon  the  churches  of  England 
and  America.  I  have  sometimes  invol- 
untarily said,  "  Is  it  possible  that  what 
appears  so  clear  to  me,  so  unanswerable, 
can  go  for  nothing  with  the  minds  of 
others  1  What  are  the  men  of  England 
and  America  thinking,  —  not  the  clergy 
alone,  but  the  reading  men,  the  scholars, 
the  statesmen,  the  educated  men,  —  what 
are  they  thinking  about  this  matter.''  Or 
do.  they  not  think  of  it  at  all  ?  Does 
a  great  question  which  Newton,  and 
Locke,  and  Milton,  and  Priestley,  and 
Price  decided  against  them,  seem  to  be 
unworthy  of  their  attention  ?" 

With  this  inquiry  in  my  mind,  I  have 
looked  with  no  little  interest  upon  a 
modification  of  the  Trinitarian  hypoth- 
esis, which  three  distinguished  scholars, 
in  three  different  countries,  Germany, 
Great  Britain,  and  America,  have  pre- 
sented to  the  public  attention.*  The 
English  theologian  speaks  of  God,  in 
Sabellian  phrase,  as  "revealed  in  three 
characters,  as  standing  in  three  relations 
to  us,"t  or,  in  other  words,  he  maintains 
that  the  one  God  has  so  put  his  name 
and  displayed  his  energy  in  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Spirit,  that  each  of  them  may 
be  lawfully,  and  is  actually  required  to 
be,  worshipped  J  His  language  is  very 
cautious  ;  but,  as  far  as  I  can  ascertain  its 
meaning, it  would  seem  tliat  he  does  not 
lielieve  in  an  Eternal  Son  or  Eternal 
Spirit,  but  only  that  when  Jesus  Christ 
appeared,  and  the  Divine  Spirit  was 
poured  out  upon  the  hearts  of  men,  there 
was  such  a  demonstration  of  God's 
power  in  them,  that  they  may  be  law- 

•  Schleiermacher,  Archbishop  VVhately,  and  Pro- 
fessor Stuart. 

t  See  Sermon  on  God's  Abode  with  his  People. 
X  See  Sermon  on  the  name  Emmanuel. 


fully  worshipped.  The  German  theo- 
logian, though  reputed  Orthodox,  adopts 
the  theory  of  Sabellius.  But  he  denies 
that  the  common  view  of  Sabellianism 
is  correct.  This  is  his  exposition  of  it, 
—  difficult,  however,  to  distinguish,  in 
any  material  respect,  from  the  common 
view,  —  '-that  the  Trinity  exists  as  such, 
only  in  relation  to  the  various  methods 
and  spheres  of  action  belonging  to  the 
Godhead."  In  governing  the  world  in 
all  its  various  operations  on  finite  beings, 
the  Godhead  is  Father.  As  redeeming, 
by  special  operations  in  the  person  of 
Christ,  and  through  him,  it  is  Son.  As 
sanctifying,  and  in  all  its  operations  on 
the  community  of  believers,  and  as  a 
Unity  in  the  same,  the  Godhead  is 
Spirit."*  The  distinction,  he  holds,  is 
modal,  not  essential;  is  not  eternal,  but 
began  in  time.  The  American  Professor 
is  not  satisfied  with  this  exposition. f 
He  holds  that  "distinctions  are  co-eter- 
nal in  the  Godhead."  But  he  utterly 
rejects  the  idea  that  "there  are  three 
separate  consciousnesses,  wills,"  in  the 
persons  of  the  Trinity.  He  admits  that 
this  would  be  Tritheism.  He  is  offend- 
ed with  those  who  say  that  there  was 
society,  counsel,  or  consultation  among 
the  persons  of  the  Trinity.  Yet  what 
more  this  is,  —  what  more  distinct  con- 
sciousness it  implies,  than  to  say  that 
the  Father  setit  the  Son  into  the  world, 
it  is  difficult  to  perceive. 

But  the  question  is.  Is  it  possible  to 
receive  what  is  said  of  the  Father  and 
the  Son  in  the  New  Testament  without 
conceiving  of  them  as  possessing  sepa- 
rate consciousness  and  will .?  I  affirm, 
without  any  shadow  of  doubt,  that  it  is 
not  possible.  The  Professor  says  that 
the  language  is  to  be  received  with  quali- 
fication, and  he  compares  it  to  that  in 
which  it  is  said  that  God  walks  upon 
the  earth;  that  he  ascends  and  descends. 
Are  the  cases  parallel  ?     In  the  one,  we 

*  Schleiermacher's  tract  on  Sabellius,  translated  by 
Professor  Stuart,  in  the  iSth  and  19th  Nos.  of  the 
Biblical  Repository  and  Quarterly  Observer. 

t  See  Professor  Stuart's  "  Remarks"  on  Dr  Schlei- 
ermacher's Tract,  in  the  Biblical  Repository  and 
Quarterly  Observer,  No.  19. 


496 


ERRORS   IN   THEOLOGY,   FROM 


easily  and  naturally  understand  the  rep- 
resentation to  be  figurative.  Is  the 
other  of  the  same  nature  ?  Is  it  figura- 
tive language  ?  And  may  we  suppose 
that  the  reality  is  as  different  from  the 
figure,  as  omnipresence  is  different  from 
ascending  and  descending  ?  Then  we 
may  all  believe  in  the  Trinity  !  Then 
the  Trinity  vanishes  away  into  nothing, 
into  a  mere  figure  of  speech.  When  we 
read,  I  still  insist,  that  God  the  Father 
sent  his  Son  into  the  world,  that  the 
Son  lived  on  earth,  that  he  prayed  to 
God  the  Father,  that  he  ascribed  all 
his  power  and  wisdom  to  God,  —  in  short, 
that  he  always  spoke  of  God,  his  Father, 
as  a  being  distinct  from  himself,  is  it 
possible,  I  repeat,  to  conceive  of  him 
as  himself  that  very  God  and  Father  ? 
And  I  reaffirm  that  it  is  not  possible. 

The  history  of  opinions  shows  that 
it  is  not  possible.  The  early  fathers  of 
the  Church  either  did  not  hold  to  the 
equality  of  "the  persons,  and  were  Arians 
or  quasi  Arians,  or  they  did  hold  to 
the  equality,  and  were  Tritheists.  The 
modern  creeds  partake  much  of  the 
Tritheistic  character.  This,  the  Pro- 
fessor mainly  admits.  This,  Schleier- 
macher  feels.  Hence  their  efforts  to 
relieve  the  subject  from  the  errors  of 
ages.  Hence  this  new  teaching  to  the 
churches.  But  can  it  be  that  a  cardinal, 
essential,  saving  doctrine  of  Christianity 
has  been  left  to  be  cleared  up  by  dialec- 
tic skill,  at  the  end  of  eighteen  centuries 
of  the  Christian  history  ?  What  is  to 
become  of  the  mass  of  men,  what  has 
become  of  them,  if  this  dialectic  skill  is 
necessary  for  the  true  understanding  of 
the  true  doctrine  ? 

Our  own  position  on  this  subject,  we 
may  add,  i  e.,  our  position  as  reformers, 
is  very  different.  We  are  endeavoring, 
it  is  true,  to  present  a  safe  and  sound 
doctrine.  But  we  do  not  say  that  any 
view  of  Trinity  or  Unity,  any  view  of 
the  metaphysical  nature  of  God,  is 
necessary  to  salvation.  At  the  same 
time  we  certainly  think  that  it  is  better 
to  see  things  clearly  than  to  see  them 
through  a  mist.     And  especially  when 


we  find  that  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity 
is  represented  as  essential  to  salvation, 
we  see,  then,  that  it  so  takes  hold  of 
human  superstition  and  fear,  that  it  so 
enlists  human  intolerance,  and  does 
such  wrong  and  mischief  in  every  way, 
as  to  call  at  our  hands  for  the  most 
earnest  resistance.* 

The  further  leading  topics  in  theology 
may  be  embraced  under  the  two  follow- 
ing heads  :  human  nature  and  its  re- 
demption. I  can  do  but  little  more,  in 
the  space  that  remains  to  me,  than  to 
point  out  the  true  course  of  inquiry,  in 
opposition  to  mere  hypothesis. 

Our  catechisms  taught  us  that  human 
nature  is  totally  depraved.  Here  was 
hypothesis  working  upon  its  most  deli- 
cate and  susceptible  material,  the  mind 
of  childhood.  If  we  would  pursue  the 
true  method  of  inquiry,  we  must  forget 
all  this,  and  take  up  the  subject  anew. 

Here  is  a  theory.  It  says  that  there 
is  no  goodness  in  human  nature.  Sup- 
pose a  theory  to  assert  that  there  is 
no  faculty  of  reason  in  human  nature. 
Should  we  not  appeal  to  fact,  to  experi- 
ence ?  The  theory  says  that  the  moral 
quality  of  human  nature  is  one  of  un- 
mixed evil.  Indeed,  it  asserts  a  fact, 
and  a  universal  and  unqualified  fact. 
In  man  naturally,  in  the  mass  of  men 
unconverted,  there  is  nothing  truly 
good.  An  animal  amiableness  there 
may  be,  but  there  is  nothing  accordant 
with  the  sacred  and  Heaven-approving 
law  of  right. 

But  this  right  —  now  to  take  up  the 
argument  —  this  right,  I  say  ;  how  did 
we  ever  come  to  know  that  there  was 
any  such  thing  at  all  ?  "  Our  conscience 
taught  us,"  it  will  be  said.  But  con- 
science pronounces  upon  something. 
Upon  what  does  it  pronounce  ?     It  rec- 

*  The  importance  attributed  to  this  doctrine  strik- 
ingly appears  in  what  Professor  Stuart  says  of  Schlei- 
ermacher's  view  of  it.  After  giving  an  afifecting 
account  of  his  death,  he  adds:  "Can  it  be  that  a  man 
who  lived  thus,  and  died  thus,  was  not  a  Christian  ? 
I  feel  constrained  to  say  that  I  mourn  his  loss  to  the 
world,  as  an  efficient  and  powerful  writer;  but  I  can- 
not mourn  as  one  without  hope  for  him  1  "  What 
would  Professor  Stuart  think  if  he  could  anticipate 
such  a  sentence  as  this  written  concerning  himself? 


FALSE   PRINCIPLES   OF   REASONING. 


497 


ognizes  certain  facts  ;  that  is  to  say, 
certain  emotions,  experiences.  But 
what  facts,  what  experiences  ?  Expe- 
riences of  right  and  wrong ;  of  right 
as  well  as  wrong.  In  short,  universal  con- 
science, sitting  in  judgment  on  the  uni- 
versal experience,  pronounces  a  part  of 
it  to  be  right  and  a  part  of  it  to  be  wrong. 
We  feci  that  there  are  right,  good, 
blessed  things  in  our  common  humanity. 
All  our  conduct,  confidence,  love  towards 
one  another,  shows  it.  Flashings  of 
indignation  towards  cruelty  and  oppres- 
sion, tears  of  joy  over  holy  human  pity 
and  relief,  show  it.  All  human  litera- 
ture, philosophy,  law,  government,  pro- 
claim the  same  conviction.  The  entire 
mass  of  human  sentiment  and  institu- 
tion stands  as  one  emphatic  contradic- 
tion to  the  dogma  of  total  depravity. 

But  it  is  said  that  this  human  judg- 
ment cannot  be  relied  on,  that  it  is  false. 
Then  everything  is  false.  Then  the 
very  power  on  which  we  rely  for  ascer- 
taining the  truth  is  false.  Then,  too, 
the  Bible  is  false.  For  the  Bible  puts 
itself  upon  the  verdict  of  the  universal 
conscience.  That  conscience  declares 
it  to  be  right.  But  if  the  judgment  is 
worthless,  that  claim  of  the  book  falls. 
If  the  eye  of  the  soul  sees  nothing  truly, 
if  the  light  in  us  be  darkness,  how  great 
is  that  darkness  I 

But  does  not  the  book  itself,  contra- 
dicting the  universal  conscience,  teach 
the  doctrine  in  question  ?  It  cannot,  I 
think  we  may  say.  It  would  take  a  sui- 
cidal part  if  it  did.  It  would  destroy 
its  own  foundations.  It  does  not.  It 
simply  speaks  as  we  all  speak,  who  feel 
that  the  world  is  full  of  evil.  Here  and 
there  a  strong  expression,  —  of  a  wound- 
ed conscience  saying,  '•  I  was  shapen 
in  iniquity.  "  —  of  outraged  holiness 
amidst  a  wicked  people,  saying,  "  They 
have  all  gone  out  of  the  way  ;  there  is 
none  that  doeth  good,  no,  not  one,"  — 
this  is  the  whole  evidence.  One  text 
may  stand  against  it  all,  recognizint" 
conscience  as  a  law,  and  some  obedience 
to  that  law,  as  things  actually  existing 
in   the  most  degraded  portions  of  man- 


kind. "  For  when  the  Gentiles,"  says 
Paul,  "  who  have  not  the  law,  do  by 
nature  the  things  contained  in  the  law, 
these,  having  not  the  law,  are  a  law  unto 
themselves  ;  which  show  the  work  of 
the  law  written  in  their  hearts,  their 
conscience  also  bearing  witness,  and 
their  thoughts  meanwhile  accusing  or 
else  excusing  one  another." 

Finally,  Redemption  from  sin,  —  let 
us  consider  it.  It  is  a  comprehensive 
work  :  its  theatre,  the  world;  its  sphere, 
human  life  ;  its  security,  God's  will 
and  purpose  ;  its  agents,  God's  power 
and  Spirit;  its  process,  the  soul's  con- 
version and  sanctification  ;  and  its  spe- 
cial means,  Christ's  life  and  sacrifice. 
In  all  these  we  devoutly  believe  ;  and 
we  are  only  anxious  that  nothing  here 
be  construed  unwisely  or  unreasonably ; 
that  nothing  be  inculcated  concerning 
the  soul's  conversion,  at  variance  with 
the  soul's  nature  ;  nothing  concerning 
God's  purpose,  hostile  to  human  free- 
dom ;  nothingconcerning  the  atonement, 
derogatory  to  the  divine  wisdom  and 
goodness.  It  is  in  vain  to  say  that  reason 
and  philosophy  have  nothing  to  do  with 
these  matters.  They  have  something, 
they  have  much  to  do  with  them  ;  they 
are  at  the  very  bottom  of  that  progress 
which  Orthodox  theology  in  various 
quarters  is  now  making.  There  is  in- 
deed much  opposition  still  to  the  great 
inductive  study  of  facts  and  principles  : 
but  the  ©Imposition  is  giving  way,  and 
it  will  continue  to  yield  to  the  advances 
of  a  rational  and  pure  Christianity. 

It  is  not  till  now,  let  me  remark,  when 
we  touch  the  subject  of  Redemption, 
that  we  have  reached  the  ground  of  what 
is  practical  in  religion.  The  questions 
which  we  have  thus  far  considered  are 
speculative,  though  the  latter,  it  is  true, 
has  important  moral  bearings.  But  we 
come  now  to  the  questions  that  touch 
the  essential  human  welfare  :  what  has 
been  done  for  it,  and  what  is  to  be 
done  .''  What  has  God  done,  and  what 
is  man  to  do  .'' 

Let  us  attempt  here,  again,  to  draw 
the   dividing    line    between    fact    and 


32 


498 


ERRORS   IN   THEOLOGY,    FROM 


hypothesis.  What  is  fact  ?  A  world 
is  made  ;  man  is  placed  upon  it  ;  he 
has  a  moral  nature,  a  nature,  i.  e.,  liable 
to  err,  and  actually  and  deeply  erring, 
but  capable  of  recovery  and  improve- 
ment ;  life  is  filled  with  ministrations 
to  virtue,  and  with  restraints  upon  evil  ; 
and  with  our  belief,  certain  Christian 
facts  are  to  be  reckoned  in  the  account ; 
to  wit,  that  to  the  natural  means  of  virtue 
and  redemption,  certain  special  means 
are  added,  the  teaching,  the  example, 
the  miracles,  and  the  sufferings  of 
Christ  ;  and,  moreover,  we  believe  that 
a  divine  influence  is  imparted  to  help 
human  endeavor.  That  endeavor,  at 
the  same  time,  is  to  be  put  forth  ;  it  is 
demanded  by  reason  and  Scripture  ;  it 
is  implied  in  this  demand  that  man  has 
some  power  to  work  out  his  welfare  ; 
and  it  is  a  matter  of  fact  that  he  has 
such  a  power. 

Now  to  explain  the  facts  of  the  human 
condition  and  redemption,  a  certain  hy- 
pothesis  is   introduced.     And  let  it  be 
repeated,   that    the    introduction    of  an 
hypothesis  is  not  to  be  condemned,  pro- 
vided it  be  well  considered  that  it  is  a 
mere  supposition.     If  it  is  reasonable, 
if  it  appears  best  to  explain  the  facts, 
if  it  does  not  contradict  any  of  the  facts, 
it  may  be  properly  entertained  as  a  sup- 
position;  it  may  justly  stand  till  some 
better  explanation  is  offered.     But  what 
is  the  hypothesis  on  which  the  prevail- 
ing theology  is  founded  ?      It  is  more  i 
than   hypothesis,  to   be   sure,  with    its  | 
supporters.    It  is  unquestioned  assump-  ! 
tion  :  it  is  an  impregnable,  fixed  creed  ;   ! 
and  therein    I   hold  that  it  is  unphilo-  I 
sophical.     But  it  is  really  nothing  else  ; 
but  hypothesis  ;  it  is  not  certainty,  but  I 
supposition  ;    it  cannot  justly  claim   to 
exclude  all  other  suppositions;  and  now 
what  is  it .'' 

It  is  that  man  w^s  created  in  a  state 
of  absolute  innocence ;  that  he  fell  from 
that  estate;  that  by  his  fall  he  involved 
his  whole  race  in  sin  and  misery;  that 
he  stood  trial  for  all  his  posterity,  and 
that  by  his  failure  all  men  were  consti- 
tuted sinners  ;   that  they  have  lost  the 


power  of  recovery,  all  voluntary,  moral 
power  to  be  good  and  pure;  that  the 
earth  also  is  cursed  in  consequence  of 
Adam's  fall  ;  that  its  elements,  its  prod- 
ucts, its  climate  perhaps,  at  any  rate  its 
goodliness  and  beauty,  are  changed ; 
that  the  glory  has  passed  away  ;  in 
short,  that  nature  without  and  nature 
within  us  are  wrenched  from  their  origi- 
nal, constitutional  order,  and  are  not 
what  God  originally  meant  or  made 
them  to  be.  The  world  now  rolls  round 
the  sun,  a  blasted,  ruined,  dark  sphere, 
unlike  any  other  sphere  in  its  condition  ; 
it  has  lost  its  place  in  the  sisterhood  of 
happy  worlds  ;  and  could  any  creature's 
eye  from  above  look  down  upon  the  train 
of  heavenly  orbs,  he  would  see  this  to 
be  marked,  marred,  and  desolate ;  no 
smiling  orb,  no  embosoming  beauty  and 
goodliness,  but  scathed  and  blackened 
by  the  scourge  and  frown  of  infinite  dis- 
pleasure. For  this  accursed  globe,  in 
this  awful  emergency,  the  hypothesis 
proceeds  to  state,  that  a  grand  expedient 
was  found,  a  great  plan  of  redemption 
was  devised.  It  was  devised  in  heaven. 
Earth  could  never  have  found  it  out. 
Nor  angel  nor  archangel  could  ever  have 
seen  or  imagined  it.-  There  was  coun- 
sel taken  in  heaven  for  the  salvation  of 
the  world,  for  the  recovery  of  man.  I 
know  of  no  good  reason,  I  repeat,  why 
this  word,  counsel,  should  be  objected 
to  ;  there  were  thoughts,  designs,  pur 
poses,  to  that  end.  God,  the  Father, 
determined  to  send  God,  the  Son,  into 
the  world.  In  due  time  he  came  ;  the 
Sent,  and  not  the  Sender,  came  into  the 
world  ;  he  lived  among  men  for  thirty 
years  and  more  ;  and  at  length,  he  who 
was  very  God  and  very  man  died  upon 
the  cross.  By  thus  doing,  thus  suffer- 
ing, he  removed  an  otherwise  insupera- 
ble obstacle  to  the  bestowment  of  divine 
mercy  upon  sinful  men,  and  opened  the 
way  for  their  return  to  the  merciful 
favor  of  God  and  the  eternal  bliss  of 
heaven. 

What  an  hypothesis  !  With  no  irrev- 
erence, but  in  solemn  sincerity,  I  de- 
clare that  I  have  felt,  while  unfolding  it, 


FALSE    PRINCIPLES    OF   REASONING. 


499 


as  if  I  were  involved  in  the  shadows  of 
some  old,  terrific  Hindu  or  Druid  my- 
thology. And  I  firmly  believe,  that  if 
this  hypothesis  had  been  this  day  spread 
before  any  audience  in  Christendom  for 
the  first  time,  if  they  had  never  heard 
of  it  before,  they  would  have  felt  it  as  I 
do.  I  can  hardly  doubt  that  they  would 
have  risen  upon  their  feet  and  cried  out, 
in  amazement,  if  not  indignation,  at  a 
theory  so  awful  and  incredible. 

But  let  us  patiently  consider  it.  I 
maintain,  then,  that  it  is  not  necessary 
to  explain  the  facts  ;  that  it  contradicts 
the  facts  ;  that  it  is  pure  assumption 
without  any  known  facts  to  rest  upon ; 
and  that  it  is  essentially  self-contradic- 
tory and  altogether  incredible. 

Its  self-contradictory  character  in  one 
point  I  have  already  insisted  upon,  and 
need  not  repeat  what  I  then  said.  It 
presents,  in  its  theory  of  tiie  divine  Per- 
sons who  took  their  distinct  and  re- 
spective parts  in  the  work  of  man's 
redemption,  ideas  irreconcilably  at  vari- 
ance with  the  Divine  Unity.  It  presents 
further  contradictions,  —  an  Almighty 
will  thwarted;  an  infinite  counsel  meet- 
ing with  apparently  unforeseen  diffi- 
culties, and  obliged  to  resort  to  new 
and  extraordinary  expedients.  Man  was 
made  pure,  and  he  fell.  How,  I  might 
ask,  could  purity  sin  .''  It  is  held  to  be 
morally  impossible,  impossible  without 
divine  intervention,  for  total  depravity 
to  put  lorth  one  right  aflfection.  How, 
then,  could  perfect  purity  sin  ?  Did 
God  interfere  to  make  it  sin  ?  But  to 
proceed  with  the  supposition.  If  man, 
instead  of  being  made  capable  alike  of 
good  and  evil,  was  made  constitutionally 
sinless,  what  could  have  been  the  end 
but  to  keep  him  so  t  But  the  fall  de- 
feated that  end.  Then,  again,  the  con- 
stitution of  the  material  world  was  origi- 
nally established  for  a  pure  race  ;  it  was 
changed  to  meet  the  condition  of  a  guilty 
race.  If  it  had  been  foreseen  that  the 
very  first  man  would  sin,  and  drag  down 
all  liis  offspring  with  him,  why  was  the 
world  made  for  innocence  to  dwell  in  ? 
It  would  be  as  if  in  pleasant  grounds  a 


fair  garden  had  been  made  for  an  animal 
supposed  to  be  harmless,  and  then,  the 
animal  proving  to  be  a  tiger,  it  had  been 
necessary  to  raze  the  grounds,  to  tear  up 
the  shrubs  and  the  flowers,  and  to  turn 
the  garden  into  a  prison  and  a  lair. 

Again  :   I  say  that  the  theory  is  pure 
assumption,  without  any  known  facts  to 
rely   upon.       That    the    constitution    of 
nature  was  changed,  that   the   physical 
nature  of  man,  his  natural  appetites  and 
passions,  were  changed,  is  what  we  do 
not   know,  and   is,  in  fact,   a   thing   in- 
credible.      That    the    moral    nature    of 
man,  imperfect  by  the  very  Hmitation  of 
his  powers,  ignorant  before  experience, 
placed  here  apparently  to  learn  by  ex- 
perience, liable  to  err  by  every  known 
and  conceivable  element  of  his  consti- 
tution,—  that  this  nature  at  its  origin  was 
in   a  state   of  angelic   purity,   and   then 
fell  at  once  into  utter  depravity,  is  what 
we  do  not  know,  and  is,  in  truth,  a  thing 
unintelligible.     Does  any  one  really  sup- 
pose,   can    he    really   believe,    that   the 
world,  when  man  was  created  and  placed 
upon  it,  was  essentially  otherwise  than 
it    is    now ;    that    it    was    not   moulded 
of  hills  and   valleys,  and  covered  with 
herbs  and  flowers,  and  visited  by  heat 
and  cold,  storm  and  sunshine  ;    or  that 
man  was  not  clothed  with  flesh  and  flesh- 
ly appetites  ;    or  that  his  soul  was  not 
at  the  beginning  weak,  inexperienced, 
and  liable  to  err }     But  it  may  be  said 
that  there   is  another  class  of  facts  to 
be  considered,  —  the  declarations  of  the 
Bible.     We  receive  those  declarations. 
What  are  they .?     That  man  fell  ;    that 
the  earth  was  cursed  in  consequence  ; 
and  that  through  sin  misery  has  come 
into  the  world.     Can  these  declarations 
be  stretched  out  to  cover  the  stupendous 
hypothesis  which  has  been  stated  ?      I 
hold    that   there   is   another   hypothesis 
that  meets  and  satisfies  them.    Suppose 
that  man's  first  estate  was  one  of  com- 
parative simplicity  and  purity,  and  this 
the  more  likely  because  he  must  have 
been   created   in    an   adult   state ;  sup- 
pose that  after  a  time  he  fell  into  gross 
wickedness  and  disorder  ;  suppose  that 


500 


ERRORS   IN   THEOLOGY,    FROM 


industry  and  culture  declined,  and  the 
earih  shot  up  briers  and  thorns  where 
it  before  gave  herbs  and  fruits ;  and 
suppose,  in  fine,  that  sin,  thus  coming 
into  the  world,  was  a  curse  to  the  earth 
and  a  fountain  of  misery  through  all  its 
ages  ;  and  does  not  this  hypothesis  an- 
swer to  all  the  declarations  of  the  Bible  ? 
To  my  mind  it  does  so  in  the  most  sat- 
isfactory manner. 

I  may  add  that  the  hypothesis  which 
we  are  considering  is  peculiarly  the 
theologian's  hypothesis.  It  is  not,  and 
never  has  been,  the  theory  of  philoso- 
phy. In  all  the  general  works  that 
have  been  written  on  man  and  the  con- 
stitution of  man,  on  the  philosophy  of 
history  and  of  the  human  condition,  on 
the  philosophy  of  mind  and  morals,  it 
has  always  been  maintained  that  man 
and  life,  the  world  and  the  human  con- 
stitution and  condition,  are  sucli  as  God 
wisely  made  and  intended  them  to  be, 
for  the  general  progress  and  improve- 
ment of  the  human  race.  In  this 
respect,  the  prevailing  theology  stands 
directly  confronted  and  at  open  war 
with  philosophy.  And  hence  it  is  that 
philosophy  has  been,  to  so  considerable 
an  extent,  infidel,  conceiving,  as  it 
naturally  has  done,  that  the  prevailing 
theology  was  the  true  Bible  philosophy. 
Hence  a  remarkable  French  writer* 
has  lately  gone  to  the  insane  length  of 
maintaining  that  the  true  philosophical 
tendency  of  thought  is  to  the  utter  sub- 
version of  all  religion,  and  in  fact  to 
absolute,  blank,  desolating  atheism.  Is 
it  not  time  to  consider  where  the  theo- 
logical hypothesis  is  leading? 

But  to  proceed  :  I  maintain,  in  the 
third  place,  that  that  hypothesis  contra- 
dicts the  facts  which  it  proposes  to 
explain.  It  contradicts  the  fact  of 
natural  goodness  in  man,  and  it  con- 
tradicts the  fact  of  moral  freedom. 
These  denials,  we  may  observe,  are 
closely  bound  together,  and  mutually 
dependent  on  each  other.  If  man  is 
totally  depraved,  he  can  have  no  free- 
dom to  be  good.     If  he  has  no  freedom 

*  Auguste  Comte. 


to   be  good,  he  is    indeed    totally   and 
hopelessly  depraved. 

The  leading  tendency,  if  not  object, 
of  the  celebrated  work  of  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards on  the  Will,  is  to  prove  that 
man,  in  his  natural  state,  has  no  power, 
no  liberty  to  be  good.  Now,  on  the 
ground  that  man  is  totally  depraved,  his 
position  is  impregnable;  his  argument 
is  triumphant.  And  the  reason  is  this  : 
goodness,  strictly  speaking,  is  not  an 
object  of  will.  It  is  not  within  tlie 
province  of  the  will.  I  can  no  more 
will  virtue  to  be  lovely  to  me  ;  that  is, 
I  can  no  more  will  to  love  it,  than  I  can 
will  honey  to  be  sweet,  or  sweetness  to 
be  agreeable  to  my  taste,  and  to  love  it. 
If  there  is  not  a  love  of  virtue,  as  of 
sweetness,  in  the  very  constitution  of 
my  nature,  I  have  no  power  to  love  it. 
What,  then,  is  the  province  of  the  will  ? 
It  is  distinctly  this  :  to  direct  certain 
actions  of  my  body,  and  the  attention 
of  my  mind.  The  latter  Js  the  only 
point  for  consideration  here ;  for  we 
are  not  speaking  of  tlie  visible  action  of 
virtue,  which  is  only  the  image  of  in- 
ward virtue.  What,  then,  can  I  do  to 
awaken  in  myself  good  and  virtuous 
emotion,  to  awaken'  love  ?  I  cannot 
will  them  into  existence  any  more  than 
I  can  will  the  love  of  music  or  of  nature 
into  existence.  But  this  I  can  do;  this 
is  within  the  province  of  the  will.  I 
can  %vill  and  give  attention  to  them. 
I  can  think  of  the  objects  that  should 
awaken  good  emotions.  I  can  meditate 
and  pray.  Thus,  if  I  have  some  natu- 
ral good  emotions,  and  the  ability  to 
cultivate  them,  I  have  the  power  to  be 
good,  and  no  otherwise.      I  have  both. 

But  this  the  hypothesis  denies.  It 
denies  that  we  have  naturally  any  riglit 
feelings.  And  it  ought,  in  consequence, 
to  deny,  and  it  does  usually  deny,  that 
we  have  any  power  whatever  to  bring 
them  into  existence.  And  in  so  doing, 
I  say,  it  contradicts  the  foundation  facts 
of  our  nature  ;  facts  on  which  all  relig- 
ion and  morahty  repose  ;  facts  without 
which  the  Bible  is  an  enigma,  and  with- 
out which  I  humbly  and  reverently  say, 


FALSE   PRINCIPLES   OF   REASONING. 


501 


that,  to  my  apprehension,  the  govern- 
ment of  heaven  would  be  the  most  awful 
and  terrific  injustice.  For  the  hypothe- 
sis involves  to  my  mind,  this  further, 
astounding,  paralyzing  contradiction ; 
that  we  are  commanded,  on  pain  of 
hell,  on  pain  of  God's  displeasure,  on 
pain  of  unending  guilt  and  misery,  to  do 
that  which  we  have  no  power  to  do ; 
to  feel  that  which  we  have  no  power 
to  feel ;  to  achieve  that  which  we  have 
no  power  to  achieve. 

Nor,  in  fine,  is  this  hypothesis  neces- 
sary to  explain  the  facts  of  our  nature  and 
condition.  It  is  imagined  that  the  fact 
of  sin  implies  some  tremendous  catas- 
trophe like  the  fall  ;  that  the  origin  of 
evil  is  embosomed,  a  dark  secret,  in 
some  cloud  of  mystery  or  wrath  ;  that 
the  miseries  of  the  world  prove  it  to 
have  been  wrenched  away  from  the  fair 
universe  of  God.  But  the  assumption, 
I  conceive,  is  altogether  gratuitous  and 
uncalled  for.  It  is  in  the  very  nature 
of  a  moral  and  imperfect  being  to  err  ; 
not  to  sin  wilfully,  malignantly,  that  is 
not  necessary,  but  to  err  through  igno- 
rance and  impulse,  to  fall  into  excess 
or  defect,  and  so  to  fall  into  sin.  And 
it  is  in  the  power  of  such  a  being  to 
sin  intentionally.  Man  has  done  both. 
And  misery  has  followed  as  the  conse- 
quence, at  once,  and  corrective  of  his 
errors.  Where,  now,  is  the  mystery  or 
difficulty  ?  Where  is  the  need  of  any 
extraordinary  hypothesis,  implying  the 
subversion  or  change  of  the  original 
plan,  or  the  devising  of  expedients  to 
meet  an  unnatural  or  unforeseen  crisis  ? 
I  will  venture  to  say,  in  dissent  from 
the  common  opinion,  and  at  the  risk  of 
being  thought  not  to  understand  the 
difficulties  of  the  case,  that  "  the  origin 
of  evil  "  presents  no  dark  or  mysterious 
problem.  To  my  mind  it  is  clear  and 
of  easy  solution.  That  is  to  say,  it  is 
clear  as  to  the  principle,  though  there 
are  difficulties  as  to  tlie  details.  And 
the  solution,  as  I  have  already  implied, 
is  this  :  An  imperfect,  free,  moral  na- 
ture is,  in  its  essential  constitution  — 
is,  by  definition,  peccable  •,  it  is  liable  to 


err,  and  its  erring  is  nothing  strange 
nor  mysterious.  The  notion  of  un- 
tempted  innocence  for  such  a  being 
is,  1  hold,  a  dream  of  Theology.  His 
very  improvement,  his  very  progress, 
ever  implies  previous  erring.  And  that 
from  his  erring,  misery  should  come, — 
this  is  equally  intelligible.  Now  the 
extent  to  which  these  evils  go,  not  the 
origin  of  them,  —  this  is  doubtless  a 
problem  that  I  cannot  solve.  There 
are  shadows  upon  the  world  that  we 
cannot  penetrate  ;  masses  of  sin  and 
misery  that  overwhelm  us  with  wonder 
and  awe;  but  the  world-problem  itself 
is  not  involved  in  those  shadows.  The 
principle  of  the  case  is  clear,  and  needs 
not  the  theological  hypothesis  to  relieve 
it  from  difficulty  ;  not  to  say  that  the 
relief  was  stranger  and  harder  to  receive 
than  the  difficulty. 

The  Redemption  of  man,  then,  as  I 
understand  it,  proceeds  on  this  ground 
and  in  this  wise.  Man  is  placed  upon 
the  earth  with  a  nature  moral,  improv- 
able, immortal ;  capable  of  good,  exposed 
to  evil ;  in  temptation  and  suffering,  in 
need  and  peril  ;  and  all  this  mingled 
too  with  joy  and  hope.  His  being  is  a 
good  gift,  his  life  is  a  good  opportu- 
nity. It  is  the  highest  git't  and  glory 
in  the  universe,  to  be  capable  of  virtue, 
of  purity,  of  the  blessed  love  and  like- 
ness of  God.  A  field  for  such  attain- 
ment is  spread  here  upon  earth  ;  a 
school  is  opened,  filled  with  incessant, 
instant,  sublime  instructions.  But  the 
school  is  not  for  the  idle.  The  field  is 
not  the  field  of  the  sluggard.  Through 
toil  and  struggle,  through  disaster  and 
sorrow,  with  blessed  affections  too,  and 
hopes  and  foretastes  of  heaven,  man 
must  rise. 

Now  the  doctrine  of  Redemption,  of 
which  this  is  the  basis,  —  the  doctrine  of 
Redemption  is,  that  God,  our  Maker, 
hath  had  compassion  upon  us  and  hath 
interposed  for  our  welfare  ;  that  he,  the 
Infinite  One,  whose  presence  is  in  every 
world  and  with  every  creature,  hath 
manifested  that  presence  in  miracles, 
and  in  mercies  ;  in  miracles  divine,  in 


502 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


mercies  unspeakable.  What  creed  can 
be  more  to  me  than  this,  —  that  God 
pities  me;  that  God  careth  for  me;  and 
that  to  me,  a  wanderer  from  his  presence  . 
and  love,  he  hath  sent  forth  his  Son,  "to 
bring  me  nigh  to  him  •' .''  Nigh  to  Him  ! 
shelter,  protection,  peace,  joy,  blessed- 
ness ;  all,  and  more  than  all  that  words 
can  utter,  is  summed  up  in  this.  The 
bright  realm  of  heaven  that  overwhelmed 
me  with  its  awful  majesty,  melts  and 
dissolves  in  dews  of  mercy  upon  my 
thirsting  and  fainting  nature. 

Redemption,  —  this  is  the  grandeur  of 
the  world.  All  the  majesty  of  earthly 
empires  sinks  to  nothing  before  this 
kingdom  of  God,  this  reign  of  heaven 
upon  earth  !  Oh  !  to  what  noble  end 
serve  all  our  cares  and  labors  and  stud- 
ies, but  to  build  up  this  kingdom  ;  to 
build  it  up  in  our  hearts  and  homes  ;  to 
build  it  up  in  the  city  and  the  wilder- 
ness ;  to  build  it  up  in  all  lands,  and 
among  all  nations  ?  To  what  other  end 
were  appointed  all  our  bitter  sorrows  ? 
What  means  all  the  wearying  and  wear- 
ing conflict  of  human  affairs  and  inter- 
ests ;  with  sickness,  and  pain,  and  grief, 
and  death,  to  teach  us,  what  means  it 
but  this,  —  that  out  of  the  infinite  strife 


and  eternal  vicissitude  should  rise  im- 
mortal virtue  and  purity? 

To  see  redeemed  men  walking  upon 
earth,  the  chains  fallen,  the  step  free, 
the  brow  lifted  to  heaven  ;  to  see  re- 
deemed men  changed  into  the  image  of 
God,  touched  by  his  spirit,  won  by  the 
loveliness  of  Christ,  won  to  love  and 
patience  and  self-sacrifice,  —  this  is  a 
vision  compared  with  which  all  other 
visions  fade  away. 

It  is  coming  !  it  shall  come  !  It  hath 
been,  and  shall  be  yet  more.  Yes  ;  the 
world  shall  yet  more  bear  the  impress 
of  this  glorious  work !  "  An  highway 
shall  there  be  upon  it,  and  a  way  ;  and 
it  shall  be  called  a  way  of  holiness;  the 
unclean  shall  not  pass  over  it ;  but  it 
shall  be  for  those  ;  the  wayfaring  men, 
though  fools,  shall  not  err  therein.  No 
lion  shall  be  there,  nor  any  ravenous 
beast  shall  go  up  thereon  ;  it  shall  not 
be  found  there  ;  but  the  redeemed  shall 
walk  there.  And  the  ransomed  of  the 
Lord  shall  return  and  come  to  Zion,  with 
songs  and  everlasting  joy  upon  their 
heads ;  they  shall  obtain  joy  and  glad- 
ness, and  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee 
away." 


ON  THE  CALVINISTIC  VIEWS  OF  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY. 


This  is  the  very  book  which  we  have 
long  wished  to  see.  For  we  have  long 
been  convinced  that  there  is  a  question 
connected  with  the  Calvinistic  contro- 
versy, more  important  than  all  others, 
going  beyond  all  others,  and  that  is 
nothing  less  than  a  question  about  the 
essential  principles  and  grounds  of  right 
and  wrong.  What  is  rectitude,  and 
how  are  we  to  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
of  it  ?  These  are  the  questions  which 
Dr.  Wardlaw  has  undertaken  to  discuss 

*  Review  of  "Christian  Ethics,  or  Moral  Philoso- 
phy on  the  Principle  of  Divine  Revelation.  By  Ralph 
Wardlaw,  D.  D.  With  an  Introductory  Essay,  by 
Leonard  Woods,  D.  D." 


in  the  work  before  us.  And  what  now, 
do  our  readers  suppose,  is  the  legitimate 
theory  of  Calvinism  on  the  subject  of 
morals  ?  Why,  truly,  that  human  nature, 
which  has  always  been  supposed  to  be 
both  the  subject  of  moral  philosopiiy 
and  its  investigator,  is  neither  one  nor 
the  other;  that  it  neither  furnishes  tiie 
facts  on  which  a  just  theory  of  morals 
can  be  built  up,  nor  contains  the  power 
that  is  able  to  discriminate  among  any 
facts,  so  as  to  arrive  at  a  safe  conclu- 
sion. Human  nature  is  totally  depraved, 
therefore  it  furnishes  no  data  for  a  moral 
theory.  Its  very  conscience  is  pervert- 
ed ;  the  very  labors  of  conscience  in  its 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


503 


own  appropriate  sphere,  that  of  moral 
philosophy,  have  resulted  in  error  ;  and 
in  such  serious,  wide-spread,  universal 
error,  that  it  cannot  be  trusted  as  a 
principle  to  decide  between  right  and 
wrong.  "  It  is  preposterous,"  says  Dr. 
Wardlaw,  ''to  commit  the  decision  of 
an  inquir)- respecting  the  true  principles 
of  moral  rectitude,  to  a  creature  subject 
to  all  the  blinding  and  perverting  influ- 
ences of  moral  pravity." 

Such  is,  substantially,  Dr.  VVardlaw's 
theory,  though  his  adherence  to  it  is  not 
quite  so  unflinching  as  we  had  expected 
to  find  it.  He  admits  that  there  is  some 
dim  light  of  conscience  left  in  human 
nature.  But  that  light  is  put  out  by  a 
single  consideration,  to  which  we  beg 
our  readers  to  attend  with  us  for  one 
moment.  The  Calvinistic  doctrine,  be 
it  remembered,  is,  that  mankind  are  to- 
tally depraved  ;  that  human  nature,  in 
its  ordinary  state  and  in  the  mass  of 
mankind,  is  not  a  mixture  of  good  and 
evil,  but  that  it  is  unmixed  evil ;  that 
there  is  )iothi?ii^  truly  good  in  it.  Now 
it  is  notorious  that  men  in  all  ages  and 
among  all  nations  have  been  accustomed 
to  make  what  they  have  called  moral 
discrimmations  ;  to  pronounce  some 
things  bad,  and  other  things  good,  in 
the  character  of  their  fellow-beings.  But 
this  judgment,  according  to  the  Calvin- 
istic theory,  has  been  a  total  mistake. 
Conscience  has  been  as  much  depraved 
as  any  other  part  of  human  nature.  It 
has  been  worse  than  an  unsafe  or  de- 
fective guide  ;  it  has  been  the  grand 
arch-deceiver  of  the  world,  leading  man- 
kind in  all  ages  to  suppose  there  was 
good  where  there  really  was  no  good 
whatsoever. 

It  will  be  perceived  that  we  use  the 
word  conscience  here  for  the  faculty  of 
moral  discrimination  in  general,  though 
that  word  is  usually  restricted  in  its 
application,  so  as  to  designate  only  the 
judgments  we  pronounce  upon  ourselves. 
The  power,  however,  which  morally  dis- 
criminates good  from  evil,  must.be  es- 
sentially the  same,  whether  it  is  applied 
to   ourselves   or   others.     But  now,  we 


repeat,  according  to  the  Calvinistic  the- 
ory, this  moral  discrimination  is  utterly 
at  fault ;  it  is  entitled  to  no  confidence 
whatever.  Its  judgment  about  right 
and  wrong  is  a  mere  pretence,  a  mere 
farce.  Its  very  use  of  terms,  its  very 
nomenclature,  has  been  a  succession 
of  blunders  from  the  creation  of  tlie 
world  to  this  day.  There  is  really  no 
such  thing  as  right  and  wrong  among 
the  t/iass  of  mankind.  All  is  wrong, 
and  nothing  but  wrong.  The  moral,  the 
religious,  complexion  of  human  nature  is 
nothing  but  black  ;  and  the  eye  that 
has  fancied  it  saw  white  spots  and  va- 
rious intermingled  hues  has  been  totally 
deceived.  And  after  ten  thousands  and 
millions  of  such  mistakes,  that  eye,  the 
moral  eye  in  man,  is  not  to  be  trusted 
at  all. 

Now  moral  philosophy,  in  utter  dis- 
regard of  these  remonstrances  of  Cal- 
vinism, has  built  up  its  theories  on  the 
basis  of  human  nature.  It  has  taken, 
analyzed,  and  classified  the  facts  of  hu- 
man nature,  —  that  is  to  say,  human 
feelings,  passions,  desires  ;  it  has  pro- 
nounced some  things  in  human  nature 
to  be  right ;  it  has  held  itself  competent 
to  decide  which  are  right  and  which  are 
wrong,  and  thus  to  establish  principles 
of  duty  to  show  that  some  things  ought 
to  be  done,  and  others  avoided.  But 
here  Calvinism  and  moral  philosophy 
are  at  issue;  and  it  is  the  object  of  the 
first  part  of  Dr.  Wardlaw's  work  to 
plead  the  cause  of  Calvinism  against 
all  the  systems  of  moral  philosophy  in 
the  world.  He  passes  them  in  review, — 
the  systems  of  Aristotle,  of  Zeno,  and 
of  Epicurus,  and  the  modern  ones  of 
Cudworth,  Adam  Smith,  Dr.  Hutclie- 
son,  Dr.  Brown,  Hume,  and  Bishop 
Butler  ;  and,  because  they  have  not 
recognized  the  Calvinistic  view  of  hu- 
man depravity,  he  pronounces  them 
essentially  defective  and  wrong. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  Dr. 
Wardlaw  through  the  several  parts  of 
his  work.  We  are  at  too  great  a  dis- 
tance from  him  to  make  it  a  question 
of  much  interest  here,  whether  or  not 


504 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


he  has  done  himself  credit  as  a  philos- 
opher or  as  a  reasoner.  Our  chief  busi- 
ness is  with  the  main  question,  Whether 
the  doctrine  of  total  depravity  is  to  over- 
throw all  our  moral  theories,  and  to  un- 
settle the  very  grounds  of  moral  truth. 
But  we  cannot  help  observing  that  Dr. 
Wardlaw  seems  to  us  to  have  been 
neither  steady  to  his  main  point,  nor 
just  to  the  systems  he  attacks,  nor  very 
discriminating  with  regard  to  those 
claims  of  the  Bible  which  he  under- 
takes to  set  up.  If  human  nature  be 
totally  depraved,  then  indeed  the  moral 
theories  are  all  wrong,  totally  wrong. 
This  main  point  and  the  main  infer- 
ence the  writer  should  have  steadfastly 
adhered  to,  or,  as  it  seems  to  us,  he 
should  not  have  written  this  book,  — 
that  is  to  say,  he  should  not  have  writ- 
ten a  book  of  such  violent  and  wholesale 
attacks  upon  all  former  moral  writers ; 
because  the  moment  he  quits  the  posi- 
tions above  stated,  he  steps  upon  the 
very  ground  which  these  writers  them- 
selves occupy.  In  consistency,  there 
should  be  none  of  these  qualifying 
phrases,  "in  a  measure,"  "to  a  certain 
degree,"  so  freely  scattered  up  and  down 
in  this  book,  none  of  these  loopholes  of 
escape  from  the  theory,  none  of  these 
old  Calvinistic  practices  of  asserting 
much  in  the  body  of  the  discourse  and 
denying  it  in  the  "improvement;"  since 
these  qualifications,  or  any  qualifica- 
tions, instantly  carry  the  Calvinistic  phi- 
losopher upon  the  very  ground  which  he 
opposes  and  contemns.  For  all  moral 
philosophers  have  admitted  that  there 
is  much  wrong  and  evil  in  human  na- 
ture, and  much  liability  to  error  in  the 
human  conscience  ;  else  why  should 
they  labor  to  set  up  a  true  and  right 
standard  ?  And  herein  it  is  that  we 
think  Dr.  Wardlaw  has  not  been  just 
to  them.  He  treats  them  as  if  he  sup- 
posed they  had  taken  the  whole  of 
human  nature  in  its  present  condition 
as  their  standard,  —  than  which  noth- 
ing can  be  more  untrue.  As  an  illus- 
tration of  his  meaning,  he  supposes  a 
chemist  to  take  and  analyze  a  portion 


of  polluted  Thames  water,  and  to  pre- 
sent us  the  result  as  an  account  of  the 
pure  element.  But  see  how  unfair  this 
is,  and  how  fatal,  too,  to  the  Doctor's 
theory.  The  polluted  stream,  of  course, 
is  human  nature.  But  does  the  moral 
chemist  present  the  whole  of  his  analy- 
sis as  an  account  of  moral  purity  ? 
Does  he  incorporate  all  the  vileness  of 
the  human  affections  into  his  theory  of 
moral  rectitude  ?  Nothing  can  be  far- 
ther from  the  trutii.  But,  moreover, 
cannot  the  chemist  find  pure  water  in 
the  most  tainted  stream  .?  When  he 
has  analyzed  a  portion  taken  from  the 
"  sluggish  river "  into  its  component 
parts,  can  he  not  present  to  us  pure 
water,  and  tell  us  what  it  is  .-^  This  is 
what  the  moral  examiner  has  done. 
With  regard  to  the  use  of  the  Scrip- 
tures in  the  formation  of  a  just  moral 
philosophy,  nothing  would  delight  us 
more  than  to  see  them  fairly  and  under- 
standingly  applied  to  that  purpose.  That 
they  have  been  too  much  neglected  by 
philosophers  is  certain  ;  that  they  will 
contribute  more  than  they  have  done  to 
the  establishment  of  more  and  more  cor- 
rect moral  theories  we  have  no  doubt, 
and  we  are  glad  to  have  the  public  at- 
tention directed  to  this  point  ;  but  to 
assert  that  the  Scriptures  are  the  source 
of  our  original  moral  conceptions,  or  of 
all  our  moral  conceptions,  is  attempting 
to  do  them  honor,  as  we  hope  to  show, 
not  only  in  defiance  of  reason,  but  in 
disregard  of  their  own  implied  and  ob- 
vious character. 

After  all,  we  cannot  help  asking,  What 
truth,  what  one  truth,  has  Dr,  Wardlaw 
added  to  the  theory  of  morals  ?  What 
one  discovery  has  he  made  in  this  new 
field  of  inquiry  ?  Not  one.  The  world 
has  heard  of  no  new  discovery.  This 
single  fact  shows  how  baseless  are  the 
assumptions  and  how  groundless  are 
the  sweeping  complaints  against  moral 
philosophy  with  which  this  book  sets 
out. 

But  let  us  proceed  to  some  consider- 
ation of  the  Calvinistic  theory  of  moral 
philosophy,  or,  more    exactly  perhaps, 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS    OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


505 


the  Calvinistic  rejection  of  all  former 
theories. 

And,  in  the  first  place,  let  us  consider 
a  little  more  fully  the  ground  which  Cal- 
vinism occupies.  Its  position  with  re- 
gard to  moral  philosophy  Dr.  Wardlaw 
has  stated,  h.  is  not,  however,  with 
philosophy  alone  that  Calvinism  is  at 
war,  but  with  all  literature,  with  all  the 
histories  in  the  world,  with  almost  all 
the  memoirs  that  ever  were  written,  and 
not  less  with  the  common  sense,  com- 
mon conversation,  and  common  con- 
duct of  all  mankind  ;  for  what  is  the 
tenor  of  all  the  literature,  the  poetry, 
the  fiction,  the  history,  the  biography, 
in  the  world  ?  What  are  the  written, 
the  recorded  thoughts  of  mankind,  as 
they  bear  upon  the  point  before  us  ? 
What  z's  all  this,  that  is  portrayed  by  the 
hands  of  unregenerate  men,  and  that 
draws  its  delineations  from  the  charac- 
ters of  unregenerate  men  .''  Look  into 
these  works,  and  you  find  them  filled 
with  moral  pictures,  —  pictures  of  good 
and  evil ;  here,  indignation  at  vice  flashes 
across  the  page  of  genius  ;  there,  the 
pencil,  dipped  in  the  dyes  of  heaven,  por- 
trays the  glowing  form  of  moral  beauty 
and  commends  it  to  the  admiration  of 
the  world.     Here, 

"  the  historic  muse. 
Proud  of  her  treasure,  marches  down  with  it 
To  latest  time ;  " 

and  there,  satire  throws  its  withering 
glance  upon  fraud  and  meanness.  Here, 
the  orator  thunders  out  his  anathema 
against  the  tyrant  and  oppressor  ;  and 
there,  friendship  raises  its  monument  to 
departed  goodness,  pours  out  its  tears 
in  eulogy  and  song,  and  bequeaths  un- 
equalled virtue  to  undying  remembrance. 
"Such  beneficence,"  is  its  language, 
"  such  beneficence,  such  excellence,  such 
loveliness,  —  when  shall  we  look  upon 
their  like  again  ?  "  Well,  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take 1  —  concerning  the  mass  of  mankind, 
it  is  all  a  mistake  !  There  is  no  ground 
in  human  nature  for  these  moral  discrim- 
inations. All  is  wrong,  all  is  evil  ;  and 
what  is  called  good  is  only  the  sem- 
blance of  good.     So  ends  the  Calvinist's 


catechism.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
conversation  and  conduct  of  men.  Their 
conduct,  much  of  it,  expresses  confidence 
and  love  to  one  another.  The  manners 
of  life  all  over  the  world,  with  however 
much  of  coldness  and  distrust,  are  never- 
theless moulded  by  these  sentiments  of 
the  heart  ;  the  approving  smile,  the  glow- 
ing countenance,  the  outstretched  hand, 
the  fond  embrace,  are  testifying  all  over 
the  world  that  there  are  qualities  to  be 
admired,  that  there  are  virtues  to  be 
loved.  Conversation,  too,  is  continually 
bearing  witness  to  the  same  convictions. 
Men  are  everywhere  speaking  of  one 
and  another  whom  they  know,  as  good, 
as  excellent,  as  acting  worthily  and 
nobly.  They  are  addressing  to  one 
another,  in  a  thousand  indirect  forms  of 
language,  the  same  fervent  and  kind 
sentiments.  Conversation,  language,  is 
everywhere  spreading,  in  the  breath  of 
speech,  its  invisible  network,  and  weav- 
ing the  ties  of  affection  that  hold  society 
together.  And  the  very  foundation  of 
all  this  is  confidence  in  human  worth. 
But  again  we  say,  that  Calvinism  holds 
all  this  to  be  an  entire  mistake.  And 
there  is  nothing  on  earth  that  is  allowed 
to  stand  against  this  blighting  judgment. 
You  are  surrounded,  perhaps,  with  chil- 
dren. Their  early  affections,  like  their 
bright  faces,  are  putting  on  a  thousand 
quick  and  fluctuating  and  beautiful  ex- 
pressions. You  are  charmed  and  won 
by  their  infantile  simplicity  and  exquisite 
tenderness.  Their  very  voices  seem  to 
be  softened  and  attuned  by  the  gentle- 
ness of  their  hearts.  "  Beautiful  ones 
of  earth  !  "  you  are  ready  to  exclaim, 
'•  almost  meet  for  heaven  !  "  And  the 
Saviour's  voice  answers  back,  "  Of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  "  It  is  all  a 
mistake  !  says  the  system  we  are  con- 
sidering. In  these  children  there  is 
nothing  really  good  ;  in  the  sight  of  the 
unerring  Judge  of  right  and  wrong,  710th- 
ing good !  Your  imagination  may  please 
itself  with  fancying  that  these  are  little 
cherubs  ;  but  the  truth  is  —  pardon  the 
phrase  for  the  sake  of  the  truth  —  the 
truth  is,  that  they  are  only  little  devils 


5o6 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


in  the  guise  of  cherubs  !  Because  if 
there  were  one  particle  of  real  holiness 
in  these  beings,  if  the  only  unerring  eye 
saw  anything  really  good  in  them,  then 
they  would  be  something  better  than 
totally  depraved  ;  they  would  be  Chris- 
tians, says  this  system,  —  so  say  not  we, 
—  they  would  be  Christians,  and  in  the 
way  to  heaven  ;  but  there  is  not  in  them 
one  particle  of  real  excellence  ! 

But  we  must  stop  here,  one  moment, 
to  consider  and  to  answer  for  the  thou- 
sandth time,  we  suppose,  the  only  ob- 
jection that  is  ever  offered  to  this  con- 
clusion. "Not  one  particle  of  holiness," 
the  defender  of  this  system  may  say, 
"  but  still  there  is  much  that  is  amiable 
and  excellent  in  human  nature ;  and 
much  that  is  so  pleasing  that  it  almost 
persuades  us  to  call  it  real  virtue."  If 
we  were  dealing  with  a  professed  meta- 
physician or  moral  philosopher,  we  con- 
fess that  we  should  hardly  know  how  to 
suppress  our  indignation  at  such  trifling 
with  words  as  appears  in  this  objection. 
What  is  it  that  is  in  controversy  here  ? 
It  is  moral  excellence.  The  question  is 
about  moral  excellence,  and  about  noth- 
ing else.  It  is  not  about  what  may  chance 
to  be  pleasing  and  agreeable  to  a  totally 
depraved  nature,  but  about  what  is  really 
good,  —  good  according  to  the  only  un- 
erring standard.  But  what  is  the  high- 
est and  most  unerring  standard  ?  It  is 
the  judgment  of  God.  Is  there  any- 
thing morally  good  in  human  nature,  ac- 
cording to  that  standard  ?  The  Calvin- 
ist's  answer  is.  Nothing.  Here  end  all 
questions,  then.  To  say  that  there  is 
something  pleasing  in  human  nature,  as 
there  is  in  animals,  the  horse  and  the 
dog,  is  nothing  to  the  purpose.  To  say 
that  there  are  semblances  of  goodness  in 
men,  is  worse  than  saying  nothing  to  the 
purpose.  It  is  gravely  putting  forward 
an  argument  wliich  can  answer  no  end 
but  that  of  self-deception.  And,  if  we 
are  so  deceived,  we  ought  to  reform  our 
language  ;  we  ought  not  to  say  that 
these  semblances  are  excellent  and  lovely; 
we  ought  to  suspect  and  dread  and  dis- 
like  them    more  than  open  vices  ;    for 


they  are  more  dangerous  ;  they  beguile 
us  of  all  moral  discrimination  ;  they  cor- 
rupt the  fountain  of  truth  in  us.  And, 
indeed,  there  are  semblances  of  good 
which  are  to  be  thus  regarded  ;  but  the 
evasion  we  are  considering,  instead  of 
exposing,  helps  to  shield*  them.  If  the 
Calvinist  only  maintained  that  the  mass 
of  mankind  is  not  prevailingly,  habitually 
good,  there  would  be  no  controversy.  If 
he  only  said  that  mankind  are  sadly  de- 
praved, that  the  highest  principle  of 
virtue,  the  fixed  love  of  God,  is  wanting 
in  multitudes,  we  should  have  no  dispute 
with  him.  But  he  says  that  there  is  noth- 
ing good  ;  not  any,  the  least  thing  that  is 
pure  and  holy  ;  nothing,  that  by  any  ad- 
dition or  increase,  can  become  holiness  ; 
not  one  solitary,  momentary  breathing 
of  real  virtue  ever  to  be  found  in  human 
nature.  Now,  for  Calvinists  to  admit 
that  there  is  nevertheless  something 
pleasing,  grateful,  charming  in  human 
nature  is  all  mockery.  It  is  nothing 
to  the  purpose.  We  might  as  well  be 
told  that  the  human  y^rw  is  sometimes 
beautiful,  the  countenance  lovely,  the 
movement  graceful.  It  is  nothing  to  the 
purpose.  The  question  now  is,  not  a 
question  of  taste,  but  of  theology.  It  is 
a  question  about  the  object,  not  of  the 
imagination,  but  of  the  conscience,  the 
moral  nature.  Wiien  men  admire,  praise, 
love  the  virtues  of  others,  they  suppose 
they  admire,  praise,  love  what  is  really, 
morally  excellent.  Do  they  so  ?  ■  Cal- 
vinism avers  that  they  do  not.  If  it  ad- 
mitted that  there  was  anything  morally 
pure  and  good  in  what  men  love,  that 
there  was  in  human  nature  the  least  pos- 
sible degree  of  what  is  pleasing  to  God 
and  conformable  to  his  law,  the  very 
basis  of  Calvinism  would  be  taken  away, 
and  all  its  superstructure  would  fall  to 
the  ground.  But  it  denies  this,  and 
therefore,  we  repeat,  it  stands  confronted 
with  the  judgment  of  the  whole  world. 

We  return  to  this  point,  for  we  wish 
that  this  position  of  the  system  may  be 
understood;  we  think  it  will  be  found  to 
yield  us  some  inference. 

This,  then,  is  the  position  of  the  sys- 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS   OF   MORAL   THILOSOPHY. 


507 


tern  and  of  its  defenders.  A  few  per- 
sons, a  few  individuals  in  a  community, 
a  few  thousands  in  the  world,  declare 
that  all  the  rest  are  totally  depraved,  that 
there  is  no  foundation  in  their  nature  for 
a  system  of  moral  philosophy  ;  no  truth 
in  the  moral  part  of  their  literature; 
nothing  but  error  in  their  conversation, 
so  far  as  it  touches  the  moral  qualities 
of  those  around  them.  All  the  rest  of 
the  world  denies  it ;  not  in  form,  per- 
haps, but  in  fact  denies  it.  That  is  to 
say,  they  speak  about  virtue,  right,  good- 
ness, as  realities,  and  not  fictions  and 
delusions.  They  say  habitually,  and 
they  say  it  not  of  a  few  elected  persons, 
but  of  many  beside  them,  "  Such  men 
are  good  men,  such  actions  are  right, 
such  qualities  are  excellent  and  lovely." 
"  No,"  say  the  few,  "  these  things  are 
not  good,  nor  right,  nor  excellent."  And 
when  they  say  this,  they  oppose  the 
judgment  of  the  whole  human  race  !  Ask 
any  man  whether  he  does  not  love  a 
kind  action  or  a  merciful  deed  ;  whether 
his  feelings  do  not  sometimes  kindle  at 
the  thought  of  a  generous  benefactor,  of 
an  excellent  parent,  of  a  good  and  worthy 
man  ;  and  he  will,  with  all  his  heart, 
answer  that  they  do.  He  would  think 
himself  a  brute  and  a  monster,  if  they 
did  not.  In  fact,  the  language,  the  lit- 
erature, —  we  repeat,  —  the  poetry,  the 
history  of  all  the  world,  is  full  of  tes- 
timonies to  the  beauty  of  goodness. 
''  Nevertheless,"  say  the  few,  "  there  is 
no  real  love  of  goodness  in  the  world  ; 
none  but  in  the  hearts  of  the  regenerate. 
With  the  e.xception  of  what  is  good  in 
them,  there  is  no  real  goodness  in  the 
world.  What  men  call  goodness,  is  not 
goodness  ;  and  if  it  were,  they  would  not 
love,  but  hate  it.  God,  the  infinitely 
good  and  kind  Being,  they  perfectly 
hate."  And  when  the  few  say  this,  we 
repeat,  they  set  themselves  against  the 
judgment  of  the  whole  world  ! 

It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  Calvinism 
should  find  it  difiicult  to  sustain  itself 
in  the  public  mind.  It  is  not  strange 
that  its  tenets,  according  to  the  expe- 
rience  and  confession  of  all    its  advo- 


cates, should  show  a  tendency,  the  mo- 
ment they  are  let  alone  and  left  to 
themselves,  to  sink  down  out  of  the 
public  mind,  and  to  be  lost  in  the  mass 
of  opinions,  so  actively  conflicting  with 
them.  This  tendency  is  well  under- 
stood and  universally  acknowledged. 
There  never  was  a  city,  nor  village,  nor 
hamlet  in  the  world,  where  this  system 
has  been  preached,  that  it  did  not  sooner 
or  later  array  against  itself  an  intelli- 
gent opposition.  And  there  never  was 
a  congregation  on  earth,  where  this  sys- 
tem has  once  been  preached,  and  has, 
at  length,  ceased  to  be  urged,  so  that 
men's  minds  were  left  to  take  the  natu- 
ral course  of  human  opinion,  that  they 
did  not  give  up,  one  after  another,  every 
point  of  it. 

Nor,  in  taking  the  popular  side  in 
this  controversy,  do  we  wish  to  say  any- 
thing to  catch  the  popular  ear,  or  to 
flatter  the  popular  passions  and  preju- 
dices. We  admit,  we  more  than  admit, 
we  insist,  that  there  is  much,  very  much, 
that  is  wrong  in  the  world  ;  mot-e  that  is 
wrong  than  right,  more  that  is  evil  than 
good.  We  are  sensible  that  there  is 
much  that  is  wrong  in  the  history  and 
current  literature  and  moral  philosophy 
of  the  world.  They  do  not  conform 
sufficiently  to  the  spirit  of  that  better 
Teacher,  to  whom  it  is  our  privilege 
and  happiness  to  listen.  We  are  quite 
aware  that  there  is  much  in  the  prevail- 
ing moral  sentiments  of  mankind  that 
needs  to  be  reformed.  We  need  not 
to  be  told  that  there  are  error  and  evil 
and  blindness  in  the  minds  of  all  human 
beings.  We  can  go  far  with  the  ^al- 
vinists  in  delineations  of  this  nature. 
But  there  is  a  point  at  which  we  must 
stop.  We  cannot  admit  that  there  is 
nothing  good  in  human  nature,  no  first 
principle  to  be  built  upon,  no  spark  to 
be  kindled  ;  no  foundation  for  moral 
philosophy,  no  foundation  for  moral 
hope. 

But  the  point  where  definition  and 
acquiescence  stop  would  properly  be 
the  beginning  of  argument.  And  we 
must  beg  our  readers  to  (jive  us  a  little 


5o8 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS    OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


attention,  if  not  to  argument  at  length, 
to  a  statement  of  what  we  conceive  the 
argument  on  this  subject  would  be. 
What,  then,  is  rectitude,  holiness,  or 
virtue?  (the  name  of  the  quality  is  im- 
material) —  what  is  its  origin  ?  —  what 
makes  it  to  be  to  us  the  quality  that 
it  is  ? 

This,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  is 
the  material  question.  For  it  is  only  by 
setting  up  a  peculiar  definition  of  religion 
or  rectitude,  and  then  maintaining  that 
this  peculiar  quality  is  the  product  of  a 
special  divine  influence,  that  they  are 
able  to  deny  the  possession  of  every, 
the  least  degree  of  rectitude  to  the  rest 
of  mankind.  From  the  same  source, 
too,  springs  all  exclusion,  alienation, 
division. 

What,  then,  is  moral  rectitude  ?  We 
suppose  that  if  we  were  to  write  down 
for  answer  the  words,  —  "justice,  love, 
pity,  disinterestedness,  holiness,  piety, 
virtue,"  —  the  justness  of  the  reply 
would  be  indisputable.  But  what  do 
these  words  mean  ?  The  answer  is, 
that  the  universal  human  conscience 
must  interpret  their  meaning.  The 
idea  of  rectitude  cannot  be  defined  but 
by  using  these  or  the  like  words.  That 
is  to  say,  strictly  speaking,  it  cannot  be 
defined  at  all.  Reference  must  be  made 
simply  to  the  human  heart.  And  if  it 
be  asked  again,  vi\\?Lt  gives  birth  to  this 
idea  of  rectitude  or  holiness,  the  answer 
must  be,  it  is  the  constitution  of  our 
nature;  it  is  God.  This,  in  substance, 
is  the  whole  amount  of  all  that  we  know 
about  rectitude ;  of  all  that  anybody 
knoftvs  about  it;  and  it  proves  beyond 
all  doubt  that  the  Calvinistic  assump- 
tion is  forbidden  by  the  universal  con- 
science  and   conviction. 

To  illustrate  this,  suppose  a  class  of 
theorists  were  to  arise,  and  to  call  in 
question  all  the  received  ideas  of  phi- 
losophy, science,  and  taste.  Suppose 
they  should  say,  "  f^^have  another  idea 
of  truth,  of  nature,  of  beauty  ;  we  re- 
pudiate and  reject  not  only  all  your 
theorie.s,  but  all  your  fundamental  ideas 
on  these    subjects."      What   would   be 


the  answer.''  "You  cannot;"  all  men 
would  say  —  "  you  cannot,  unless  you 
maintain  that  the  universal  human  rea- 
son is  irrational,  and  that  all  received 
truth  is  falsehood.  You  cannot,  unless 
you  claim  an  illumination  from  Heaven 
in  matters  of  philosophy,  science,  and 
taste,  that  distinguishes  you  from  all 
other  men.  And  if  you  do,  we  know 
of  no  clearer  definition  of  fanaticism 
than  your  opinion  presents." 

In  fact,  if  any  one  will  tell  us  why 
certain  melodies,  colors,  and  forms,  or 
why  certain  axioms  and  "  first  truths  " 
are  agreeable  to  us,  we  will  tell  him 
why  certain  moral  qualities  are  so.  The 
only  answer  is,  that  our  nature  is  consti- 
tuted to  find  them  so.  //  /.$•  so;  and 
tliat  is  all  we  know, —  all  we  can  say 
about  it.  Philosophy  has  been  always 
asking  for  this  why j  but  it  is  in  vain. 
We  once  thought  ourselves  that  we  had 
pushed  definition  to  its  ultimate  point, 
and  come  to  the  truth  in  its  last  analysis, 
by  saying  that  the  primary  idea  of  recti- 
tude is  love,  benevolence,  the  desire  of 
pro7noting  happiness ;  but  we  see  that 
even  this  fails.  Thztswe  had  construed 
the  declaration  that  ''  God  is  love  ;  "  and 
we  had  said,  —  this  embraces  all  ;  this 
sounds  the  depths  of  all  rectitude.  But 
suppose  that  God  were  a  being  who  had 
created  a  universe  of  mere  animal,  of 
mere  insect  happiness  ;  and  would  this 
satisfy  our  idea  of  his  perfection  ?  No ; 
this  would  be  mere  sympathy  with 
mere  happiness  ;  and  the  noblest  idea 
would  be  left  out.  That  is  the  moral 
idea,  the  idea  of  rectitude  ;  and  for 
the  understanding  of  this  we  can  ap- 
peal to  no  definition,  to  no  reasoning, 
but  only  to  the  constitution  of  our  na- 
ture. 

It  is  in  this  attempt  at  definition  that 
all  the  moral  theories  have  failed  ;  and 
yet  it  is  well  worth  observing  how  the}) 
have  all  involved  this  idea,  though 
they  have  been  seeking  something  else. 
Let  us  look  at  them  a  moment  in  this 
view. 

One  preliminary  observation  will  be 
found  of  special  importance   here.     It 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


509 


may  have  been  observed  by  the  reader 
tliat  we  have  been  careful  to  speak  of 
nothing  but  the  feeling,  the  sentiment 
of  rectitude,  as  it  exists  in  the  mind. 
Now  the  observation  is,  that  in  this  in- 
quiry it  is  the  feehng  or  perception  alone 
with  which  we  have  anything  to  do  ; 
that  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  ex- 
ternal action.  The  outward  action  is 
nothing  but  the  sign  of  the  inward  per- 
ception. It  is,  we  repeat,  with  the  per- 
ception only  that  we  have  anything  to 
do,  when  inquiring  after  the  real  ori- 
gin and  essential  nature  of  virtue.  If 
this  distinction  had  been  sufificiently 
considered,  it  would  have  cut  off,  as 
we  think,  many  a  wearisome  and 
wordy  disquisition  upon  the  grounds 
of  morality. 

But  to  the  definitions  and  grounds  of 
morality.  Aristotle's  definition,  that 
virtue  is  the  mean  bctweeti  extremes, 
can  scarcely  be  considered  as  rising  to 
the  dignity  of  a  theory.  It  was  a  just 
ma.xim  certainly,  and  implied,  we  may 
add,  that  the  elementary  principles  of 
rectitude  lay  in  the  human  heart,  though 
they  were  liable  continually  to  fall  into 
one  or  the  other  of  the  extremes  of  apa- 
thy and  passion,  of  inaction  or  violence. 
Zeno's  rule  of  living  according  to  nature, 
that  is,  the  nature  of  the  soul,  implied,  of 
course,  that  there  is  a  principle  or  per- 
ception of  rectitude  in  the  soul,  which  is 
the  teacher  of  virtue.  The  doctrine  of 
Epicurus,  that  happiness  is  the  end  of 
our  being,  and  that  all  virtue  lies  in  the 
p7irs7iit  of  happiness,  was  connected  by 
this  philosopher  with  the  admission  that, 
in  order  to  obtain  this  happiness,  one 
must  live  virtuously  ;  an  admission  that 
at  once  introduces  a  new  element  into 
his  theory,  an  element  fatal  to  his  theory 
as  a  theory,  but  the  very  element  we  con- 
tend for,  —  that  is  to  say,  an  independent 
perception  of  virtue.  The  fitness  of 
things,  of  Cudworth,  Clarke,  and  Price, 
taught  that  "the  right  and  wrong  of 
actions  are  to  be  regarded  as  ranking 
amongst  necessary  or  first  truths,  which 
are  discerned  by  the  mind  independently 
of   all   reasoning   and   evidence."     The 


speculations  of  those  acute  theologians, 
which  threw  a  world  of  learned  dust  and 
scholastic  mist  over  this  first  truth,  still 
laid  this  truth  in  the  heart  of  their  sys- 
tem ;  namely,  that  right  and  wrong  are 
things  self-evident,  necessary,  and  im- 
mutable as  the  axioms  of  the  mathemat- 
ics. The  celebrated  "  theory  of  moral 
sentiments,"  by  Adam  Smith,  the  theory 
of  moral  sympathies,  that  is  to  say,  in- 
volved the  same  original  and  indepen- 
dent principle.  ''  I  do  wrong.  I  con- 
sider others  as  looking  upon  that  wrong 
action  and  condemning  it.  I  sympathize 
with  their  disapprobation ;  and  thus  I 
condemn  myself.  I  do  right  ;  and  through 
a  similar  process  I  learn  to  approve  my- 
self. It  is  sympathy,"  says  the  theory, 
in  both  cases.  But  why  do  we  feel  so 
differently  in  the  different  cases  .-'  Why 
does  the  right  excite  one  kind  of  emo- 
tion, and  the  wrong  another  ?  Why  did 
they,  in  the  bosoms  of  the  first  men 
that  experienced  these  emotions  ?  The 
theory  does  not  tell  us.  And  the  only 
answer  is,  that  it  is  the  constitution  of 
our  nature  that  makes  the  difference. 
In  the  same  manner  do  we  think  that 
there  is  involved  in  the  Utilitarian  theory 
a  secret  reason  and  ground  of  morals, 
which  the  Utilitarian  himself  does  not 
recognize.  Why  is  an  action  right? 
Because  it  tends  to  promote  the  general 
happiness.  But  why  is  it  right  to  pro- 
mote the  general  happiness?  Is  it  be- 
cause happiness  is  a  good?  Yes,  it  is  a 
good  ;  but  if  bare  tendency  to  promote 
this  good  is  the  only  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered, then  a  shower  of  rain  must  be 
a  very  virtuous  thing.  "  No,"  it  will  be 
replied,  "a  being  only  can  be  virtuous. 
There  must  be  an  intent  to  do  good;  a 
7noral  intent, — -not  an  intellectual  con- 
triving of  the  matter  only  ;  a  love,  —  and 
not  a  love  of  happiness  merely,  our  own, 
for  instance,  but  a  love  of  others'  happi- 
ness." Here  then,  we  think,  is  a  secret 
truth  embraced,  but  not  recognized,  in 
the  Utilitarian's  category.  A  world  of 
beings  may  easily  be  conceived  of,  pro- 
moting each  other's  happiness  in  the 
highest  degree,  and  yet  having  no  such 


510 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


moral  intent,  not  virtuous.  The  world 
of  animals  is  such  a  world.* 

If  we  have  succeeded  in  establishing 
the  position  that  the  ideas  of  moral 
excellence  are  constitutional  and  belong 
essentially  to  human  nature,  we  are  pre- 
pared to  advance  another  step  in  our 
survey  of  the  ethics  of  Calvinism.  For 
we  maintain  that  the  idea  of  rectitude 
implies,  in  however  small  a  degree,  the 
feeling  of  rectitude.  The  Calvinist, 
indeed,  admits  that  there  is  a  con- 
science in  all  men,  and  we  maintain 
that  this  admission  is  inconsistent  with 
the  alleged  universal  and  total  depravity 
of  men.  We  expect  that,  in  answer 
to  this,  it  will  be  said  at  once,  that 
although  all  men  have  a  conscience  and 
approve  of  what  is  good,  that  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  loving  it. 

Undoubtedly  it  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  loving  it  habitually,  or  with 
predominant  affection.  But  the  ques- 
tion is,  whether  the  approbation  of 
goodness  does  not  imply  the  previous 
existence,  not  of  a  habit,  but  of  a  feel- 


*  We  are  not  sure  that  the  theory  o{  iitility  is  yet 
set  forth  and  defended  in  a  manner  that  is  very  satis- 
factory to  its  most  intelligent  defenders.  We  have 
supposed  that  the  theory,  as  laid  down  in  the  booksj 
contented  itself  with  saying  that  an  action  is  right  be- 
cause it  tends  to  promote  happiness,  and  there  left  the 
subject,  without  going  back  to  the  ulterior  and  ulti- 
mate ground  of  rectitude  in  the  case.  There  it  seems 
to  us  to  be  left  by  Paley  and  Uentham.  They  do  not 
seem  to  have  considered  the  question,  why  t\\e.  feeling 
of  benevolence  is  right.  If,  however,  the  Utilitarian 
should  say  that  he  assumes  the  feeling  to  be  right, 
and  only  differs  from  us  in  analyzing  and  resolving  all 
virtue  into  that  feeling,  we  should  have  no  quarrel  with 
the  principle  of  his  philosophy,  though  we  should 
doubt  about  his  conclusion.  Whether  all  rectitude 
can  be  analyzed  into  benevolence,  we  doubt.  But  if 
the  Utilitarian  says  that  a  benevolent  feeling  is  right 
because  it  tends  to  promote  happiness,  if  he  says  that 
happiness  is  so  excellent  a  thing  that  it  confers  upon 
its  promoter,  virtue,  all  the  charm  which  invests  it, 
we  must  dissent  altogether.  Benevolence  makes  me 
happy,  make?  others  happy.  Is  that  the  reason  why  it 
is  beautiful  ?  It  would  be,  to  sell  virtue  in  the  market- 
place !  Happiness  is  an  excellent  thing.  But  it  is 
not  half  so  excellent  a  thing  as  virtue.  Yet  this  theo- 
ry would  make  happiness  the  nobler  thing,  since  it  is 
offered  as  the  very  ground  and  reason  why  the  virtue 
that  promotes  it  is  excellent.  We  can  admire  the 
merciful  man,  when  he  is  merciful  to  his  beast,  when 
he  takes  care  only  for  the  happiness  of  animals;  but 
can  animal  happiness  confer  upon  the  quality  of  mercy 
all  its  beauty  and  worth  ? 


ing  of  goodness.  You  behold  a  man 
doing  a  good  action.  Now,  it  is  not 
the  bare  outward  action  that  you  ad- 
mire, the  stretching  out  of  the  hand, 
and  that  hand  filled  with  gold,  but  it 
is  the  generous  feehng,  the  feeling  of 
kindness  or  pity  in  the  heart  of  the 
giver.  And  how  could  you  know  any- 
thing of  this  feeling  in  his  heart,  unless 
you  had  experienced  something  of  it 
in  your  own  heart  ?  We  do  not  see 
how  otherwise  you  could  know  it.  The 
feeling  is  not  visible.  You  do  not  with 
your  bodily  eyes  see  it.  But  you  know 
that  it  is  in  your  neighbor's  heart,  when 
he  is  sincerely  doing  a  kind  action  ;  and 
you  know  it  from  sympathy  ;  you  know 
it  because  you  feel  with  him,  or  have, 
at  some  former  time,  felt  as  he  does. 
In  short,  you  know  nothing,  and  caTi 
know  nothing,  about  any  mental  quali- 
ties and  exercises,  but  by  experience  of 
them.  And  as  you  know  what  memory 
is  only  by  remembering,  or  what  reason 
is  only  by  reasoning,  so  do  you  know 
what  a  virtuous  or  holy  exercise  in  the 
mind  is  only  by  feeling  it. 

Conscience  is  not  only  a  judgment, 
but  it  is  a  feeling.  It  is  the  same  soul 
acting,  with  greater  or  less  energy,  upon 
moral  objects.  The  difference  between 
conscience  (as  that  word  is  commonly 
used)  and  moral  feeling  is  a  difference, 
not  in  kind,  but  in  degree.  It  may  be 
a  cold  approbation  ;  it  may  be  a  warm 
emotion  ;  but  still  it  is  the  same  thing. 
We  perceive  the  difference  between 
right  and  wrong.  We  feel  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong.  Here  is  the 
same  thing.  We  feel  this  more  or  less 
strongly.  Here  is  all  the  difference. 
When  we  witness  a  simple  act  of  jus- 
tice, as  the  paying  of  a  debt,  we  simply 
approve  it.  When  we  witness  an  act 
of  great,  generous,  and  even  self-deny- 
ing benevolence,  we  warmly  approve  it. 
In  both  cases,  it  is,  in  its  nature,  the 
same  action  of  the  soul,  put  forth  with 
greater  or  less  energy. 

But,  it  may  be  said,  are  not  con- 
science and  feeling  often  directly  op- 
posed  to   each    other  ?      May   not   the 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS    OF   MORAL   rHILOSOPHY. 


511 


conscience  be  riglit  when  the  feeling  is 
wrong?  Is  not  this  especially  the  case 
in  envy  ?  A  man  approves,  it  will  be 
said,  the  excellence  that  he  hates  ;  his 
conscience  perceives  a  virtue  to  which 
his  heart  is  opposed.  Undoubtedly  the 
feeling  of  conscience  may  be  overborne 
by  other  feelings ;  but  this  does  not 
prove  it  to  be  any  the  less  a  feeling, 
and,  so  far  as  it  goes,  a  right  feeling. 
There  is  no  difficulty  here.  It  is  just 
as  filial  affection  may  be  overborne  by 
the  love  of  worldly  pleasure  or  evil 
company.  All  we  say  in  this  case  is, 
that  the  filial  affection  is  the  weaker 
feeling.  And  if  this  feeling  should 
strengthen  and  gain  the  predominance, 
we  should  not  say  that  it  was  changed 
in  its  nature,  but  only  that  it  was  in- 
creased in  power.  And  so  the  weak 
conscience,  when  it  becomes  a  strong 
principle,  when  it  becomes  the  habitual 
love  of  God  and  good  beings,  is  yet 
the  same  conscience  increased  in  vigor. 
It  has  passed  through  a  change,  not  of 
nature,  but  of  degree.  It  is  the  same 
single,  solemn  homage  of  human  nature 
to  what  is  right  and  good. 

And  let  me  add  that  the  perception 
of  moral  rectitude  needs  to  be  some- 
thing thus  simple,  clear,  and  unques- 
tionable. It  must  not  be  dependent  on 
any  abstruse  reasoning.  It  must  not 
depend  on  this  or  that  man's  peculiar 
theory.  It  must  not  require  that  men 
should  ascend  into  heaven,  or  go  be- 
yond the  sea  to  find  it  out.  It  must 
not  leave  any  one  cause  to  inquire 
anxiously  "  wherewith  he  shall  come 
before  the  Lord."  It  is  too  essential 
a  matter,  it  is  too  vital  an  interest, 
to  be  the  subject  of  any  reasonable 
doubt  as  to  what  it  is.  It  must  be  hke 
the  light  of  the  sun,  shed  clearly  and 
brightly  upon  every  human  eye.  That 
which  is  food  to  the  soul  must  be  cer- 
tain to  the  taste.  That  which  is  life 
to  the  soul  must  be  manifest  to  sim- 
ple consciousness.  That  in  which  all 
safety,  all  good,  all  happiness,  essentially 
consists,  must  be  self-evident,  indispu- 
table, universal   truth  ;   truth  without  a 


shadow,  without  a  question,  without  the 
possibility  of  a  mistake. 

We  should  be  glad  if  we  had  space 
now  to  consider  the  bearing  of  this 
discussion  upon  several  subjects  :  upon 
the  identity  of  true  morality  and  true 
religion ;  upon  the  way  of  becoming 
good  and  religious,  or  what  it  is  to 
become  so  ;  upon  the  unreasonableness 
of  intolerance  ;  and  upon  the  light  in 
which  the  guidance  of  Scripture  is  to 
be  regarded.  But  we  must  hope  that 
the  application  to  these  topics  of  what 
we  have  been  saj'ing  is  sufficiently 
obvious  ;  and  we  will  close  our  objec- 
tions to  Calvinism  by  asking  one  ques- 
tion. What  sort  of  practical  ethics 
would  follow  from  this  system  ?  What 
sort  of  position,  theoretically  speaking, 
would  its  votary  occupy  in  life,  in  soci- 
ety, in  the  world  .^ 

Himself  pure,  whila  the  multitude 
around  him  is  totally  depraved  ;  himself 
growing  better,  while  they  are  daily 
growing  worse ;  himself  elected,  sancti- 
fied, redeemed,  while,  for  them,  no 
electing  mercy,  no  sanctifying  spirit, 
no  redeeming  blood,  has  yet  interposed 
to  bring  them  into  the  fold  of  safety  ; 
himself  hoping  for  heaven,  while  they, 
dying  such  as  they  live,  are  certainly 
doomed  to  hell,  nay,  are  every  year  and 
day  sinking  by  thousands  from  the  fair 
and  smiling  abodes  of  life  into  ever- 
lasting burnings,  —  what  manner  of  man 
ought  he  to  be  .-*  We  do  not  ask  what 
ideas  of  God  must  result  from  this  view 
of  the  mass  of  mankind  as  a  body  of 
unreclaimed  and  almost  irreclaimable 
convicts,  from  this  view  of  the  earth  as 
a  vast  penitentiary  ;  but  we  ask,  what 
sort  of  person  should  he  be,  who  dwells 
in  such  a  penitentiary  ? 

Certainly  he  should  be  filled  with  in- 
expressible sadness.  He  may  rejoice  in 
his  own  escape,  but  for  the  thousands 
and  millions  who  never  have  escaped, 
and  who  never  shall  escape,  he  ought 
to  feel  a  sadness  amounting  to  gloom 
and  horror.  If  he  lived  in  a  city  of  a 
million  of  inhabitants,  and  knew  that 
they  were  all  in  one  season  to  be  swept 


/rjr^y>''ci^  THR 


^^ 


512 


THE   CALVINISTIC    VIEWS    OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


away  by  a  pestilence,  —  that  all  were  to 
die  excepting  a  remnant  of  a  few  hun- 
dreds with  himself,  —  could  he,  con- 
templating only  that  death  and  temporal 
desolation,  could  he  walk  cheerfully  in 
the  streets  of  that  city?  But  what  is 
this  to  that  doom  beneath  which  mil- 
lions of  the  human  race  are  every  year 
sinking  to  woes  and  agonies  untold,  un- 
utterable, and  never  to  end  ?  Can  joy 
be  any  part  of  a  system  like  this  ?  Can 
a  man  ever  smile  who  has  taken  this 
contemplation  of  things  to  his  heart  ? 
Can  he  see  any  real  sign  of  cheerful- 
ness in  the  heavens  or  the  earth  ?  Can 
the  song  of  the  neighboring  groves,  can 
the  shouts  of  laughter  from  yonder  play- 
ground, or  tlie  swelling  of  gay  and  glad 
music  upon  the  breeze,  be  anything  but 
the  most  bitter  mockery  ?  What  are 
all  these,  to  the  mass  of  mankind,  but 
the  prelude  to  groans,  and  lamentations, 
and  wailings  of  sorrow?  The  very  arts, 
under  such  a  system,  should  lose  all 
their  forms  of  winning  beauty  and  im- 
posing grandeur,  all  their  buoyancy  and 
brightness  ;  and  sculpture  should  only 
present  us  groups,  like  the  Laocoon, 
writhing  in  the  agony  of  fear;  and  paint- 
ing should  only  draw  pictures  dark  and 
portentous,  like  that  of  the  Deluge  ;  and 
poetry  should  only  pour  out,  in  sadder 
numbers  than  the  celebrated  "  Night 
Thoughts,"  its  tears  and  lamentations 
over  the  mournful  fate  of  human  kind. 
Under  the  dread  shadow  of  this  sys- 
tem, then,  what  can  remain  to  its  con- 
sistent votary  ?  What  can  be  his  ties 
to  society  at  large  ?  Can  he  have  friend- 
ship ?  Can  he  wish  for  intercourse  with 
unregenerate  men,  bad  men,  utterly  bad 
men  ?  Why  should  he  ?  What  is  there 
in  them  to  love  ?  If  he  must  be  con- 
nected with  them  by  business  or  kin- 
dred, yet  what  are  these  circumstances 
compared  with  the  great  features  of 
moral  relationship  ?  And  the  moral  re- 
lationship on  the  part  of  the  regenerate 
can  be  nothing  but  that  of  superiority 
and  pity  and  prayer,  —  not  that  of  friend- 
ship. 

Can  human  nature,  can  human  life, 


can  human  society,  bear  such  a  system 
as  this  ?  Burdened  in  spirit,  saddened 
with  many  afflictions,  struggling  with 
many  difficulties,  scarcely  sustaining  it- 
self with  all  the  aids  of  the  most  cheer- 
ing faith,  how  must  the  human  heart 
sink  under  this  universal  cloud  of  dark- 
ness, horror,  and  despair  !  How  could 
any  liberal  acquisitions,  any  graceful 
accomplishments,  any  joyous  virtues  or 
generous  confidences,  spring  up  under 
such  an  appalling,  all-absorbing  dis- 
pensation of  threatening,  wrath,  and 
woe  ?  It  has  been  said,  we  know,  with 
an  air  of  much  self-complacency,  that 
our  anti-Calvinistic  system  —  that  Uni- 
tarianism,  in  other  words  —  is  essen- 
tially a  shallow,  superficial  system  even 
for  the  intellect  ;  tliat  it  is  a  system 
altogether  unfavorable  to  a  generous 
and  thorough  improvement ;  that  genius 
encompassed  by  that  system  walks  in 
fettei's.  But  what,  we  should  like  to 
ask,  has  Calvinism  done,  that  its  de- 
fenders should  be  entitled  to  adopt  this 
tone  of  contempt  for  its  adversaries  ? 
We  ask  not  what  Cahn7iisis  have  done ; 
for,  allowing  individuals  among  them  all 
deserved  credit  for  genius  and  accom- 
plishments, it  is  very  remarkable  that 
in  the  exertion  of  their  powers  in  the 
chosen  departments  of  genius  they  have 
proved  traitors  to  their  system  !  That 
is  to  say,  the  tone  of  religious  thought 
and  sentiment  introduced  into  such 
works  has  never  been  that  of  Calvin- 
ism. We  ask,  then,  What  has  Calvin- 
ism done  ?  What  literature  has  ever 
breathed  its  spirit,  or  ever  will  ?  What 
poem  has  it  written,  but  Mr.  Pollok's 
"Course  of  Time"?  what  philosophy, 
but  Dr.  Wardlaw's  ?  Into  what  medi- 
tations of  genius  or  reveries  of  imagina- 
tion, but  those  of  John  Bunyan,  has  it 
ever  breathed  its  soul  ? 

We  say  not  this  reproachfully,  but  in 
self-defence.  But  we  do  say,  that  a  sys- 
tem which  has  never  appeared  in  any- 
recognized  delineations  of  the  true  and 
beautiful;  which  never  comes  into  that 
department  even  with  those  who  pro- 
fess to  hold  it  in  theory ;  which  dwells 


THE   CALVINISTIC   VIEWS   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY. 


513 


not  with  men  in  their  happy  hours,  by 
their  firesides,  and  among  their  chil- 
dren ;  which  wears  no  form  of  beauty 
that  ever  art  or  imagination  devised, 
but  hangs,  rather,  as  a  dark  and  anti- 
quated hatchment  on  the  wall,  the  em- 
blem of  life  passed  away ;  and  we  do 
say,  too,  that  a  system  whose  frowning 
features  the  world  cannot  and  will  not 
endure  ;  whose  theoretical  inhumanity 
and  inhospitality  few  of  its  advocates 
can  ever  learn;  whose  tenets  are  not,  as 
all  tenets  should  be,  better,  but  worse, 
a  thousand  times  worse,  than  the  men 
who  embrace  them  ;  whose  principles 
falsify  all  history  and  all  experience, 
and  throw  dishonor  upon  all  earthly  hero- 
ism and  magnanimity  :  whose  teachings 
warrant  no  hopes,  comfort  no  afflic- 
tions, •  soothe  no  sorrows,  but  of  an 
elected  few  ;  and  whose  dread  messages 
ought  to  make  the  sympathies  of  those 
few  to  be  tortures  and  agonies  to  them, 
while  they  bind  in  chains  the  rest  of 
mankind,  and  hold  them  reserved  for 
blackness  and  darkness  forever,  —  we 
do  say  that  such  a  system  cannot  be 
true  !  It  may  be  a  sort  of  theory  to  be 
speculated  about,  to  be  coldly  believed 
in,  but  it  is  not  truth,  that  can  be  taken 
home  to  the   heart.     "  Coldly  believed 


in,"  did  we  say  ?  No  ;  so  believed,  it 
is  not  believed  in  at  all.  It  is  not  be- 
lieved, unless  it  is  believed  in  horror 
and  anguish  ;  unless  it  sends  its  votary 
to  his  nightly  pillow  in  tears,  and  wakes 
him  every  morning  to  sorrow,  and  car- 
ries him  through  every  day  burdened 
as  with  a  world's  calamity,  and  hurries 
him,  worn  out  with  apprehension  and 
pity,  to  a  premature  grave  !  He  who 
should  grow  sleek  and  fat,  and  look 
fair  and  bright,  in  a  prison,  from  which 
his  companions  were  taken  one  by  one, 
day  by  day,  to  the  scaffold  and  the  gib- 
bet, could  make  a  far,  far  better  plea 
for  himself  than  a  good  man  living  and 
thriving  in  this  dungeon-world  and  be- 
lieving that  thousands  and  thousands  of 
his  fellow-prisoners  are  dropping  daily 
into  everlasting  burnings.  Once  more, 
then,  we  say  that  this  system  cannot  be 
proved  to  be  true  till  nature  and  life 
and  consciousness  are  all  proved  to  be 
false  ;  till  the  ties  of  affection  are  proved 
to  be  all  snares,  and  its  sympathies  all 
sorrows  ;  till  the  tenor  of  life  is  proved 
to  be  a  tissue  of  lies,  and  the  benefi- 
cence of  nature  all  mockery,  and  the 
dictates  of  humanity  all  dreams  and 
delusions  ! 


33 


LOWELL    LECTURES. 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY 


OR, 


THE  END  OF  PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  WORLD  AND  MAN. 


LECTURE    L 


ON    THE    CHARACTER,    FITNESS,    HISTORY,    AND    CLAIMS    OF 
THE    INQUIRY. 


Have  we  any  right  to  ask,  —  is  it 
natural  and  fit  that  a  human  being 
should  ask,  —  such  questions  as  these: 
"  Why  do  I  exist  ?  Why  am  I  here  ? 
Why  am  I  such  as  I  am  ?  Why  was 
the  world  made  and  arranged  as  it  is  ? 
This  dread  mystery  of  nature  and  life, — 
what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

If  it  is  proper  to  ask  such  questions, 
then  is  there  such  a  subject  for  legiti- 
mate discussion  as  the  problem  of  hu- 
man destiny.  This  is  the  subject  on 
which  I  am  to  enter  this  evening,  with  a 
view  to  some  preliminary  statement  of 
its  character,  of  the  propriety  of  dis- 
cussing it,  of  its  history  as  a  subject  of 
thought,  and  of  the  natural  interest  that 
belongs  to  it. 

Let  me  say  a  word  or  two  of  the  title 
by  which  I  have  announced  it ;  both  for 
the  vindication  of  the  title  and  the  ex- 
planation of  my  purpose. 

My  theme,  then,  is  not  natural  the- 
ology, nor,  indeed,  any  other  theology  ; 
it  lies  in  the  more  general  domain  of 
philosophy.  Theology,  as  a  science,  is 
the  study  of  the  Supreme  Nature  ;  and 


natural  theology  is  the  study  of  it  in 
what  exists,  in  distinction  from  what  is 
supernaturally  revealed.  The  results 
of  this  theology  I  take  for  granted.  I 
believe  in  God,  in  -his  perfection  and 
providence.  But  having  found  the  Di- 
vinity, I  seek  to  find  the  humanity,  in 
nature  and  life,  —  to  find,  that  is,  its 
place,  its  function,  its  vocation,  its  des- 
tiny. That  is  to  say,  having  found  the 
divine  nature,  I  seek  to  understand  its 
intent  and  end  in  human  nature  ;  and 
by  consequence  in  the  material  creation 
as  ministering  to  it.  After  the  problem 
of  the  Divinity,  comes  by  natural  and 
logical  sequence  the  problem  of  hu- 
manity; in  fact,  it  has  followed  in  his- 
torical development.  The  Divinity  was 
the  question  of  the  old  Oriental  sys- 
tems ;  the  humanity  has  been  that  upon 
which  the  Hebrew  and  Christian  have 
fixed  attention. 

Again,  the  title  "philosophy  of  his- 
tory "  would  not  suit  my  purpose  ;  be- 
cause history  deals  with  nations,  and 
my  subject  embraces  not  only  national, 
but  social,  domestic,  and  individual  life. 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


SI5 


1  miglu  call  it  "the  problem  of  exist- 
ence ;  "  but  that  would  seem  to  indicate 
a  more  speculative  theme  ;  as,  for  in- 
stance, hoiv  things  came  into  existence, 
or  under  what  -view  existence  is  to  be 
conceived  of ;  and  besides,  though  it  is 
the  problem  of  all  earthly  existence  that 
is  in  my  mind,  yet  it  centres  in  humanity; 
and  therefore  1  say,  the  problem  of  hu- 
vian  destiny. 

If  I  should  say  that  "the  problem  of 
eziil  in  the  world''''  is  my  theme,  I  should 
come  nearer  to  the  matter  in  hand ;  but 
then  I  should  only  point  to  the  cause 
naturally  and  immediately  prompting  in- 
quiry, not  to  the  whole  compass  of  it, 
nor  to  its  ultimate  aim.  The  aim  is  to 
learn  what  this  scene  of  human  affairs 
meaneth  ;  the  compass  of  the  inquiry  is 
the  whole  mingled  good  and  evil  of  the 
human  lot ;  and  the  existence  of  evil, 
obviously,  is  only  a  part  of  the  theme. 
But  doubtless  it  is  evil  especially  that 
raises  the  question,  that  drives  us  upon 
it.  If  all  were  bright  and  happy  in  this 
world,  if  the  steps  of  men  and  genera- 
tions were  ever  onward  and  upward, 
were  free  and  buoyant,  then  there  would 
be  no  problem  to  try,  but  only  contem- 
plation to  delight  us.  The  great  wis- 
dom that  reigns  over  the  world  would 
indeed,  tlien,  as  it  must  forever,  invite 
Dur  thoughts,  but  there  would  be  no 
difficulty,  no  darkness,  no  doubt,  con- 
:erning  the  human  condition.  If  man 
bad  been  perfectly  happy  and  pure,  he 
would  never  have  questioned  his  lot, 
nor  struggled  for  the  solution  of  its 
mysteries.  But  how  is  it  now?  The 
steps  of  humanity  have  been  slow  and 
lieavy,  and  apparently  backward  at 
limes  ;  stumbling  and  weariness  and 
sorrow  have  been  in  the  path ;  dark 
;louds  have  hung  over  the  way  of  gener- 
Jtions,  and  men  and  nations  have  strug- 
gled with  one  another  in  the  darkness  ; 
ind  the  experience  of  every  thoughtful 
numan  being  has  pressed  home  upon 
!iim  the  question.  What  means  tliis 
:roubled  scene  of  things  ?  In  other 
ivords,  what  is  the  reigning  and  ulti- 
mate aim  that  lies  behind  it? 


What,  then,  is  the  reigning  and  ulti- 
mate aim  that  lies  behind  ?     This  is  our 
question.     Is  there  any  presumption  in 
seeking  to  know  wliat  it  is  ?    Observe, 
that  it  does  not  answer  our  question  to 
say   that   infinite    love  is   the   principle 
from    which    all    things    have    sprung. 
What  does  that  love  aim  to  accomplish  ? 
I   say,  again,  may  we  not  humbly  ask  ? 
There  is  a  sort  of  mock  modesty,  mixed 
with    philosophic    pride,   in    comparing 
man,  seeking  to  comprehend  the  moral 
system  of  the  world,  to  a  fly  upon  a  great 
wheel,  seeking  to  know  why  it  revolves, 
and  for  what  end.      The  profession  of 
ignorance  may  be  prouder  than  the  pro- 
fession of  knowledge.      It  is  evident,  I 
think,   that    Socrates   himself  felt  more 
pride    than    humility    in    professing   to 
know  nothing.     For  my  part,  I  do   not 
claim  to  be  one  of  the  philosophers,  and 
am  so  unpretending  as  to  profess  that  I 
do  know  something   about    our   nature 
and  condition,  and  what  they  mean.      It 
would  be  strange,  1  think,  if  to  the  grand- 
est  and  most  importunate    questioning 
of  intelligent  natures  there  were  no  an- 
swer.     In  the  humblest  manufactory,  a 
man  could  not  live  his  day's  life,  but  in 
misery   and   distraction,   if    he    did  not 
know   what  was   going   on  there.     And 
can  he  live  this  life,  of  vaster  breadth  and 
wider  relations,—  this  life,  that  '-is  sound- 
ing on  its  dim  and  perilous  way  "  through 
the  years  of  time,  and  consent  to  know 
nothing  of  the  sublime   processes  that 
are   going   on  here,  —  nothing  of    that 
great   plan,  that    binding    unity    amidst 
boundless  diversity,  whicli  alone  makes 
of  the  universe  an  intelligent  order  and 
a  goodly  system  ? 

My  belief  is,  that  this  great  and  irre- 
sistible impulse  of  our  nature  to  inquire 
into  these  things  is  not  given  to  be 
balked  by  Heaven,  nor  scorned  by  man. 
My  belief  is,  that  this  high  questioning 
does  admit  of  some  answer.  The  cele- 
brated statesman  and  Oriental  scholar, 
William  Humboldt,  has  said,  "The 
world-history  is  not  witliout  an  intelligible 
world-government."  .^nd  this  declara- 
tion is  placed  as  a  motto  at  the  head  of  a 


5i6 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


philosophy  of  history,  commonly  thought 
to  be  sufficiently  sceptical;  I  mean  the 
German  Hegel  s.  And  sceptical  enough 
it  is.  But  while  Hegel  recognizes  only 
an  impersonal  Reason  as  ruling  in  the 
world,  nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  his 
work  than  to  see  how  he  traces  every- 
where in  the  history  of  the  world  the 
thread  of  a  design  and  a  destiny,  as  dis- 
tinct and  determinate  as  if  it  were 
everywhere  drawn  and  held  fast  by  a 
jDersonal  Will,  —  a  hint,  by  the  bye,  of 
what  is  often  confirmed  by  the  study  of 
philosophy, — that  seeming  atheism  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  world  is  often 
obliged  to  deny  itself  and  to  acknowl- 
edge a  providence. 

Our  problem,  then,  is  the  world-prob- 
lem ;  in  short,  it  really  /s  the  problem 
of  human  destiny.  I  confess  that  I  still 
feel  some  objection  to  this  description  of 
my  theme;  it  is  a  more  sounding  title 
than  I  like.  Not,  however,  that  it  is  pre- 
sumptuous; because  presumption,  surely, 
must  be  out  of  the  question  here  j  mod- 
esty, I  think,  is  to  be  taken  for  granted 
on  such  a  subject  ;  the  very  greatness 
of  the  problem,  the  vastness  of  the 
treasure-house  to  which  we  resort,  is  an 
argument,  nay  and  a  kind  of  warrant, 
at  once  for  earnestness  and  humility. 
Everybody  may  go  to  the  mines  of  Cali- 
fornia for  gold,  because  they  are  so  vast 
and  exhaustless  ;  and  yet,  for  the  same 
reason,  nobody  expects  to  get  more 
than  a  small  share  of  it.  And  so  in  the 
field  of  our  inquiry,  —  if  one  may  pick  up 
a  few  of  the  golden  sands  on  this  shore 
of  boundless  and  mysterious  wealth,  it 
is  well  ;  and  well  may  it  engage  his  at- 
tention. 

I  have  adopted  the  title,  problei7t  of 
htwtan  destiny,  then,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  it  better  expresses  and  sets 
forth,  than  any  other  which  has  occurred 
to  me,  the  object  I  have  in  view.  A  prob- 
lem is  something  proposed,  laid  down, 
—  thrown  out,  as  we  familiarly  say, — 
for  examination.  The  Greek  root  from 
which  it  comes,  tt/jo/SiIXAco,  from  /3  lAXco,  to 
throw,  suggests,  in  fact,  the  very  figure. 
A  problem  is  a  ball  thrown  out,  to  be 


unwound,  unravelled.  And  the  subject 
which  is  presented  in  this  kind  of  inves- 
tigation is  the  strangely  mingled  web  of 
human  destiny.  It  is,  indeed,  if  I  may 
say  so,  this  ball  of  earth,  around  which 
ages  have  wound  their  many-colored 
tissiies,  tissues  of  savage  and  civilized 
life,  of  political  institutions  and  social 
usages,  of  literature  and  art,  of  law. 
science,  and  religion  ;  tissues  woven 
out  of  human  hearts,  and  steeped  in  all 
the  bright  and  all  the  sombre  dyes  of 
human  experience  ;  tissues  which  have 
clothed  the  earth,  bare  and  naked  at 
first,  with  countless  memories,  traditions, 
histories,  associations,  sentiments,  affec- 
tions,—  which  have,  in  fact,  given  the 
term  world  a  hziman  sense,  which  have 
made  it  mean  a  very  different  thing  from 
the  bare  word  earth;  tissues,  in  fine, 
broken  and  torn  by  outbreak,  revolution, 
war,  violence,  or  bound  and  knotted  fast 
by  despotism,  caste,  serfdom,  slavery, 
and  intermingled  and  intertwisted  in  a 
thousand  ways  ;  and  yet  in  which  there 
is  not  one  thread,  laid  by  the  Divine 
hand,  that  has  not,  as  I  believe,  been 
drawing  on  to  a  sublime  destiny. 

To  a  sublime  destiny,  I  say;  and  what 
is  that  ?  And  where  is  it  to  be  looked 
for  ?  Is  it  in  the  original  nuclejis  of  the 
world,  the  mere  material  ball  of  earth  ? 
Is  it  in  the  sea,  with  its  waves,  or  in  the 
land,  with  its  harvests,  —  the  dust  be- 
neath our  feet  ?  Is  it  in  the  ever-return- 
ing circuits  of  the  seasons  ?  Can  you 
take  any  product  of  nature  —  flower  or 
diamond,  Andes  or  India  —  and  say, 
"  To  form  this,  and  such  as  this,  was  the 
end  of  all  things  "  ?  No  ;  instantly,  in- 
tuitively, we  say,  no  ;  where  there  is  a 
destiny,  there  must  be  an  experience, 
a  consciousness  of  it ;  in  our  humanity 
only  is  the  problem  of  this  worlds  ex- 
istence solved;  in  our  humanity  alone  is 
there  end  or  explanation  ;  tnan  is  the 
world,  and  the  world  is  man.    • 

But  let  us  look  into  this  matter  a  little 
more  closely,  with  a  view  to  state  more 
fully  what  is  proposed  as  the  subject  of 
these  lectures,  and  more  fully  to  legiti- 
mate this  kind  cf  inquiry. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF  HUMAN    DESTINY 


517 


You  will  remember,  many  of  you,  the 
openiriii-  observation  of  Dr.  Paley  in  his 
Natural  Theology,  in  which  he  supposes 
a  man,  in  crossing  a  heath,  to  tind  a  watch. 
He  argues  that  the  finder,  on  e.\-amining 
the  mechanism,  and  discovering  the  pur- 
pose which  it  was  designed  to  answer, 
would  say,  "Somebody  made  it."  He 
applies  this  reasoning  to  the  world,  which 
c.xiiibits  more  design  by  far  than  a 
watch  ;  and  argues  from  effect  to  Cause, 
from  design  to  a  Designer,  from  the  in- 
telligence displayed  in  the  universe  to 
an  intelligent  Creator.  And  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  argument  would  have  been 
stronger  if  it  had  not  taken  the  form  of 
argument  at  all ;  state»ient  here  is  argu- 
ment ;  because  design  not  xn&x&Xy  proves, 
but  implies  a  designer,  just  as  action 
implies  an  actor,  or  a  thing's  being  made 
implies  a  maker.  You  cannot  say,  ''  Here 
is  a  design,"  without  including  in  your 
thought,  "  Here  is  a  designer,"  any  more 
than  you  can  conceive  of  speech  without 
a  speaker.  The  world,  the  universe,  is 
the  utterance,  the  word,  the  expression 
of  a  mind. 

There  has  manifested  itself  of  late,  in 
some  quarters,  a  disposition  to  discredit 
this  argument  from  design.  In  Ger- 
many has  been  revived  the  old  theory  of 
Plotinus  and  lamblicus,  —  for  it  is  far  old- 
er than  Berkeley,  —  that  the  world  does 
not  exist  at  all  but  in  our  thought.  Our 
inborn  ideas,  says  Fichte,  projected  into 
space,  are  the  universe.  The  world  is 
but  an  idea ;  the  world-creator  is  the 
mind.  But  this,  if  it  were  true,  would 
only  bring  the  argument  from  design  otit 
of  nature  into  Juimanity,  —  into  this  more 
astonishing  realm  of  creative  thought. 
Did  this  wonderful  mind,  —  world-cre- 
ating, as  they  say  it  is,  —did  this  mind 
then  create  itself?  Others  have  said, 
that  the  creation,  not  being  infinite,  can- 
not prove  an  infinite  Creator.  But  if  the 
Creator  of  this  world  or  of  the  solar  sys- 
tem were  imagined  to  be  a  finite  and 
dependent  creature,  who,  then,  created 
him  ?  The  steps  of  this  preposterous 
scepticism  alike  lead  us  back  to  an  infi- 
nite and  independent  Cnuse. 


This  is  not  the  place  for  any  elaborate 
discussion  of  the  question,  how  it  is  that 
we  come  to  be  possessed  with  this  great 
conviction  of  the  existence  of  a  God  ; 
whether  by  arguments  drawn  from  with- 
in, or  from  without  us  ;  or  whether  by 
no  argument,  —  the  conviction  being 
the  impress  upon  our  very  nature  of  the 
great  hand  that  formed  it.  I  will  only 
say  that  if  any  instructed  man  can  look 
upon  himself  or  upon  tiie  universe 
around  him  ;  if  he  can  ascend  and  dwell 
in  thought  amidst  the  countless  millions 
of  stars,  or  if  he  can  take  into  his  scope 
but  the  breadth  of  a  summer's  day,  from 
the  time  when  it  touches  the  eastern 
hills  with  fire,  to  its  soft  and  fading 
close,  all  its  loveliness,  its  wealth  and 
wonder  of  beauty,  its  domain  crowded 
with  thousand-fold  life,  —  life  clothing 
the  mountain  side,  springing  in  the 
valley,  singing  and  making  melody 
through  all  the  round  of  earth,  and  air, 
and  waters  ;  or  if  he  can  take  any  little 
plot  of  ground  by  his  side,  and  study  all 
its  vegetable  growth  and  insect  life,  and 
all  that  it  drinks  in  from  fostering  nature 
around,  all  that  it  borrows  from  the 
ocean  deep,  and  from  the  pavilion  of  the 
sun,  to  deck  its  flowery  margin  ;  if,  in  a 
word,  any  instructed  man  can  read  the 
iiandwriting  that  is  written  all  over  the 
great  tablet  of  the  universe,  and  not  feel 
that  it  expresses  a  Mind,  an  Intelli- 
gence, a  Wisdom,  a  love  unbounded  and 
unspeakable,  he  it  is  not  to  whom  I 
speak  :  and  well  may  I  judge  that  there 
is  no  such  man  here  nor  anywhere. 
Why,  if  one  found  inscribed  upon  some 
Rosetta  stone,  or  upon  the  ribbed  rocks 
of  a  desert  mountain,  but  five  such  sen- 
tences as  I  am  now  uttering,  he  would 
say,  without  any  doubt, "  Some  intelli- 
gent being  has  done  this  ;  some  7nind 
placed  these  words  thus,  one  after 
another."  And  does  the  infinite  volume 
of  the  universe  give  less  assurance  of  a 
devising  Intelligence  .''  Good  heaven  ! 
I  am  tempted  to  say,  what  sort  of  stupid 
mystification  is  it,  that  leads  any  man  to 
deny  that  such  a  universe  as  this  ex- 
presses a  Mind  and  a  Purpose  ? 


5i8 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINV". 


But  there  being  manifest  design  in 
the  universe,  and  therefore  a  designing 
Mind,  the  question  arises,  What  is  this 
design?  In  other  words,  what  is  the 
end  proposed  in  the  creation  ?  What 
may  we  believe  that  the  infinite  Creator 
intended  to  accompUsh  by  the  creation 
of  this  world,  and  of  the  beings  and 
things  upon  it  ?  And  this  question 
arises  naturally  and  irresistibly  ;  we  can- 
not help  asking  it.  Thus,  —  to  adopt 
the  manner  of  Dr.  Paley  in  the  passage 
just  referred  to,  —  if  I  were  to  bring 
here  and  place  before  you  a  lump  of 
clay  or  a  piece  of  marble,  no  inquiry 
might  arise  in  your  minds  concerning  it, 
unless  it  were  the  general  question,  why 
I  had  brought  it  here.  But  if  I  should 
bring  and  place  before  you  an  exquisite 
and  beautiful  piece  of  mechanism,  that 
kind  of  vague  question  would  not  suf- 
fice, but  you  would  especially  and  im- 
mediately ask,  concerning  this  mechan- 
ism, what  is  it  for  ?  Is  it  to  plane  wood, 
or  to  print  books,  or  to  generate  light 
and  heat?  What  is  it  made  for  ?  And 
when  this  question  was  answered,  you 
would  as  irresistibly  ask,  how  does  it 
accoinplish  its  purpose  ?  If  it  were  a 
very  complex  instrument,  you  would 
have  many  questions  to  ask  :  as  how 
this  wheel  or  that  lever,  this  pulley  or 
that  weight,  helps  on  the  general  design. 

Now,  the  frame  of  the  world,  the 
frame  of  our  body,  the  frame  of  the  soul, 
in  other  words,  the  whole  system  of  na- 
ture and  life  and  moral  agency,  is  such 
a  mechanism. 

I  do  not  suppose  it  is  necessary  to 
say  anything  to  prove  this  point.  The 
phrases  in  constant  use  —  system  of 
nature,  system  of  the  world,  order  of  the 
universe,  plan  of  the  creation  —  recog- 
nize the  doctrine  and  allow  us  to  take 
it  for  granted.  Every  step  in  science 
opens  a  deeper  insight  into  the  won- 
derful and  beautiful  order  of  nature  ;  the 
scientific  explorer  sees  in  the  world  a 
vast  manufactory,  filled  with  instruments 
and  agencies,  far  more  complicated  and 
exquisite  than  the  wheels  and  levers, 
the  bands  and  pulleys,  that    weave  the 


most  splendid  fabrics  of  human  art. 
But  every  man  who  sees  how  this  vast 
vegetable  growth  that  covers  the  earth 
ministers  to  innumerable  living  crea- 
tures, including  the  human  race,  sees  a 
sublime  order  in  nature.  The  earth, 
he  cannot  but  see,  is  a  bountiful  table, 
spread  and  evermore  replenished,  by 
day  and  by  night,  for  countless  tribes 
of  creatures.  They  come  and  go  ;  they 
sleep  and  wake,  without  care  ;  "  they 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  ;  they  sow 
not,  neither  do  they  reap,  nor  gather 
into  barns  ;  "  unbounded  millions  of 
creatures,  with  incessant  wants,  and  no 
intelligence  in  themselves  to  supply 
those  wants  ;  but  what  then  ?  There 
is  an  intelligence  \ki2X  provides  for  them. 
There  is  a  bounty  that  feeds  them. 
Each  one  finds  his  place  and  his  posi- 
tion in  the  boundless  feast.  Each  one 
has  a  set  of  organs,  an  apparatus,  to 
assimilate  the  food  to  his  nature  and 
convert  it  to  his  growth  :  a  mouth  to 
break  it  up,  to  grind  it  like  a  mill  ;  the 
stomach  to  digest,  i.  e.,  to  amalgamate 
it  with  elements  of  animal  life,  and  other 
organs  to  modify  the  supply,  —  to  dis- 
solve and  refine  it,  to  bolt  it,  as  it  were 
and  cast  away  the  chaff,  while  the  pure 
nourishment  is  conveyed  by  ducts  and 
channels  innumerable  to  every  part 
of  the  system.  Whoever  knows  tiiis, 
knows  that  there  is  order  in  nature.  It 
is  true  that  we  are  less  sensible  of  it, 
because  we  grow  up  amidst  it  ;  and 
many  of  its  processes,  too,  are  out  of 
sight.  I  suppose,  if  there  were  machines 
in  nature  to  make  bones  and  build  skel- 
etons, and  then,  if  there  were  other 
machines,  —  gins  to  spin  the  hollow 
arteries  and  veins,  and  looms  to  weave 
the  muscular  fibre  and  the  corded  nerves, 
and  foundries  to  mould  the  beating 
heart  and  tlie  breathing  lungs,^  and 
other  contrivances  still  for  putting  all 
the  parts  together,  for  setting  up  the 
frame  and  laying  in  the  engines  and 
the  pipes,  and  putting  on  the  integu- 
ments, and  finishing  off  the  man,  like 
a  statue,  —  I  suppose,  I  say,  that  many 
would  be   more    impressed   by  all    this 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


519 


visible  mechanism.  But  it  would  be  all 
coarse  and  clumsy  compared  with  that 
which  now  exists,  and  would  be  far  less 
indicative  of  an  order  and  plan  in  the 
world. 

But  now,  when  we  say  there  is  order, 
there  is  a  plan  in  the  world,  what  pre- 
cisely do  we  mean  by  that  ?  We  mean 
precisely  that  there  is  an  arrangement 
of  parts  with  a  view  to  an  end.  An  end, 
and  means  to  an  end,  —  these  are  the 
two  component  elements  of  what  we 
mean  by  intelligent  order.  I  say  intel- 
ligent order.  A  child  or  an  idiot  may 
place  a  hundred  sticks  parallel  to  each 
other,  and  this  would  be  a  sort  of  order. 
But  in  theorderof  nature  we  see  the  parts, 
the  means,  i.  e.,  conspiring  to  an  end. 

The  end  and  the  means,  then,  —  these 
are  the  points  which  we  are  brought  to 
inquire  into  ;  these  are  the  proper  sub- 
jects of  all  high  philosophy  of  our  hu- 
manity, of  history,  and  of  the  world,  as 
the  sphere  of  their  development. 

Our  present  inquiry  is  for  the  end. 
Let  us  look  into  this  order  of  nature, 
then,  and  see  if  it  does  not,  by  very 
plain  indications,  lead  us  to  a  result, — 
to  a  conclusion,  that  is  to  say,  on  the 
point  which  we  have  before  us.  We 
see  subordinate  aims  in  nature  ;  let  us 
see  if  they  do  not  conduct  us  to  an  ulti- 
mate aim. 

Herder  commences  his  celebrated 
work  on  the  "Philosophy  of  Humanity" 
by  considering  tlie  world  which  we  in- 
habit, in  its  primitive  nature  and  rela- 
tions. He  devotes  several  chapters  to 
such  propositions  as  these :  that  the 
earth  is  one  of  the  heavenly  bodies  ; 
that  it  is  a  planet ;  that  it  passed  through 
many  revolutions  before  it  came  to  its 
present  form  and  condition  ;  that  it  turns 
on  its  axis  ;  that  it  is  enveloped  with  an 
atmosphere,  &c.  He  then  proceeds  to 
consider  the  geographical  relations  of 
the  earth,  and  especially  of  its  plains 
and  mountain  ranges,  to  human  develop- 
ment. Other  writers  have  followed  in 
the  same  track.  It  would  seem  that 
philosophy,  like  Antaeus,  must  touch 
the  earth,  to  be  strong:. 


I  do  not  think  it  necessary,  with  my 
present  view,  to  go  back  so  far,  or  to 
take  so  wide  a  compass  ;  something  of 
this  I  reserve  for  future  consideration, 
especially  the  geographical  relation. 
P'or  the  present,  I  wish  to  direct  your 
attention  to  the  simple  point  of  organic 
growth  in  the  world,  and  see  to  what  it 
will  lead  us.  You  must  allow  me  to  do 
this  in  as  few  words  as  possible. 

The  basis  of  all  is  the  soil.  If  the 
earth  were  a  ball  of  solid  iron  or  granite, 
there  would  be  no  soil  and  no  growth. 
It  is  formed  of  other  materials,  of  otlier 
materials,  i.  e.,  combined  with  these : 
and  this,  plainly,  for  an  end :  to  produce 
trees,  groves,  the  cedar  of  Lebanon,  the 
hyssop  that  springeth  by  the  wall,  the 
herb  yielding  seed,  the  waving  harvest, 
—  the  whole  vegetable  growth  of  the 
world,  a  harvest  for  innumerable  crea- 
tures. And  this  is  the  purpose  answered 
by  the  soil.  There  is  much  to  be  said, 
and  which  we  shall  find  occasion  to  say, 
of  this  basis  and  beginning  of  all  growth 
and  life  on  earth,  this  vast  bed  of  raw 
material  for  all  the  varied  fabric  and 
workmanship  of  nature. 

But  look  now  a  moment  at  this  work- 
manship. Inlaid  in  every  vegetable 
structure,  air-cells  and  sap-vessels,  to 
nourish  its  growth,  and  to  produce  fibre, 
flower,  and  seed  ;  varied  forms  of  struc- 
ture, —  the  wheat  straw  hollow,  because 
for  a  given  amount  of  material  that  form 
is  strongest ;  the  tree  not  hollow,  be- 
cause then  it  could  not  be  used  for  tim- 
ber, nor  be  as  valuable  for  fuel ;  the 
fruit-bearing  shrubs,  like  the  blackberry, 
commonly  provided  with  prickles,  to 
defend  them,  or  with  small  tough  leaves, 
like  the  huckleberry,  which  do  not  invite 
the  browsing  herd;  the  esculent  shrubs, 
herbs,  and  grasses,  not  so  armed,  be- 
cause that  would  be  fatal  to  the  end  ; 
the  orchard,  the  garden,  the  meadow, 
the  pasture,  the  shady  grove,  —  what  is 
all  this  but  a  ministration  of  food  and 
refreshment  and  beauty  to  the  whole 
animal  and  human  creation  ? 

Observe,  next,  the  animal  creation. 
I  do  not  say  that  it  was  made  solely  for 


520 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


man.  It  existed  before  man.  It  has  an 
end  proper  to  itself :  a  certain  amount 
of  enjoyment  which,  though  lower,  is 
more  unalloyed  than  that  of  the  human 
race. 

Still,  we  see  that  it  is  mainly  subser- 
vient to  man.  It  furnishes  him  with 
food  and  raiment ;  it  relieves  his  labor 
and  ministers  to  his  pleasure.  Some 
animals  were  evidently  designed  to  be 
domesticated  by  man  and  to  do  him 
kindly  and  patient  service,  —  the  horse, 
the  ox,  the  camel,  the  dog.  But  of  what 
use  to  him,  it  may  be  said,  are  the  lion 
and  tiger  ?  I  answer,  of  none,  perhaps  ; 
but  they  are,  at  least,  subject  and  subor- 
dinate to  him  in  this  sense,  that  where 
man  comes,  they  disappear.  They  oc- 
cupy, by  the  bounty  of  the  Creator,  a 
space  which  man  does  not  want ;  a  space 
which,  perhaps,  as  in  the  instance  of  the 
deserts  of  Africa,  he  never  will  want; 
but  whenever  he  does  need  the  domain 
of  these  creatures,  wild,  untamable,  and 
useless  to  him,  their  claim  yields  to  his. 
They  are  made  to  live  for  him  or  to 
perish  for  him,  as  he  has  occasion. 

To  man,  then,  we  come  at  last  in  the 
ascending  scale,  and  there  is  nothing 
higher  ;  of  this  earthly  creation,  that  is 
to  say,  he  is  the  head.  But  in  man,  again, 
we  see  a  double  nature,  —  a  material 
frame,  and  something  that  is  not  ma- 
terial. To  the  material  frame  the  lower 
creation  directly  ministers  as  cause. 
The  vegetable  and  animal  creation,  that 
is  to  say,  suppHes  to  it  food,  without 
which  it  could  not  grow  nor  live.  But 
is  the  body  the  end,  the  crowning  glory 
of  the  world  ?  Evidently  it  is  not.  Evi- 
dently it  ministers  to  the  soul.  Its 
senses,  appetites,  and  passions  are  all 
engaged  in  this  ministry.  To  show  this 
fully  will  require  indeed  some  larger 
discourse.  At  present  I  am  indicating 
only  the  steps  of  the  ascent.  But  look 
a  moment  at  the  five  senses  in  this  view. 
Suppose  a  body  in  its  general  frame  like 
that  which  we  now  possess,  but  without 
the  senses,  and  the  soul  imprisoned  in 
that  body.  What,  then,  do  we  see  ? 
What  is  done  for  it  ?     Why,  it  is  let  out 


—  if  I  may  say  so  —  through  touch, 
taste,  smell,  sigiit,  hearing.  For  what 
end  ?  Plainly  for  its  dehght,  its  culture, 
its  growing  knowledge.  The  senses  are 
the  specific  organs  of  the  soul.  Their 
office  is  finer  than  that  of  the  stomach, 
the  liver,  the  lungs.  These  are  but  la- 
borers in  the  comparison.  The  senses 
are  artists.  And  as  their  office  is  finer, 
it  is  they  that  must  have  repose  and 
relief.  It  is  they  only  that  sleep.  The 
stomach,  the  lungs,  the  heart,  do  not 
sleep;  they  labor  on.,  without  pause  or 
rest.  These  are  servants.  They  keep 
the  house  of  life  in  order  and  repair, 
that  the  inhabitant  within  may  have 
leisure  and  freedom  to  do  his  own 
proper  work,  —  to  think,  to  meditate,  to 
gaze  upon  the  glories  of  the  creation  : 
to  build  up  systems  of  science,  phi- 
losophy, and  art;  to  build  up  himself  in 
that  culture  which  is  the  end  of  all. 

Nor  does  it  conflict  with  this  conclu- 
sion to  say,  that  at  every  step  correla- 
tive ends  are  accomplished  for  their 
own  sake.  Nature  is  filled  with  lavish 
beauty  and  enjoyment,  but  still  it 
points  to  an  end.  The  stream  over- 
flows on  every  hand,  but  still  there  is 
a  stream.  Thus,  in  human  life,  I  see  a 
thousand  gratuitous  enjoyments  ;  but 
I  see,  too,  a  higher  and  sublimer  pur- 
pose. Thus  the  human  body  is  a 
machine  for  work  ;  but  it  is  also  a 
shrine  for  indwelling  wisdom  and  de- 
votion. 

The  Greek  word  for  man,  avdpoiTros, 
is  composed  of  two  words  {ava  dopew), 
which  signify  to  look  iipward.  Man 
is  made  to  look  upward.  The  ultimate 
end  of  all  things  on  earth  is  to  form  a 
being,  filled  with  all  nobleness  and 
beauty,  filled  with  virtue,  wisdom,  piety. 
The  world-system  is  a  pyramid  of  which 
humanity  is  the  top.  The  broad  earth, 
the  vast  substructure  of  soil,  is  the 
base.  On  it  repose  the  layers  and 
rounds,  many  and  beautiful,  of  the  vege- 
table creation.  Next  rise  the  orders 
of  animal  life.  Above  all,  humanity, 
with  its  various  component  parts,  — 
some  lower,  some  higher,  —  the  diges- 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


521 


tive  or  building  apparatus  and  tlie 
sentient  organs  ;  perception,  memory, 
imagination,  that  gather  and  mould  the 
stores  of  cognate  facts  ;  judgment  that 
compares  them,  and  the  consequent 
grasp  of  general  truth  ;  and,  above  all, 
and  ministered  to  by  all,  the  spiritual- 
ized soul,  tiie  divine  reason,  —  that 
united  intelligence  and  love  which  gath- 
ers strength  from  all  that  is  below,  to 
rise  to  all  that  is  above;  which  com- 
munes with  heaven,  with  eternity,  with 
God! 

In  this  comparison,  let  it  be  observed 
that  I  describe  the  system  of  the  world 
as  it  actually  exists  ;  as  a  system 
of  relations,  dependencies,  connections, 
running  through  the  whole.  If  it  were 
otherwise  ;  if  the  vegetable  kingdom 
stood  completely  distinct  from  the  ani- 
mal, and  the  animal  from  the  human, 
then  we  might  say  that  each  one  was 
made  for  ends  proper,  peculiar,  limited 
to  itself.  But  when  we  trace,  through- 
out the  system  of  the  world,  a  connec- 
tion and  dependency  as  manifest  as  in 
any  human  machinery,  as  in  that,  for  in- 
stance, by  which  wool  is  carded  for  the 
spmdle,  and  spun  for  the  loom,  and 
woven  for  the  fuller  and  dyer,  to  make 
cloth,  —  we  see  in  both  alike  an  ultimate 
end.  In  the  world-system,  man  is  the 
end  ;  and  the  highest  in  man  is  the  ulti- 
mate end  ;  that  is,  his  virtue,  his  sanc- 
tity, his  likeness  to  God. 

Let  me  offer  an  observation,  in  pass- 
ing, upon  the  comparison  which  I  have 
just  used.  There  are  some  things  in 
that  process  of  making  cloth  which, 
taken  by  themselves,  not  seen  in  their 
relations,  seem  very  little  to  contribute 
to  the  desired  result.  They  seem,  in 
fact,  to  hinder  and  thwart  the  end. 
The  material  that  is  to  be  woven  into  a 
firm  texture  is,  in  the  process  of  fabri- 
cation, rudely  dealt  with,  —  pulled,  and 
strained,  and  torn  in  pieces.  A  pure 
and  shining  fabric  is  to  be  made,  fit  for 
the  array  of  princes  ;  but  soil  and  dam- 
age and  discoloration  are  a  part  of  the 
process.  So  may  the  shining  robes  of 
virtue   be    fashioned.     So   may  human 


affections  be  torn  and  riven.  So  may 
there  be,  in  human  life,  many  a  hard 
struggle  and  strain,  in  order  to  come  to 
the  end. 

Conceive  now,  on  the  whole,  and  yet 
more  distinctly,  of  the  highest  thing  in 
our  humanity,  —  what  it  is.  It  is  not 
comfort,  nor  ease,  nor  pleasure  ;  it  is 
not  birth,  nor  station,  nor  magnificent 
fortunes  ;  it  is  not  nobility,  nor  king- 
ship, nor  imperial  sway.  It  is  some- 
thing more  noble  itt  the  j/iind;  more 
kingly,  more  imperial,  than  all  this. 
Conceive  of  a  human  being  ;  what  he  is, 
and  how  it  is  with  him,  when  he  chal- 
lenges your  purest  admiration  ;  when 
unbidden  tears  start  from  your  eyes  as 
you  think  of  him  ;  when  you,  with  all 
mankind,  unite  to  consecrate  and  can- 
onize his  worth.  Is  earthly  splendor  or 
fortune,  or  is  mere  earthly  happiness, 
any  part  of  his  claim?  So  far  from 
that,  it  is  when  he  stands  alone,  in  the 
majesty  of  self-subsistent  virtue  ;  it  is 
when  he  suffers  for  principle,  and  sinks 
and  goes  down  with  the  last  plank  that 
honor  has  left  him  ;  it  is  when  he  wears 
himself  out  in  unshared  labors  of  phi- 
lanthropy ;  it  is  when  he  dies  for  his 
country  or  for  mankind,  —  ay,  rent  and 
torn  in  pieces  on  the  rack  and  the  scaf- 
fold ;  it  is  then  that  he  is  noblest  in 
your  eyes.  This  highest  in  man,  all 
that  is  highest  and  holiest,  I  believe,  is 
the  end  of  Providence  ;  and  it  is  my  aim 
in  these  lectures  to  show  how  it  is  that 
Providence  is  ever  promoting  this  end. 

I  have  thus  explained  my  design,  and 
endeavored  to  justify  it,  —  to  legitimate 
this  kind  of  inquiry. 

I  cannot  doubt  that  this  is  a  subject 
of  immense  interest  to  all  reflecting  per- 
sons. The  history  of  thought  itself  on 
this  subject  would  be  one  of  immense 
interest.  In  the  early  ages  of  the 
world,  indeed,  there  may  have  been  but 
little  thought  about  it;  as  we  see  there 
is  but  little  now,  in  the  earlier  stages  of 
our  own  life.  And  yet  I  cannot  help 
believing,  that  in  the  mysterious  depths 
of  our  humanity  this  inquiry  has  al- 
ways been  dimly  shadowed  forth,  even 


522 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


amidst  barbarian  ignorance ;  that  the 
man  who  turned  from  the  glare  of  day 
to  his  shaded  Scythian  tent  or  Bactrian 
hut,  smitten  down  by  the  bitter  strife 
of  passion  or  sorrow,  sometimes  said 
with  himself,  "  Wherefore  is  all  this  ? 
Why  am  I  made  thus,  and  to  what 
end?"  But  doubtless  this  inquiry  has 
slowly  developed  itself  with  the  progress 
of  the  world;  and  the  history  of  it 
would  be  found  to  mark  the  steps  of 
all  human  progress.  It  arose  dimly  in 
the  old  Hindoo,  Chinese,  and  Persian 
systems  of  religion  and  philosophy.  It 
struck  far  deeper  roots  into  the  Hebrew 
spiritualism.  It  occupied  the  thoughts 
of  the  Grecian  and  Roman  sages.  It 
has  revealed  itself  in  modern  times  in 
the  more  distinct  forms  of  a  philosophy 
of  history  and  a  philosophy  of  human- 
ity. It  has  swelled  and  deepened  its 
channel  through  all  the  fields  of  human 
thought ;  history,  philosophy,  science, 
literature,  are  all  more  and  more  occu- 
pied with  the  question,  what  do  all 
things  mean?  No  question,  I  believe, 
has  sunk  so  deeply  into  the  cultivated 
mind  of  the  modern  world.  And  when, 
some  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  the 
Rev.  and  Earl  of  Bridgewater  left  a 
bequest  of  ^8,000  as  a  prize  for  the  best 
work  on  this  subject,  I  believe  it  was 
widely  felt  that  the  sum  was  worthily 
bestowed,  and  that  this  specific  direc- 
tion of  it  had  touched  the  very  theme 
of  the  age.  It  has  been  well  said,  I 
think,  by  one  of  the  eloquent  philoso- 
phers of  France,  Jouffroi,  that  this  point 
of  destiny,  this  object  and  end  of  being, 
is  the  very  point  about  which  all  true 
poetry,  philosophy,  and  religion  have  re- 
volved, —  poetry,  with  its  lofty  sadness, 
with  its  visions  and  dreams  of  moral 
beauty,  with  its  longings  for  better 
times  on  earth  and  blessed  regions  in 
heaven  ;  philosophy,  with  its  profound 
and  painful  inquiries  after  the  all-em- 
bracing, all-harmonizing  result  of  human 
weal  and  woe ;  and  religion,  as  it  stands 
on  the  heights  of  the  world  and  speaks 
with  authority  from  God  and  faith  in 
eternitv. 


It  may  be  said,  what  need  we  more, 
since  we  haiie  such  a  revelation  ?  I 
answer,  our  having  a  Bible  does  not 
preclude  us  from  preaching  about  it; 
our  having  a  faith  does  not  forbid  our 
inquiring  into  it,  and  seeking  for  its 
confirmation  ;  our  receiving  the  facts  of 
a  revelation  rather  iitcliites  us  to  study 
the  philosophy  of  those  facts.  I  may 
believe,  as  I  do  believe,  that  all  the 
conditions  of  this  life  are  designed  and 
arranged  to  advance  in  us  the  highest 
culture;  but  how  they  fulfil  their  mis- 
sion is  a  wide  question,  and  into  this 
question  I  propose  thoughtfully  and 
reverently  to  enter. 

But  let  us  go  back  a  moment  to  the 
history  of  this  great  inquiry. 

All  the  religions  in  the  world  have 
recognized  this  grand  problem  of  hu- 
man destiny.  They  have  contemplated 
man  as  having  a  destiny  beyond  the 
little  round  of  his  daily  pursuits  ;  be- 
yond earthly  weal  and  woe ;  beyond 
the  sphere  of  this  world's  kingdoms  and 
empires.  They  have  lifted  up  the  dark 
curtain  of  time,  on  which  the  shows  and 
glories,  the  battles  and  disasters,  of 
this  world  are  pictured,  and  pointed  the 
busy  actors  to  a  solemn  audit  beyond. 
Everlasting  repose,  Elysian  fields,  or  fair 
hunting-grounds  have  awaited  them  ;  or 
Tartarus,  Tophet,  Gehenna,  and  black- 
ness of  darkness. 

The  old  Egyptian  Sacerdotalism  had 
an  institution  connected  with  the  burial 
of  the  dead  which  brought  out  this  fact 
of  a  spiritual  destination  for  men  into 
visible  and  impressive  significance.  The 
disposal  of  the  body  with  the  Egyptians, 
let  it  be  remembered,  was  closely  con- 
nected with  the  final  state  of  the  soul. 
They  embalmed  the  body  in  the  belief 
that  the  soul  would  return  to  it,  after 
a  wandering  or  metempsychosis  of  three 
thousand  years.  The  institution  to  which 
I  refer  was  this  :  On  the  banks  of  the 
lake  Acherusia  sat  a  tribunal  of  forty- 
two  judges,  to  examine  into  the  life  of 
all  who  were  brought  for  burial  in  the 
great  cemetery  on  the  other  side.  In 
this  examination  no  regard  was   to  be 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


523 


paid  to  the  rank  or  riches  of  the  de- 
ceased, but  only  to  liis  character,  to  his 
virtues  or  vices.  If  the  result  was  fa- 
vorable, his  remains  were  conveyed  in 
a  boat  to  the  E/isont,  or  place  of  rest ; 
if  otherwise,  they  were  cast  into  a  deep 
trench,  called  Tartar,  —  place  of  lamen- 
tations. Transferred  to  the  Greek  my- 
thology, we  find  all  tiiis  in  Charon,  his 
ferry-boat,  Tartarus,  and  the  Elysian 
fields. 

In  the  religious  system  of  the  Per- 
sians, among  whom  Hegel  traces  a  de- 
velopment entitling  them  in  his  opinion 
to  be  called  the  earliest  historical  peo- 
ple,—  in  the  Zendavesta  of  Zoroaster, 
that  is  to  say,  we  find  the  mind  of  the 
autlior  and  the  age  laboring  with  the 
problem  of  evil,  and  striving  to  meet  it. 
Evil  is  in  the  world  ;  how  came  it  here  ? 
From  the  All-good  nothing  but  good 
could  come ;  whence  came  the  evil  ? 
Two  principles,  teaches  the  Zendavesta, 
reign  over  the  world :  Ormuzd,  Light ; 
and  Ahriman,  Darkness.  From  the 
accursed  Ahriman  comes  all  evil ;  not 
ph3-sical  evil  alone,  as  "^winter  and  ver- 
min," but  "  reprehensible  doubt,  and 
magic,  and  the  false  worship  of  Peris, 
and  that  which  poisons  men's  hearts." 
Ormuzd,  however,  is  the  more  powerful 
principle  ;  and  '•  in  twelve  thousand  years 
shall  gain  the  victory."  * 

In  the  Hebrew  Religion  we  find  deep- 
er traces  of  this  great  inquiry.  The 
book  of  Ecclesiastes  is  a  remarkable  ac- 
count of  the  questionings  and  strug- 
glings  of  the  mind  upon  this  point. 
Throughout  the  largest  portion  of  the 
work,  the  wise  man  of  Israel  appears  as 
a  sceptic  and  a  satirist ;  he  sees  no  high 
end  for  man ;  he  sees  no  fitness  in  the 
conditions  of  life  to  promote  such  an 
end ;  wealth  and  poverty,  honor  and 
shame,  nay,  science  and  ignorance,  wis- 
dom and  folly,  seem  alike  purposeless 
and  useless.  "Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity,"  is  the  burden  of  the  teachins:; 
and  man  is  commended  to  eating  and 
drinking,  and    enjoying   himself   as    he 

'  Zendavesta,  quoted  by  Heeren,  Appendix   I.,  in 
the  2d  vol.  on  Asiatic  Nations. 


may ;  seemingly  after  a  very  reckless 
fashion.  Then  again  the  high  and 
righteous  aim  is  set  before  him,  and 
God's  favor  and  help  are  promised  to 
him  as  his  security  and  strength.  So 
that  to  explain  the  book,  the  learned 
Eichhorn  was  led  to  adopt  the  theory 
that  it  is  a  dialogue,  in  which  the  sceptic 
and  the  believer  are  brought  forward  by 
the  writer  to  express  their  conflicting 
views ;  though  there  certainly  are  no 
marks  of  dialogue  in  the  work,  and  it 
seems  unnecessary  to  suppose  in  the 
case  anything  more  than  the  strugglings 
of  a  single  mind  after  some  clew  to  this 
maze  of  human  passions  and  pursuits. 
Every  man's  thought  is  a  dialogue. 

In  our  Christian  writings  there  is  one 
book,  Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans, 
which  distinctly  brings  forward  the  same 
question.  First,  the  great  and  universal 
fact  of  human  imperfection,  of  human 
misery,  is  laid  down  ;  next,  the  mission 
of  Christ  to  a  weak  and  wandering  and 
sin -burdened  race.  These  subjects, 
with  some  digressions,  occupy  the  first 
six  chapters.  In  the  next  chapter  Paul 
enters  more  particularly  into  the  distress 
of  the  case,  describes  the  struggle  with 
sin  and  sorrow,  and  ends  with  the  ex- 
clamation, "  Oh,  wretched  man  that  I 
am  !  who  shall  deliver  me  ?  "  In  the 
ninth  chapter  he  speaks  in  encouraging 
and  even  exulting  terms  of  a  triumph. 
Man,  it  is  true,  "is  subject  to  vanit}-," 
i.  e.,  to  dissatisfaction,  weariness,  and 
pain  ;  not  willingly,  —  life's  burdens  he 
would  fain  escape,  —  but  at  the  will  of 
Him  who  hath  subjected  the  same  in 
hope.  That  is,  for  a  good  end  the  Su- 
preme Will  hath  placed  him  here  ;  the 
case  is  hopeful  ;  the  destiny  is  noble, 
though  fraught  with  elements  of  trial, 
strife,  and  sorrow.  T/iroug/i  strife  and 
sorrow  the  victory  is  to  be  gained.  Man 
is  "saved  by  hope."  His  state  is  one, 
not  of  attainment,  but  of  expectation, 
of  progress.  The  great  futurity  forever 
draws  him  on.  He  does  not  see  all  that 
he  seeks  for.  He  struggles  on  through 
imperfection,  uncertainty,  darkness,  er- 
ror.    Only  by  these,  only  by  a  battle, 


524 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


does  he  gain  the  victory.  This  is  the 
theory  of  his  condition. 

The  thread  of  our  inquiry,  which  runs 
tlirough  the  whole  course  of  philoso- 
phy, I  have  not  time  now  to  trace. 
Plato  took  it  up  again  and  again,  and 
Aristotle  ;  and  after  them,  Zeno,  and 
Epicurus,  and  even  Pyrrho,  the  doubter, 

—  each  after  his  own  fashion.  The  new 
Platonic  school  in  the  third  century 
seems  to  me  to  have  framed  its  the- 
ories with  distinct  if  not  ultimate  refer- 
ence to  this  question.  Plotinus,  lam- 
blicus,  and  Proclus  cast  scorn  upon  the 
present  life  and  all  its  objects  ;  and,  as 
the  true  end  for  man,  strove  to  live 
above  it,  in  a  certain  divine  contempla- 
tion and  ecstasy.  In  the  early  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century  John  Baptiste 
Vico  of  Naples,  in  his  "  Nuova  Scienza," 
first  expounded  as  a  new  science  the 
philosophy  of  history.  Herder,  Fichte, 
and  Hegel,  in  Germany,  have  labored  in 
the  same  field.  In  France,  Auguste 
Comte,  in  his  great  work,  entitled  "  Phi- 
losophie  Positive,"  has  undertaken  the 
herculean  task  of  an  appreciation  of  the 
whole  course  and  progress  of  human 
thought  and  history. 

Mr.  Buckle's  Introductory  Volumes 
on  "  The  History  of  CiviHzation  in  Eng- 
land "  have  been  added  to  the  works  I 
have  mentioned,  —  in  some  respects  the 
most  remarkable  of  them  all.  Failing 
on  the  moral  side,  denying  freedom  to 
the  mind,  and  of  course  denying  all 
proper  moral  influence  in  human  affairs, 
it  is  at  the  same  time  such  an  account 
of  the  intellectual,  scientific,  political, 
and  material  causes  of  human  develop- 
ment and  progress,  that  I  know  of  noth- 
ing comparable  to  it  in  the  treatment 
of  that  branch  of  the  subject.  It  is 
more  strange  that  Mr.  Buckle  should 
have  ignored  the  moral  element,  —  it  is 
positively  a  phenomenon  in  literature, 

—  because  his  own  mind  was  full  of  the 
very  force  that  he  denied  ;  hardly  any- 
where is  to  be  found  a  keener  indig- 
nation at  wrong,  or  a  more  eloquent 
espousal  of  human  rights  or  urging  of 
human  duties.     In  America,  we  have  — 


still  more  recently  —  one  most  credit- 
able contribution  to  the  same  general 
subject,  in  Dr.  Draper's  work  on  the 
Intellectual  Development  in  Europe  ;  in 
which  the  author  seeks  to  show,  though 
the  point  is  sometimes  almost  lost  sight 
of  in  the  admirable  and  splendid  array 
of  facts,  that  this  development  is  never 
uncertain  or  fortuitous  in  the  causes  or 
processes  that  lead  to  it,  but  always 
strictly  dependent  on  law. 

This  brief  allusion  to  the  history  of 
our  theme  shows  that  it  has  been  en- 
compassed with  doubt  and  difficulty. 
There  are  two  hues  in  our  great  drama- 
tist that  express  the  feeling  of  the  scep- 
tic and  the  scorner  with  almost  terrific 
point  and  energy.     Life,  he  says,  — 

"  Life  is  a  tale, 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing." 

There  is  a  sound  of  the  wayward  and 
mad  world  sometimes  in  our  ears,  that 
seems  to  answer  to  that  description. 
There  are  spectacles  of  failure,  defeat, 
moral  disaster,  and  miserable  degrada- 
tion, that  sorely  try  the  better  faith. 
Alas  !  we  say,  perhaps,  is  there  any  end 
for  man,  —  for  man.  the'  victim  of  absurd 
institutions,  the  sport  of  untoward  cir- 
cumstances, the  burden-bearer,  the  slave; 
for  man,  bafiled,  thwarted,  worn  down 
with  tasks,  beguiled  by  illusions,  wan- 
dering after  phantoms,  —  is  there  any 
end  for  man  ?  Was  he  made  for  any- 
thing high,  great,  ultimate  ?  Is  there  a 
power  above  that  guides  him,  and  that 
has  appointed  such  an  end  for  him,  and 
the  means  to  that  end?  Is  there  any 
contemplation  of  our  sin-stricken  hu- 
manity, in  which  all  that  composes  its 
mysterious  frame  and  fortunes  can  find 
a  mission  and  a  destiny  ?  Life  is  a  be- 
wildering scene  ;  is  there  any  clew  to  it  ? 
It  is  a  changeful  and  often  tragic  drama; 
is  there  any  tendency,  any  plan,  any 
plot  in  it  ?  It  is  a  tale  of  strange  things  ; 
has  it  any  moral  ? 

This  is  no  idle  or  curious  question. 
It  is  vital,  and  it  is  imperative.  It  is 
not  given  to  us  to  choose  whether  we 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


525 


shall  be,  and  shall  be  such  as  we  are. 
Suppose  a  man  is  angry  with  his  lot  — 
an^TV  with  the  world  and  with  himself, 
with  his  nature,  his  freedom,  his  re- 
morse, his  life-long  struggle,  and  says 
lie  does  not  care,  and  will  not  yield. 
What  then  't  Down  upon  him,  and  upon 
his  very  frame  and  fate,  sink  the  silent 
and  everlasting  laws  :  and  there  is  no 
escape.  Still  the  question  of  destiny 
presses  upon  him,  and  there  is  no  dis- 
charge from  the  great  bond  of  his  nature 
and  condition. 

It  is  experience  that  is  involved  in 
this  question.  It  is  the  life-experiment 
of  every  human  being.  The  issue  of 
the  experiment  is  not  merely  future  and 
everlasting,  but  now,  day  by  day,  it 
comes  out,  — out  from  every  event,  exi- 
gency, situation,  pursuit,  engagement, — 
the  absolute,  distilled  essence  of  good 
or  ill  for  us.  Can  it  come  to  good? 
Was  it  meant  for  that  ? 

It  is  a  wide-reaching  experiment;  it 
embraces  everything  ;  can  it  all  come 
to  good  ? 

"  The  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,   the  proud   man's  con- 
tumely. 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes,"  — 

is  it  all  to  be  reckoned  in  the  good 
account  ? 

It  is  a  diversified  experiment  ;  it 
seems  often  strange,  confused,  and  pur- 
poseless ;  there  are  doubtless  high  traits 
in  it,  but  it  seems  often  poor,  paltry,  and 
low.  What  conflicting  elements  mingle 
in  it  !  —  melancholy  and  gladness,  laugh- 
ter and  tears,  solemn  intent  and  way- 
ward levity  !  Can  any  lines  be  descried, 
stretching  through  this  field,  apparently 
of  wide  waste  and  disorder,  and  point- 
ing to  a  happy  issue  ?  In  all  its  diversi- 
fied states,  — of  youth,  of  manhood,  and 
of  old  age,  of  sex,  parentage,  childhood, 
home,  neighborhood,  community, —  is  it 
good  ? 

It  is  an  experiment  of  depth  and  re- 
alitv,  —  enousjh,  far  enough,  from  beins: 
indifferent  to  any  who  knows  it.     Stern, 


inexorable,  overwhelming  at  times,  is 
the  lot  of  our  being,  take  it  as  we  will. 
Beneath  the  smooth  surface  of  life, 
under  the  mask  of  pride  or  politeness, 
how  many  a  fierce  battle  is  fought  or 
bitter  sorrow  endured  !  What  raging 
passion,  dark  intrigue,  brooding  discon- 
tent, despite,  shame,  sorrow  !  Like  the 
black  cloud  beneath  a  smiling  sky,  like 
the  lightning  in  that  cloud,  so  often- 
times is  the  heart  of  man.  Oh,  could 
we  say  that  "  with  like  beneficent  effect  " 
sorrow  gathers  and  broods,  and  passion 
darts  its  fires  ! 

Could  I  but  see  that  life  is  a  school, 
—  all  of  it,  altogether,  and  always;  that 
all  the  homes  of  hfe  are  full  of  divine 
instruction  ;  full,  not  of  petty  details 
alone,  but  of  sublime  instrumentalities; 
that  eating  and  drinking  and  waking, 
and  sleeping,  are  not  accidents,  but  or- 
dinances ;  that  labor  and  weariness,  and 
the  tending  of  infancy,  and  the  sports 
of  childhood,  and  the  voice  of  singing, 
and  the  making  merry,  and  the  feeling 
sad  and  low  and  heavy-hearted,  are  all 
ministrations  to  an  end,  and  are  actually 
doing  something  to  bring  it  about, — 
that  would  be  an  optimism,  which  would 
clear  up  to  me  the  troubled  brow  of  life, 
would  renovate  the  face  of  the  world. 

But  I  must  not  pursue  this  subject 
any  further  at  present.  In  my  next 
lecture  I  must  consider  the  dread  prob- 
lem of  evil  ;  whence  it  sprang,  or  in 
what  light  it  is  to  be  regarded  :  for  this 
lies  at  the  foundation  of  my  whole 
theory  of  life. 

One  word  more  let  me  say  in  close  : 
The  advocate  before  a  jury,  or  the 
speaker  in  a  deliberative  assembly,  has 
one  great  and  singular  advantage,  in 
that  he  addresses  those  who,  in  com- 
mon with  himself,  have  something  to 
do,  —  who  must  share.his  labor,  to  come 
to  a  decision.  Most  other  assemblies 
are  full  of  passive  hearers,  content  if 
they  are  entertained.  Indeed,  in  our 
popular  lyceums,  and  in  our  popular  lit- 
erature, too.  entertainment  is  the  thing 
so  especially,  if  not  exclusively,  de- 
manded, that  the  speaker,  the  writer,  is 


526 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


led  to  select  the  most  salient  points, 
and  often  to  pass  over  topics  and  de- 
tails less  attractive,  but  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  his  subject.  Now  I  do 
not  want  such  passive  hearers,  and  I 
cannot  pursue  any  such  holiday  course. 
I  must  descend  to  humble,  pains-taking 
details  when  the  subject  requires  it.  In- 
deed, Gentlemen  and  Ladies,  I  am  afraid 
I  must  weary  you  sometimes  for  your 
profit.  In  short,  if  you  will  permit  me 
to  say  so,  I  desire  to  establish  between 
you  and  me  for  the  time  the  friendly 
compact  of  persons  giving  their  minds 
to  a  common  task,  —  together  seeking 
to  understand  a  vast  and  momentous 
subject  on  which  the  stability,  peace, 


and  happiness  of  all  thinking  minds  do 
much  depend. 

I  am  not  sorry  that  the  place  and 
occasion  require  me  to  make  this  a 
popular  theme.  1  am  to  speak,  not  for 
philosophers,  but  for  the  people.  I 
wish  to  meet  the  questions  which  arise 
in  all  minds  that  have  awaked  to  any 
degree  of  reflection  upon  their  nature 
and  being,  and  upon  the  collective  be- 
ing of  their  race.  I  have  hoped  that  I 
should  escape  the  charge  of  presump- 
tion by  tlie  humbleness  of  my  attempt, — 
the  attempt,  that  is  to  say,  to  popularize 
a  theme  which  has  hitherto  been  the 
domain  of  scholars. 


LECTURE     II. 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    EVIL.       THE    CASE    PRESENTED,    THE    THEORY 
OFFERED,    AND    THE    BEARING    OF    IT    CONSIDERED. 


I  FOREWARN  you  that  this  is  the 
longest,  and  perhaps  the  least  enter- 
taining, lecture  that  I  have  to  deliver 
to  you.  I  have  to  grapple  with  a  hard 
problem,  and  I  ask  your  close  and  care- 
ful attention.  We  shall  go  on  more 
easily  when  we  get  through  with  this. 

I  am  to  consider  in  this  lecture  the 
problem  of  evil  in  the  world.  In  doing 
this,  I  shall  first  state  the  case  ;  next 
propound  the  theory  which  I  have  to 
offer ;  and,  thirdly,  consider  the  bear- 
ing of  this  theory  upon  our  future  in- 
quiries, or  the  principles  by  which,  un- 
der this  theory,  we  must  abide. 

First,  I  am  to  state  the  case  ;  what 
the  problem  is  ;  what  is  the  degree,  ex- 
tent, and  pressure  of  evil. 

It  is  often  said  that  this  life  is  a 
mystery,  that  this  world  is  a  mystery; 
and  I  confess  that  I  am  so  sensible 
of  a  feeling  of  this  kind,  that  I  am  so 
haunted  with  it,  and,  as  it  seems  to 
me  sometimes,  so  strangely  and  inex- 
plicably haunted  with  it  through  all  my 


life,  and  especially  through  all  my  hours 
of  more  abstract  meditation  and  solilo- 
quy, that  I  am  often  tempted  to  ques 
tion  myself  on  this  point,  and  to  say, 
"  Well,  what  is  so  mysterious  ?  what  is 
it?  Something  certainly  there  is  that 
is  not  mysterious  ;  much  there  is  that 
is  intelligible."  And  it  is  pertinent  and 
important  to  the  investigation  before  us, 
that  we  should  draw  the  line  of  distinct- 
tion  here,  though  it  be  a  very  simple 
thing  to  do  so,  and  should  say  plainly, 
the  line  is  clearly  between  what  can 
be  known  and  what  cannot  be  known. 
There  is  a  veil  which  we  cannot  pene- 
trate, but  all  things  do  not  lie  in  its 
shadow.  Something  we  can  know, — 
much,  I  believe.  In  short,  mystery  has 
its  place,  but  manifestation  also  has  its 
place  in  all  things. 

I  feel  the  mystery,  I  am  overshad- 
owed by  it.  But  there  is  light  upon  the 
edges  of  the  great  shadow,  and  there 
are  openings  of  light  into  it  ;  these  I 
may  humbly  explore.     I  feel  the  mys- 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


527 


terv.  Infinitude,  eternity,  the  immeas- 
urable plan  ;  life,  being,  and  the  Be- 
ing of  all  being  —  God;  depth  beyond 
depth  is  here,  unfathomable,  unsearch- 
able. Nay,  the  common  scene  around 
us,  doubtless,  and  our  own  life  in  it,  are 
full  of  mysteries  ;  only  our  familiarity 
cheats  us  out  of  the  natural  wonder. 
If  on  some  bright  summer's  day  you 
had  found  yourself  standing  here  in  the 
street  or  in  the  field,  amidst  all  this 
moving  throng  of  men  and  things,  —  if 
you  had  found  yourself  standing  here, 
without  one  precedent  step,  with  no 
memory  of  the  past,  your  eye,  your  ear, 
your  sense  and  soul,  suddenly  opened 
to  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  living 
universe,  —  sun  and  sky  overhead,  and 
waving  trees  around,  and  "men  as  trees 
walking," — you  would  have  asked,  with 
uncontrollable  astonishment,  what  is  all 
this  ?  and  whence  and  what  am  I  that 
behold  it .-"  But  it  is  no  less  a  real  won- 
der for  being  familiar;  and  there  are 
moments,  in  dreams  of  the  mind,  when 
we  lose  our  intense  self-consciousness, 
and  almost  our  personality,  in  which  all 
this  appears  the  wonder  and  mystery 
that  it  is. 

But  when  we  wake  from  this  be- 
mazing  wonder  into  knowledge  and  in- 
quiry, when  we  begin  to  understand 
what  our  life  is,  and  to  study  the  life 
of  the  world,  then  the  mystery  becomes 
profound  difficulty  and  seeming  contra- 
diction ;  our  very  knowledge  confounds 
us  ;  for  we  know  that  we  suffer,  —  that 
the  world  suffers.  That  needs  not  to 
be  insisted  on  ;  we  know  it  too  well. 
And  we  know  that  God  is  good.  In- 
stinctively we  say,  the  Author  of  this 
fair  universe  and  of  tliis  human  nature 
must  be  good  ;  to  Him  the  happiness 
of  his  creatures  must  be  desirable,  nay, 
infinitely  precious.  Why,  even  our  hu- 
man paternity  feels  unspeakable  long- 
in2;s  for  the  good  and  happy  life  of  its 
offspring ;  this  same  world  is  filled  with 
such  yearning,  ay,  and  sacrifice,  even 
unto  death  ;  and  yet  —  I  say  it  with 
reverential  awe,  and  I  say  it  too  with 
perfect  trust  —  here  is  Almighty  Power, 


here  is  Infinite  Love,  and  the  world  is 
its  creation  and  care  ;  and  yet,  jn  spite 
of  faith  and  humility,  we  cannot  but  ex- 
claim, what  a  world  is  it! 

Very  dark  it  is  ;  but  not  all  dark,  — 
let  us  make  up  our  account  of  it  care- 
fully, —  not  all  darkness,  not  all  misery, 
not  all  evil ;  not,  in  the  aggregate  and 
mass  of  its  experience,   a  hateful  and 
miserable  world  ;  but  nevertheless  such 
an  amount  of  evil,   both   physical  and 
moral,  as  bewilders  all  calculation  ;  such 
an  amount  of  hardship,  disaster,  sick- 
ness, sorrow,  injustice,  bloodshed,  bru- 
tality, and  bitter  sufferance,  as  must  fill 
every  tlioughtful  beholder  with  minified 
horror    and    indignation.     And    yet,    I 
repeat,    this   is   a   part  of  the   domain 
of  Infinite  Benevolence;  and  I  humbly 
venture  to  think  that  I  can  understand 
in  some  degree  the  problem  of  its  sins 
and  sorrows.     But  it  is  an  awful  prob- 
lem.     From    the    beginning,    says    the 
great  Expositor  of  Christianity  to  the 
nations,    "  this    creation    groaneth    and 
travaileth  in  pain  until  now."    For  sixty 
centuries,  says  another,  the  human  race 
has  been  travelling  on  in  quest  of  re- 
pose, and  has  not  found  it.     And  his- 
tory tells   the   same   sad    tale      Whole 
races  of  men,  like  the  Tartars  and  Afri- 
cans, wandering  in  darkness  and  bar- 
barism ;   whole  empires   torn  and  rent 
in  pieces,  or  dying  out  by  slow  decay ; 
whole  armies  mown  down  on  ten  thou- 
sand bloody  fields  ;  cities  sacked,  towns 
and  towers  whelmed  in  ruin  ;  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  human  beings 
sighing  away  their  lives  in  prisons  and 
dungeons  which  no  sunlight  nor  blessed 
breath  of  heaven's  air  ever  visits  ;  the 
foot  of  man  set  upon  the  neck  of  his 
brother  to  crush   him  down    to   agony 
and   despair,  —  such    things,    oh  !    and 
many  such  things,  of  more  indescribable 
horror,  have  had  their  place  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world.    As  it  was  before  man 
dwelt  on  the  earth,  it  passed  through 
ages   of  material    convulsions,   through 
the  thunder  of  earthquakes,  through  the 
smoke  and  fire  of  volcanoes;  so  in  its 
moral  history  there  have  been  volcanoes 


528 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


and  earthquakes,  thunders  of  war,  and 
fires  of  human  wrath,  and  the  smoke  and 
smouldering  of  wide-spread  and  mourn- 
ful desolations. 

And  yet,  if  we  would  make  out  a  fair 
statement  of  the  case,  which  we  are  now 
attempting,  in  the  first  place  we  must 
not  forget  that  there  is  something  besides 
evil  in  the  world.  We  must  not  pass 
by  the  observation,  however  familiar, 
that  history,  as  it  has  been  usually  writ- 
ten, is  Hkely  very  much  to  mislead  us. 
It  deals  with  what  is  palpable  and  pub- 
lic, and  not  with  what  is  private  and  un- 
seen ;  with  the  tragedy,  and  not  with 
the  comedy  of  life  ;  with  the  camp  and 
court,  rather  than  with  households  and 
homes.  Suppose  the  history  of  Europe 
in  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  time  to  be  read 
twenty  centuries  hence  ;  and  that,  of  all 
the  literature  that  might  illustrate  its 
social  character,  only  a  few  fragments 
should  remain,  —  that  almost  the  only 
record  left  were  one  of  murderous  wars 
and  of  court  intrigues  and  vices.  Why, 
the  men  of  that  distant  day  would  doubt- 
less look  back  upon  the  French  Revolu- 
tion and  the  years  succeeding  as  a  bar- 
barous and  bloody  time  ;  and  they  might 
say  of  Europe  then,  with  as  much  em- 
phasis as  we  do  of  the  world  at  large,  — 
what  traces  are  there  upon  it  but  of  war 
and  havoc  and  misery?  They  would 
see  over  all  the  horizon  but  the  one  black 
cloud.  The  millions  of  happy  homes 
beneath  it ;  the  cultivated  fields  which 
spread  far  and  wide  on  each  side  of  the 
track  of  armies,  —  ay,  fields  which  fed 
those  armies,  and  all  Europe  beside ; 
the  quiet  abodes  that  were  scattered  over 
hundreds  of  valleys  and  mountains,  and 
the  virtues  and  charities  that  flourished 
in  them,  —  these,  the  observers,  looking 
through  the  glass  of  history,  would  not 
see. 

And  it  is  worthy  of  special  notice  that 
the  farther  we  are  removed  from  the 
field  of  observation,  the  more  are  we  ex- 
posed to  mistake  the  facts.  Thus  the 
terms  Arab,  Egyptian,  Assyrian,  and 
Hindoo  carry  to  most  minds  nothing 
but  ideas  of   barbarism.     We    think  of 


the  multitudes  of  Asia  in  past  times  as 
but  more  intelligent  hordes  of  animals. 
Our  useful  arts  and  profound  sciences 
not  known  to  them,  we  conclude  that  they 
have  known  nothing.  Their  customs, 
costumes,  ways  of  life,  mode  of  being, 
so  different  from  ours,  we  hardly  bring 
them  within  the  range  of  our  common 
humanity.  But  if  there  is  any  clear 
proof  of  intellectual  culture  and  refine- 
ment, it  is  in  the  language  of  a  people. 
And  by  this  rule  of  judging  there  must 
have  been,  and  we  know  that  there  liave 
been,  periods  of  Asiatic  culture  exhibit- 
ing a  very  high  order  of  attainments- 
The  Sanscrit,  the  old  Hindoo  language, 
with  its  fifty  letters,  is,  in  its  alphabet, 
the  most  perfect  language  in  the  world; 
and  it  has  an  extant  literature  of  which 
only  ignorance  can  profess  to  think  light- 
ly.* The  old  Persian  and  Arabic  are 
not  uncultivated  tongues  ;  they  have 
many  affinities  with  our  English  and  with 
German  speech  ;  so  much  so,  that  Leib- 
nitz said  that  a  German  could  under- 
stand, at  sight,  whole  Persian  verses. 
Nay,  and  we  know  that  those  languages 
have  bodied  forth,  in  philosophy  and  in 
fiction,  some  of  the  finest  conceptions  of 
human  thought.  We  know  that  the  re- 
gal halls  of  Arabia  and  Persia  have  not 
shone  with  barbaric  splendor  only,  but 
have  listened  to  some  of  the  loftiest 
and  sweetest  strains  of  poetry.  I  can 
hardly  instance  anything  in  our  literature 
more  admirable  than  the  prayer  pf  the 
Persian  poet,  Sadi,  "  O  God,  have  mercy 
upon  the  wicked;  for  thou  hast  done 
everything  for  the  good  in  having  made 
them  good  !  "  And  I  know  not  that  a  scene 
of  greater  moral  beauty  can  be  produced 
from  all  our  works  of  imagination  than 
that  of  an  Arabian  romance  in  which  the 
monarch  calls  to  his  presence  the  youth- 
ful poet,  and  placing  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  court,  points  him  to  all  the  luxuries 

*  Dr.  Draper,  in  his  admirable  book  on  the  Intel- 
lectual Development  of  Europe,  says  that  the  works 
of  Gotama,  the  great  expounder  of  Buddhism,  consist 
of  800  large  volumes.  I  cannot  help  thinking  they 
must  be  very  small  in  the  amount  of  matter  contained 
in  each  ;  but  even  then  the  fact  is  remarkable  enough. 
(See  Dr.  Draper,  p.  53.) 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY 


529 


and  splendors  which  he  had  brought  to 
decorate  iiis  royal  halls,  and,  in  the  pride 
of  his  heart,  bids  him  describe  the  scene  ; 
when  the  poet,  severe  in  youtiiful  virtue 
and  full  of  the  inspiration  of  genius, 
bursts  forth  into  admiration  of  the  sur- 
rounding magnificence,  and  at  the  con- 
clusion says,  ■'  Long  live  the  king  under 
the  shadow  of  his  mighty  palaces  !  —  but 
let  him  remember  that  all  this  lustre  shall 
grow  dim  and  fade  away ;  and  the  eyes 
that  see  it  shall  grow  dim,  and  darkness 
shall  settle  upon  them  ;  and  these  lofty 
palaces  shall  sink  to  the  dust,  and  their 
mighty  lord  shall  sink  to  the  dust  also  ;" 
then,  when  trembling  courtiers  interfered 
and  fawning  sycophants  grew  bold  in 
their  displeasure,  we  read  that  the  king 
bowed  down,  humble  and  in  tears  at  the 
rebuke,  and  loaded  the  noble  reprover 
with  his  approbation  and  his  gifts.  We 
have  inherited  a  good  measure  of  the 
Jewish  contempt  for  heathens  ;  but  it 
maybe  doubted  whether  there  are  many 
Christian  courts  that  would  ever  wit- 
ness such  a  scene,  or  many  Christian 
monarchs  that  would  have  shown  such 
nobleness. 

There  is  one  further  observation,  of 
an  entirely  different  character,  to  be  made 
in  this  statement  of  the  problem  of  evil 
in  the  world.  It  is  this  :  that  broad  and 
vast  and  immense  as  that  problem  may 
appear,  it  is,  after  all,  in  actual  expe- 
rience, purely  individual.  Millions  of 
beings  lived  in  India,  millions  in  China. 
In  "Assyria,  in  Egypt,  in  Greece,  in  the 
Roman  Empire,  in  the  wliole  world,  mil- 
lions upon  millions  untold  have  lived  ; 
but  the  question  really  does  not  turn 
upon  some  vast  calculation  of  weal  and 
woe,  but  upon  the  part  which  each  indi- 
vidual man  has  had  in  them.  We  gen- 
eralize this  boundless  mass  of  human  ex- 
istence, and  are  apt  to  regard  it  as  if  one 
being  had  experienced  it  all.  But  the 
truth  is,  nobody  has  experienced  more 
of  it  than  you  or  I  have,  or  might  have, 
experienced.  With  regard  to  all  the 
intrinsic  difficulties  of  the  case,  it  is  as 
if  but  one  life  had  been  lived  in  the 
world  :  and  since  no  man  has  lived  an- 


other's life,  or  any  life  but  his  own,  there 
]ias  been,  to  actual  individual  conscious- 
ness, bid  one  life,  of  thirty,  seventy,  or 
a  hundred  years,  lived  on  earth.  The 
problem  really  comes  within  that  com- 
pass. In  the  questions  which  humanity 
asks  concerning  a  providence,  each  one 
of  the  unnumbered  millions  of  the  hu- 
man race  stands  apart  and  alone ;  as 
much  so,  as  if  they  were  separated  from 
each  other  by  an  interval  of  a  million 
years.  It  is  enough  for  every  being,  in 
every  world,  satisfactorily  to  settle  the 
questions  that  arise  concerning  his  ex- 
istence for  himself  ;  he  has  no  occasion 
to  go  farther;  perhaps  he  has  no  busi- 
ness to  go  farther;  but  certainly  he  has 
no  occasion  to  go  farther,  unless  he  finds 
beings,  the  conditions  and  allotments  of 
whose  existence  are  different  from  his. 
If  he  does  not  find  a  differing  lot,  then, 
I  say,  settling  the  question  for  himself 
does  settle  it  for  all.  If  I  can  solve  the 
problem  of  existence  for  myself,  I  have 
solved  it  for  everybody  ;  I  have  solved 
it  for  the  human  race..  In  other  words, 
if  I  can  see  it  to  be  right  that  one  be- 
ing should  be  created  so,  I  can  see  it 
to  be  right  that  unnumbered  millions 
should  be. 

Let  us,  then,  analyze  this  vast  aggre- 
gate of  human  existence  into  its  separate 
and  individual  consciousness,  if  we  would 
understand  it,  or  the  questions  that  arise 
from  it,  —  into  that  form,  in  fact,  in  which 
only  it  can  be  said  to  exist.  Humanity, 
mankind,  but  as  an  abstraction,  does  not 
exist ;  7nan  only  lives.  From  the  vast 
mass  of  what  we  call  misery,  mischance, 
and  failure,  let  us  single  out  this  man. 
Did  the  man  who  lived  in  India,  in  Tar- 
tary,  ages  ago,  —  did  the  man  who  walked 
in  the  train  of  an  Assyrian  court,  or  was 
marshalled  in  the  hosts  of  Rome,  or 
travelled  down  through  the  Middle  Ages, 
—  did  he  enjoy  and  value  his  life  ?  Were 
there  pleasures  and  satisfactions  amidst 
his  strugglings  and  sorrows?  And  amidst 
his  strugglings  and  sorrows  was  any 
valuable  experience  developed  ?  Did  he 
learn  anything  worth  learning  ?  And 
does  the  man  who  stands  in  this  modern 


34 


530 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


world, — do  you  and  I,  find  anything 
in  our  life  that  makes  us  prize  it ;  any- 
thing that  makes  us  feel  that  we  had  in- 
finitely rather  have  it  than  have  it  not  ? 
Doubtless  we  do,  and  other  men  do ;  all 
men  do.  I  am  satisfied  that  there  is  an 
almost  universal  overrating  of  the  miser- 
ies of  hfe  as  compared  with  its  blessings  ; 
and  that  not  one  in  a  million  of  those 
whom  we  lament  over  as  if  their  life  was 
a  misfortune,  would  thank  us  for  our 
sympathy,  or  accept  the  conclusion  that 
they  had  better  not  have  existed  at  all. 

II.  And  now^such  being  the  case  oi 
the  world's  life,  we  come  to  inquire,  in 
the  next  place,  upon  what  theory  this 
state  of  things  is  to  be  accounted  for.  In 
this  system  of  the  world,  there  is  suffer- 
ing and  sin  ;  there  is  suffering  and  sin 
in  the  individual  heart.  How,  under  the 
sway  of  a  good  and  wise  providence,  are 
these  things  to  be  understood  .''  How 
could  these  things  be  ?  In  other  words, 
we  meet  here  wiih  the  long-vexed  prob- 
lem of  "  the  origin  of  evil."  Let  me  say 
here,  that  I  do  not  hke  the  phrase  "ori- 
gin of  evil."  Not  whence  is  evil,  nor 
how  it  came  into  the  world,  is  my  ques- 
tion ;  but  the  fact  that  evil  exists,  and 
what  view  is  to  be  taken  of  it. 

With  regard  to  this  problem,  I  know 
it  is  often  said  that  no  theory  ever 
offered,  and  none  that  ever  can  be  of- 
fered, does  or  will  throw  any  satisfactory 
light  upon  it ;  and  that  those  only  who 
do  not  understand  the  problem  will  im- 
agine that  it  can  be  relieved,  in  any  de- 
gree, from  its  insurmountable  difficulties. 
It  may  be  that  this  is  my  own  case  ;  at 
any  rate,  I  must  risk  the  imputation,  for 
I  conceive  that  this  problem  does  ;/<?/ 
defy  all  human  efforts  for  relief  or  ex- 
planation. I  do  not  believe  that  a  point 
so  essential  to  any  reasonable  compre- 
hension of  the  lot  of  our  life  is  left  to  be 
a  dark  and  terrible  enigma.  It  would 
be  strange,  indeed,  if  the  one  thing  that 
crushes  me  to  the  earth,  evt/,  should  be 
as  unintelligible  as  if  it  were  the  blindest 
mischance  ;  if  the  only  word  I  can  utter, 
when  writhing  with  pain,  or  weighed 
down   by  afiliction,  is   mystery;    if  the 


one  great  question  which  my  nature 
asks,  —  "why  is  evil,  erring,  grief,  sin, 
permitted  in  the  world?" — is  to  strike 
me  dumb  as  an  idiot.  It  is  vain  to  think 
of  keeping  the  human  mind  away  from 
it.  It  will  ask  the  question.  It  has 
been  asking  from  the  beginning. 

I  do  not  submit,  then,  to  this  lofty 
caveat  against  inquiry.  I  am  satisfied 
that  to  this  ever-pressing  question  about 
the  reason  why  evil  exists,  there  is  an 
answer  as  to  the  principle  j  and  that  all 
the  difficulty  Hes  in  details,  —  i.  e.,  in  the 
application  of  the  principle.  And  this 
is  the  distinction  which  I  should  take  in 
regard  to  an  observation  of  Bayle,  quoted 
with  approbation  by  Leibnitz.*  "  Those 
who  pretend,"  says  Bayle,  "  that  the  con- 
duct of  God  in  regard  to  sin,  and  the  con- 
sequences of  sin,  has  nothing  in  it  for 
which  they  cannot  render  a  reason,  de- 
liver themselves  up  to  the  mercy  of  their 
adversary."  I  grant  that  this  is  true,  or 
may  be  true,  with  regard  to  details,  but 
not  with  regard  to  the  principle.  I  do  not 
pretend  that  there  is  nothiiigm  the  events 
of  human  life  and  history  for  which  I  can- 
not render  a  reason.  In  the  application 
of  the  principle  there  may  be  difficulty, 
though  not  a  difficulty  that  has  any  ten- 
dency to  disturb  it.  Leibnitz  himself  says 
the  same  thing  in  reference  to  his  own  the 
ory.  His  theory  —  if  that  can  be  called  a 
theory  which  is  nothing  but  an  assertion 
—  is  this  :  that  in  the  best  possible  sys- 
tem of  things  evil  was  an  inevitable  part ; 
and  when  explanation  is  demanded  by 
his  antagonist,  he  says,  '•  Mr.  Bayle  de- 
mands a  little  too  much  ;  he  would  have 
us  show  how  evil  is  bound  up  with  the 
best  possible  plan  of  the  creation,  — 
which  would  be  a  perfect  explanation  of 
the  phenomenon  ;  but  we  do  not  under- 
take to  give  it,  nor  are  we  obliged  to  do 
so  ;  it  would  be  impossible  in  the  pres- 
ent state ;  it  is  enough  that  it  may  be 
true,  it  may  be  inevitable"  —  (though, 
strangely  to  me,  while  hovering  about 
this  point  throughout  almost  the  entire 
Thfiodicee,  he  never  once  says  wherein 
this  inevitableness  consists),  —  "it  may 
*  Thdodicde,  p.  55,  edition  of  M.  A.  Jacques. 


THE   PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


be."  he  says,  "  that  certain  particular 
evils  are  bound  up  with  what  is  best  in 
creneral.  This,"  he  says,  "  is  sufficient 
for  an  answer  to  objections,  but  not  for 
a  comprehension  of  tlie  thing."* 

But  such  difficulty,  I  repeat,  about 
the  application  of  principles  is  common 
to  all  subjects  ;  it  attaches  no  peculiar 
mystery  to  the  problem  of  evil.  I  may 
also  say.  that  to  go  into  this  application, 
—  to  go  into  details,  is  the  very  business 
of  these  lectures :  we  shall  have  perpet- 
ually to  answer  questions ;  our  present 
concern  is  with  the  thecny,  —  with  the 
principle  upon  which  those  questions 
are  to  be  answered. 

While  I  am  upon  this  point, — -the 
difference,  that  is  to  say,  between  the 
principle  and  the  details,  —  let  me  make 
another  distinction.  It  is  often  said 
that  nothing  but  a  future  life  can  clear 
up  the  mysteries  of  the  present.  That 
is  true  with  regard  to  details.  Why 
some  particular  series  of  calamities  is 
permitted,  why  a  paralyzing  disease 
presses  upon  the  whole  of  this  life,  per- 
haps nothing  but  a  future  life  can  tell. 
But  the  principle  lying  at  the  basis  of 
the  problem,  I  think  we  shall  see,  stands 
clear  and  manifest,  here  and  now. 

Or,  to  state  the  same  thing  in  a  more 
general  way :  here  is  a  world  and  a 
world  system  ;  here  is  man  placed  in  it, 
with  a  particular  constitution,  mental 
and  bodily;  here  is  a  story  of  human 
fortunes,  running  back  into  darkness 
and  obscurity  ;  a  story  full,  doubtless, 
of  strange  things,  to  our  human  view,  — 
full,  certainly,  of  complications  hard  to 
unravel,  —  full  of  strugglings  and  sor- 
rows. Now,  why  this  particular  kind 
of  world  and  system  and  race  should 
have  been  chosen  to  occupy  this  particu- 
lar space  and  time  in  the  boundless 
domain  of  being  ;  why  our  nature  should 
be  so  weak,  or  why  so  strong,  why  so 
high  or  so  low  ;  or  why  such  and  so 
great  evils  should  attend  our  human  de- 
velopment, rather  than  others,  — mani- 
festly it  is  altogether  beyond  us  to  say. 
I    must    pray    you    to    attend    to    the 

•  Th^odicse,  p.  158. 


distinction  I  am  making,  for  I  would 
not  be  thought  guilty  of  the  presump- 
tion and  folly  of  saying  that  I  can  answer 
such  questions.  If  this  is  what  is  meant 
by  mystery  in  the  creation,  I  admit  it  all, 
and  a  great  deal  more.  And  if  any  one 
should  say,  on  some  hearsay  report  of 
the  lecturer's  design  this  evening,  •'  Oh  ! 
he  proposed  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the 
world,  and  the  mystery  of  all  the  evil  in 
the  world  ! "  I  answer  that  I  propose  no 
such  thing  !     To  Pope's  line, 

"  All  partial  evil,  universal  good,'' 
Voltaire  mockingly  and  bitterly  says, 
''  A  singular  notion  of  universal  good,  — 
composed  of  the  stone,  of  the  gout,  of 
all  crimes,  of  all  suffisrings,  of  death  and 
daiTination."  *  To  any  such  one-sided 
or  passionate  reasonings  about  evil,  I 
am  not  concerned  at  present  to  reply. 
Be  it  a  mystery  —  something  beyond 
our  reach  to  comprehend  —  why  this 
particular  form  of  the  creation  is  cho- 
sen, and  therefore  why  these  special 
"ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to  "  are  put  into 
the  system,  still,  there  is  a  principle 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  all,  and  account- 
ing for  much,  which  is  not  mysterious, 
and  which  I  may,  without  presumption, 
I  think,  offer  for  your  consideration. 
Let  us,  then,  proceed  to  state  those  in- 
evitable laws  of  all  being  —  of  all  being 
but  God  himself — which  lead  us  irre- 
sistibly to  that  principle. 

First,  the  system  in  which  evil  ex- 
ists is  a  creation.  It  is  not  something 
self-existent,  but  something  made,  ar- 
ranged, set  in  order  by  a  power  above. 

Secondly,  to  a  created  system  limita- 
tion necessarily  attaches.  It  could  not 
be  infinite  in  magnitude  nor  in  any 
other  attribute.  Created  power  cannot 
be  omnipotent  ;  created  intelligence  can- 
not be  omniscient.  Every  created  in- 
telligence, every  created  moral  nature, 
must  have  a  beginning;  and  the  law  of 
its  action  is,  and  for  aught  that  we  can 
see  must  be,  development,  growth,  pro- 
gress. At  any  rate,  limitation  belongs 
of  necessity  to  the  whole  system;  to 
men  and  things  alike. 

*  La  Ralson  par  Alphabet;    article  Tout  est  bien. 


532 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


Thirdly,  limitation  implies  imperfec- 
tion. Human  knowledge  is  of  necessity 
imperfect  ;  the  human  will  and  con- 
science are  of  necessity  imperfect  ;  the 
material  elements,  too,  air,  earth,  water, 
are  necessarily  imperfect.  That  is  to 
say,  they  can  have  no  absolute  and 
infinite  perfection,  Uke  the  being  of 
God.  In  other  words,  their  perfection, 
such  as  it  is,  must  be  relative ;  i.  e., 
they  answer  the  best  purpose  that  they 
can,  with  reference  to  some  end.  Thus 
the  air  is  the  best  element  for  the  lungs 
to  breathe  ;  the  lungs  the  best  organ 
for  imparting  purity  and  vitality  to  the 
blood ;  the  system  of  circulations  the 
best  for  the  growth  of  the  body ; 
the  body  the  best  organization  for  the 
soul;  the  powers  of  the  soul  the  best 
for  high  culture  and  happiness  :  but 
there  is  no  absolute  best  in  them,  no 
absolute  perfection ;  there  cannot  be. 
Throughout,  and  at  every  step,  there  is 
imperfection,  liability  to  hurts,  liability 
to  go  wrong.  Thus,  again,  every  organ, 
every  element,  is  best  for  its  specific 
purpose,  but  not  for  every  other  pur- 
pose. Nay,  more  ;  that  which  fits  it 
for  one  thing  7/;;fits  it  for  another. 
The  whole  human  frame  is  good,  is  per- 
fect for  its  purpose.  For  its  purpose, 
it  is  required  to  be  composed  of  deli- 
cate organs,  and  to  be  covered  with  a 
sensitive  envelopment.  It  is  perfect 
for  its  purpose;  but  it  is  not  so  good 
for  fight,  it  is  not  clad  in  mail,  it  is 
not  bullet-proof. 

The  question  is,  how  comes  evil  to  be 
in  the  world  ?  Or,  in  other  words,  why 
was  it  not  excluded  from  the  system  ? 
Certainly  it  is  not  desirable  for  its  own 
sake;  infinitely  otherwise;  we  feel  it 
to  be  infinitely  otherwise.  How  often 
does  the  vision  rise  before  our  minds, 
of  a  world  without  pain  and  without 
sin,  without  one  sorrov/  or  wrong  in  all 
its  blessed  dwellings;  and  we  say,  with 
a  tone,  perhaps,  of  something  like  com- 
plaint as  well  as  heavy  sighing,  why 
could  not  this  world  have  been  such  ? 
Why,  then,  was  it  not  such  a  world  ? 
And  the  answer  that  I  give  is,  that  it 


was  in  the  nature  of  things  impossible 
This   is  my   principle,  —  that  it  was,   in 
the  nature  of  things,  and  by  the  inevi- 
table conditions  of  the  problem,  impos- 
sible to  exclude  evil. 

Before  I  attempt  to  show  how  and  why 
it  was  impossible,  let  me  provide,  by  a 
remark  or  two,  against  any  preconcep- 
tions that  may  arise  in  your  minds  with 
regard  to  my  design.  I  do  not  intend 
then,  in  the  first  place,  to  take  up  any 
questions  in  theology.  According  to 
the  statutes  of  the  Lowell  Institute,  and 
equally  in  accordance  with  my  own 
views  of  propriety  in  such  a  course  of 
lectures,  I  am  required  to  avoid  all  po- 
lemic discussion.  And  indeed  I  do  not 
see  but  the  question  which  I  raise  in 
this  lecture  presses  equally  upon  every 
theology.  For  if  any  one  traces  all  the 
evil  in  the  world  to  the  sin  of  Adam, 
then  the  question  would  be,  why  was 
not  Adam  prevented  from  sinning  ? 
And  my  answer  is,  that  he  could  not,  — 
being  a  free  moral  and  imperfect  crea- 
ture,—  that  he  could  not  be  prevented. 
If  this  is  true,  it  must  be  a  great  relief 
to  see  it ;  for  it  must  seem  strange  that 
he  was  not  kept  pure,  if  that  was  pos- 
sible. It  appears  to  me  that  we  are 
bound  to  think  that  he  and  his  posterity 
would  have  been  kept  in  perfect  inno- 
cence and  bliss,  if,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  it  had  been  possible. 

Let  me  further  say  that  the  position 
which  I  take  —  viz.,  that  evil  could 
not  be  prevented  —  implies  no  lim- 
itation of  the  Divine  power  or  good- 
ness. This  idea  of  power,  I  conceive, 
is  to  be  put  out  of  the  case  altogether. 
Yet  it  has  very  closely  adhered  both 
to  ancient  and  modern  reasonings  upon 
evil.  Lactantius,  in  his  treatise  on 
"The  Wrath  of  God"  (sec.  13),  intro- 
duces the  Epicureans  as  reasoning 
thus  :  "  Either  God  wills  to  remove 
evil,  and  cannot  ;  or  he  can,  and 
will  not;  or  he  cannot,  and  will  not; 
or  he  can,  and  will.  If  he  wills,  and 
cannot,  that  is  weakness.  If  he  can. 
and  will  not,  that  is  malignity.  If  he 
1  will   not.  and   cannot,   that    is    a  de'ect 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


533 


both  of  power  and  goodness.  But  if  he 
can  and  will,  then  why  is  evil?"  Or, 
to  take  a  modern  instance  of  the  same 
kind  of  reasoning :  in  Samuel  Rogers's 
'•Table  Talk,"  Mr.  Rogers  is  quoted  as 
saying,  "  The  three  acutest  men  with 
whom  I  was  ever  acquainted,  James 
Mackintosh,  Malthus,  and  Bobus  Smith, 
were  all  agreed  that  the  attributes  of 
the  Deity  must  be  in  some  way  limited, 
else  there  would  be  no  sin  and  misery." 
And  Leibnitz  quotes  Bayle  to  the  same 
effect  in  his  preface  to  the  Thdodic^e. 
Mr.  Rogers  and  his  friends  thought,  as 
I  know  from  more  private  sources,  that, 
as  the  limitation  could  not  be  of  wisdom 
or  goodness,  it  must  be  of  power,  i.  e., 
of  power  to  make  the  world  otherwise. 
Now  I  must  venture  to  say  that  all  this 
language,  whether  of  Lactantius,  or  of 
Mr.  Bayle,  or  of  Mr.  Rogers  and  his 
friends,  very  much  surprises  me.  For 
the  truth  is,  that  power  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  case.  There  are  such 
things  as  inherent,  intrinsic  natural 
impossibilities.  It  is  impossible,  for 
instance,  that  matter  should  exist  with- 
out occupying  space  ;  and  it  is  not  so 
proper  to  say  that  God  cannot  make  it 
so,  as  that  the  thing  cannot  be.  It  is 
said,  I  know,  that  God  ca7inot  make  two 
mountains  without  a  valley,  i.  e.,  a  de- 
pression of  land,  between  them  ;  but 
that  I  take  to  be  only  the  strongest 
popular  expression  of  the  utter  impossi- 
bility of  the  thing.  The  idea  of  power, 
strictly  speaking,  or  of  more  power  or 
less,  has  no  relevancy  to  the  case.  If 
I  take  two  balls  and  lay  them  before  me, 
and  then  add  two  more,  the  sum  cannot 
be  five  balls  ;  and  as  to  power  more  or 
less  to  do  that,  why  infinite  power  can 
no  more  make  them  five,  than  an  infant's 
power.  Again,  the  sum  of  the  angles 
of  every  triangle  is  equal  to  two  right 
angles,  — no  more  and  no  less,  — and  it 
cannot  be  otherwise.  And  you  might 
as  well  ask  me  why  God  could  not  make 
a  triangle  to  include  four  or  six  right 
angles,  as  ask  why  he  could  not  make 
an  imperfect  moral  and  free  nature  with- 
out any  liability  to  error  or  mistake. 


If  this  were  what  the  ancients  meant 
by  fate,  they  had  meant  rightly.  But 
it  is  not  to  be  represented  as  a  pow- 
er above  God.  For  it  is  only  saying 
that  irreconcilable  contradictions  cannot 
meet  in  the  same  nature.  It  is  only 
saying  that  a  thing  cannot  be  one  thing, 
and  a  totally  different  thing  from  what 
it  is,  at  the  same  time. 

If  now  I  have  sufficiently  guarded  my 
proposition  from  mistake,  let  us  proceed 
to  examine  it.  The  problem  of  evil,  the 
question  why  is  it  ?  —  this  is  the  subject 
before  us. 

Evil  is  of  two  kinds,  —  natural  and 
moral.  With  regard  to  the  latter,  I 
think  the  case  is  very  clear.  But  let 
us  inquire  for  a  moment  concerning  the 
former,  —  i.  e.,  natural  or  physical  evil. 

The  great  and  comprehensive  form  of 
natural  evil  \s  paitt ;  and  by  pain  I  mean 
now,  of  course,  physical  suffering,  or 
the  suffering  that  springs  from  a  bodily 
organization.  The  question  is,  could 
such  an  organization  be  made,  and  made 
to  answer  its  purposes  to  voluntary 
agents,  without  that  liability?  Or,  rath- 
er, here  are  two  questions.  Coujd  it  be 
made  at  all  ?  That  is  one  question. 
Was  it  possible  to  make  an  organ  capa- 
ble of  pleasure,  without  its  being  liable 
to  pain  when  hurt,  broken,  or  torn  in 
pieces  ?  Look,  for  instance,  at  that  sen- 
sitive vesture  with  which  the  human 
body  is  clothed,  —  the  skin ;  or  at  the 
corresponding  membrane  that  lines  the 
interior  cavities  of  the  structure,  — 
the  mucous  membrane.  With  soft  and 
gentle  touches  applied  to  the  body,  with 
warm  and  balmy  airs  breathing  upon  it. 
or  sweet  odors  inhaled,  or  healthful  food 
received,  this  sensitive  vesture,  within 
and  without,  thrills  with  pleasure.  Could 
it  be  —  was  it  in  the  nature  of  things 
possible  —  that  cold  could  freeze  it,  or 
the  knife  cut  it,  or  baleful  poison  could 
enter  in,  or  starving  and  death,  without 
giving  pain  ?  Could  the  sense  of  touch, 
alive  to  all  impressions,  find  every  im- 
pression equally  agreeable?  In  fact, 
would  not  such  a  perpetual  monotony  of 
impression    have    been  itself  disagree- 


534 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


able?  But  could  any  sensitive  integu- 
ment be  made  to  which  it  should  be 
indifferent  whether  water  bathed  or  fire 
burned  it  ?  Pleasure  and  pain  seeju  to 
us  necessarily  correlative,  necessarily 
bound  together  in  any  organ  that  is  ca- 
pable of  either. 

I  may  doubt,  then,  whether  it  was 
possible,  in  the  nature  of  things,  to  ex- 
clude pain  from  the  human  or  from  any 
sensitive  organization.  But  it  is  yet 
clearer,  in  the  next  place,  that  pain  is 
necessary  to  the  purposes  which  this 
organization  was  designed  to  answer.  I 
suppose  that  it  is  universally  conceded 
that  there  are  such  purposes  ;  that  the 
body  was  made  for  the  mind,  made  to 
train,  to  educate  the  mind.  But  suppose 
it  were  made  only  for  itself.  Even 
then,  even  for  the  body's  preservation, 
pain  is  as  necessary  as  pleasure.  The 
mind's  prudence  needs  the  salutary  ad- 
monition of  pain.  "The  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire."  But  not  the  fire  alone  ; 
every  element  around  us  would  prove 
fatal  to  the  ignorance,  inexperience,  and 
impetuosity  of  childhood,  if  pain  did  not 
teach  it  prudence.  The  body  itself  would 
perish  in  a  thousand  ways  if  caution  and 
wisdom  were  not  learned  from  suffering. 
Then,  again, —  looking  to  higher  pur- 
poses, — 'what  is  it,  as  the  primary  im- 
pulse, that  stirs  the  world  to  activity,  to 
industry.''  What  is  it  that  prevents  it 
from  sinking  into  perpetual  languor  and 
sleep  ?  It  is  the  pain  of  hunger.  Or 
why  does  man  build  his  rude  hut,  or 
fashion  his  clothing  of  skins,  but  to  pro- 
tect himself  against  the  pain  which  the 
elements  would  inflict  ?  Or  if  we  say 
that  sloth  itself  is  irksome  and  painful, 
still  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  "  Un- 
easiness," of  some  kind,  as  Mr.  Locke 
teaches,  "  is  the  universal  motive  to 
action."  But  suppose,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  there  was  no  pain.  Suppose 
that  all  sensation  were  pleasurable. 
How  certainly  would  the  human  race 
sink  into  the  fathomless  gulf  of  sensual- 
ism ?  If  excess  never  brought  satiety 
nor  suffering  with  it,  how  certain  must 
it  be  that  it  would  never  stop  ;  and  that 


the  whole  man,  the  whole  nature,  the 
whole  world,  would  sink  into  utter  moral 
perdition  !  Man,  we  say,  is  to  be  trained ; 
his  higher  nature  is  to  be  developed  and 
cultivated.  To  this  end  the  senses  min- 
ister. To  effect  it  they  have  pleasures 
to  offer.  But  they  must  have  other 
means  than  pleasure  at  their  disposal,  or 
they  could  never  fulfil  their  office. 

Either  in  the  nature  of  things,  then, 
or  in  the  purposes  of  things,  or  in  both, 
we  say  that  physical  evil,  as  far  as  we 
can  see,  was  inevitable. 

But  let  us  now  look  at  what  is  more 
material  to  the  problem  we  are  consid- 
ering, —  at  moral  evil. 

Was  it  possible  to  frame  a  nature,  mor- 
al, finite,  and  free,  and  to  exclude  from 
it  all  liability  to  error,  to  sin  ?  I  answer 
that,  by  the  very  terms  of  the  statement, 
it  was  just  as  impossible  as  to  make  two 
mountains  without  a  valley  ;  or  to  make 
the  angles  of  a  triangle  to  be  equal  to 
three  or  four  right  angles.  The  very 
statement  of  the  case  excludes  the  pos- 
sibility. 

Let  us  look  at  the  case.  Here  is  a 
being  created  with  certain  moral  facul- 
ties. He  is  capable  of  loving  the  right. 
He  is  capal)le  of  loving  the  wrong.  He 
is  also  perfectly  free  to  do  the  one  or 
the  other  at  his  pleasure.  If  he  pleases 
to  do  wrong,  nothing  can  prevent  him  ; 
that  leaves  him  free.  He  is  imperfect, 
moreover,  and  is  liable,  from  defect  of 
knowledge,  to  go  astray.  He  is  en- 
dowed, too,  with  the  love  of  happiness  : 
he  must  be  so  ;  the  very  capability  of 
happiness  implies  a  love  of  it;  and  in 
his  ignorance  he  is  liable  to  suppose 
that  the  evil  way  will  make  him  happi- 
est ;  that  the  indulgence  of  his  appetites 
and  passions,  for  instance,  will  yield  him 
a  fuller  satisfaction  than  the  culture  of 
his  higher  nature.  Aberration  and  fail- 
ure, alas  !  are,  more  or  less,  the  story 
of  every  human  life.  Aberration  and 
failure,  too,  are  grievous  sins  :  for  this 
being  had  power  —  had  freedom,  that  is 
to  say  —  to  choose  the  better  part.  The 
fact  is  so  ;  but  the  question  i=,  was  it 
possible  to  place  him  beyond  the  reach 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


535 


of  this  peril?  If  it  were,  then  we  are 
to  find  the  origin  of  evil  in  the  arbitrary 
and  mysterious  will  of  Heaven.  But 
was  it  possible  ?  Was  it  possible  to 
make  this  beiny;  impeccable,  incapable 
of  evil,  independent  of  temptation  ? 

What  is  the  only  conceivable  condi- 
tion on  which  such  a  result  can  be  se- 
cured ?  That  man's  will  be  bound, 
constrained,  compelled  to  the  right 
course.  But  then  he  is  not  free.  Take 
away  that  perilous  element,  freedom, 
and  then  he  may  be  safe ;  but  theti  he  is 
no  longer  a  moral  being.  So  long  as  he 
is  imperfect  and  free,  he  must  be  liable 
to  choose  wrong.  He  need  not,  indeed, 
in  a  palpable  case,  choose  wrong.  He 
need  not  be  guilty  of  positive  malig- 
nity, of  intentional  sin,  —  and  the  dis- 
tinction is  important,  —  but  he  must  be 
exposed  to  sins  of  inadvertence,  exposed 
to  slide  into  evil  unawares.  Nay,  and 
in  a  palpable  case  he  must  be  free  to  go 
wrong  if  he  pleases  ;  else  he  is  not  a 
moral  being. 

But  what,  then,  is  evil,  in  man,  under 
this  theory  ?  it  may  be  asked ;  and  I 
ought  to  pause  here  a  moment  to  an- 
swer. Is  evil  a  mere  mistake,  a  mere 
confusion  as  to  what  is  right,  of  a  mind 
dazzled  by  worldly  fascinations  or  cloud- 
ed by  sense  and  appetite  ?  Far  from  it. 
There  is  indeed  mistake  about  it,  con- 
fusion of  mind,  blinding  temptation. 
Still,  when  a  man  is  drawn  to  evil,  he 
commonly  knows  it  to  be  evil.  Why, 
but  for  this,  is  there  any  struggle  in  his 
mind  about  it  ?  How  is  it,  but  for  this 
knowing  better,  that  the  descent  to  gross 
vice,  to  falsehood,  to  dishonesty,  is  often 
achieved  through  strife,  misgiving,  and 
agony  at  every  step  ?  Nay,  and  it  must 
not  only  be  that  he  knows  better,  but 
that  he  can  do  better ;  else  he  could  not 
blame  himself.  What,  in  fact,  is  the 
case  presented  to  the  tempted  and  fall- 
ing? There,  on  the  one  hand,  is  some 
advantage  —  pleasure,  lucre,  distinction, 
happiness,  the  mind  calls  it.  Here, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  purity,  rectitude, 
virtue.  Between  these  lies  the  ques- 
tion.    Here  is  the  crisis,  the  most  tre- 


mendous that  can  be,  in  the  nature  of 
things.  What  does  the  man  do  ?  What 
does  he  choose  ?  There  is  no  compul- 
sion. There  is  no  compulsion  to  evil,  and 
there  is  no  compulsion  to  good.  Power 
Almighty,  that  reaches  to  the  infinite 
height  above  and  to  the  infinite  deep 
below,  and  sways  the  boundless  spheres 
around,  touches  not  that  solemn  pre- 
rogative of  choice.  What  does  the  man 
do?  He  chooses  the  wrong!  What  is 
the  definition  of  that  act  ?  A  violated 
conscience  !  It  is  the  most  awful  fact 
in  the  history  of  humanity,  —  a  violated 
conscience  !  It  is  the  breaking  of  the 
highest  law  in  the  universe,  and  of  that 
which  the  offender  feels  and  knows  to 
be  the  highest,  —  the  manifested  law 
of  the  infinite  Rectitude.  The  conse- 
quences, indeed,  are  fearful  ;  the  most 
dreadful  miseries  in  the  world  are  the 
results  of  wrong-doing ;  but  they  stand 
in  just  and  lawful  accordance  with  the 
deed,  not  in  any  disproportion. 

But  suppose  the  man  to  choose  right: 
let  us  consider  that,  a  moment ;  for  it 
will  confirm  our  view,  I  think,  of  the 
essential  attributes  of  a  free  nature. 
What  is  virtue,  goodness,  holiness? 
It  is  often  spoken  of  as  if  it  could  be 
created  in  the  heart  or  could  be  put 
into  it,  by  an  independent  power.  But 
can  it  be  so  ?  Virtue,  love,  is  the  volun- 
tary act  of  the  soul.  It  is,  by  definition, 
incapable  of  creation.  It  cannot  be  put 
into  the  heart.  It  is  the  heart's  own 
voluntary  putting  forth.  All  that  we 
can  conceive  of  as  possible  to  be  cre- 
ated is  the  capacity  to  love.  The  act 
of  loving  is  the  sole  act  of  the  being 
created.  It  is  as  much  so  as  hatred 
is  his  own  act  Both  are  alike  free, 
voluntary,  unforced,  or  they  are  not 
moral. 

Whether  we  consider,  therefore,  the 
essential  nature  of  good  or  of  evil  in  the 
mind,  we  are  brought  to  the  conclusion, 
that  the  exposure  to  evil  is  one  of  the 
inevitable  conditions  of  the  problem  in- 
volved in  a  moral,  finite,  and  free  nature. 
I  have  before  expressed  my  surprise 
that  Leibnitz,  in  his  great  work  on  tiie- 


536 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


ology,  the  Theodic^e,  which  is  chiefly 
occupied  with  this  very  subject,  no- 
where distinctly  points  to  the  nature 
and  ground  of  this  inevitableness  of 
evil.  He  does,  however,  ^wr^  quote  with 
qualified  approbation  the  following  sen- 
tence from  Mr.  Jacquelot.  "Suppose," 
says  Jacquelot,  "that  God  could  not 
prevent  the  bad  use  of  free  will  without 
annihilating  it  ;  it  will  be  agreed  that 
His  wisdom  and  His  glory  having  deter- 
mined Him  to  make  creatures  free,  the 
same  powerful  reason  must  preponder- 
ate over  the  unhappy  consequences  that 
would  spring  from  this  liberty."  *  This 
I  regard  as  pointing  to  the  true  theory 
of  the  origin  of  evil.  Only  by  being  an- 
nihilated could  free  will  be  secured  from 
this  liability  to  aberration  and  evil. 

But  I  must  now,  to  bring  tliis  theory 
fully  before  you,  carry  it  a  step  farther; 
and  I  mean,  farther  back,  to  the  origin 
of  the  human  experiment.  Every  man 
begins  his  experiment  in  infancy.  The 
race  began  in  infancy.  Every  genera- 
tion must  begin  so.  Could  it  begin 
anywhere  else  ?  The  point  is  material ; 
for  it  is  easy  to  see  that  if  it  were  other- 
wise, if  the  man  or  the  race  could  begin 
where  their  predecessor  leaves  off  ;  if 
each  generation  had  taken  up  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  past  generation,  and 
borne  it  onward  ;  if  the  child  had  as- 
sumed all  the  virtues  of  his  parent,  and 
had  proceeded  on  that  vantage-ground, 
then  the  burden  of  human  sin  and  mis- 
ery would  have  been  relieved  to  an  in- 
calculable extent.  Again  I  ask,  was  that, 
in  the  nature  of  things,  possible.''  Was 
it  possible  to  put  those  results  of  past 
experience  into  any  newly  created 
heart?  Was  it  not  inevitable  that  every 
newly  created  race,  every  newly  created 
soul,  should  begin  in  infancy,  and  work 
its  own  way  up  to  virtue  and  happiness  ': 
Such,  we  see,  is  the  fact ;  but  was  any 
other  thing  possible  ?  For  myself,  I  do 
not  see  that  any  other  thing  was  pos- 
sible. 

For  experience,  like  virtue,  by  defi- 
nition, ccmnot  be  created.     Wisdom,  by 

*  TWodic^e,  p.  i66. 


definition,  cannot  be  created.  It  is  what 
the  moral  being  works  out  for  himself. 
It  is  not  God's  act,  but  man's  act.  It 
implies  choice,  effort,  resistance  ;  and 
these  are  the  works  and  acts  of  the  hu- 
man being.  This  being  is  created,  not 
with  certain  virtues,  but  with  certain 
faculties.  Even  if  the  body  were  brought 
into  existence  full-formed  and  in  its 
adult  state,  as  we  may  suppose  the  body 
of  the  first  human  being  was,  still  there 
must  be  a  time  when  this  being  puts 
forth  his  first  act,  and  there  must  be  an 
after  time,  when  he  puts  forth  the  second 
and  the  third  act.  Can  the  first  act 
have  all  the  precision,  certainty,  and 
strength  of  the  second,  the  third,  the 
hundredth  ?  If  not,  then  here  is  learning, 
here  is  progress.  But  present  learning 
implies  past  ignorance  ;  progress  to-day, 
defect  yesterday.  In  ignorance,  then,  in 
weakness,  by  experimenting,  the  human 
being,  the  human  race,  must  advance 
and  grow  and  gain  strength.  In  the 
nature  of  things  it  cannot  be  otherwise. 

Still,  and  after  all,  I  do  not  doubt  the 
question  will  be  asked,  was  there  no 
alternative  .''  Pressed  by  the  hard  strife 
of  the  problem,  one  may  strangely  say : 
"  Well,  but  was  freedom  itself  any  neces- 
sary part  of  a  moral  and  good  nature  ? 
Could  not  God  have  made  a  being  pure 
and  good  without  freedom?  Or,  having 
given  him  freedom,  could  he  not  have 
held  it  back  from  all  aberration  ?  "  But 
do  you  not  see  that  these  suppositions 
violate  the  very  conditions  of  the  prob- 
lem of  moral  agency?  —  that  they  are 
neither  tenable  nor  indeed  conceivable? 
Nay,  if  the  highest  and  noblest  kind  of 
existence,  i.  e.,  a  moral  existence,  could 
have  been  jnade  and  kept  pure  and 
happy,  it  is  inconceivable  that  it  should 
not  have  been. 

The  truth  is,  as  I  conceive,  that  the 
failure  of  this  entire  argument,  if  it  fails 
with  you,  arises  from  my  fault  in  stating 
it,  or  from  yours  in  not  adhering  to  the 
premises.  Let  us  change  the  terms  of 
the  question,  —  let  us  put  this,  which  is 
regarded  as  such  a  confounding  and 
insoluble  problem,  into  another  shape, 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


537 


and  ask  why  igtiorance  is  permitted  in 
the  creation.  You  find  the  most  ter- 
rible and  overwhelming  calamities  and 
miseries  springing  from  ignorance ; 
from  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  health  — 
of  ventilation,  food,  drink,  medicine; 
from  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  material 
nature  and  of  human  nature.  Indeed, 
almost  all  the  evils  in  the  world  may  be 
referred  to  this  one  source.  And  now 
you  ask  —  quite  confident  that  nobody 
can  answer  —  disdainfully  and  solemnly 
shaking  the  head  at  any  attempt  to  an- 
swer—  struck  blind  by  a  perspicacity 
which  sees  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
seen  —  you  ask,  "  What  is  the  origin  of 
ignorance  ?  "  What  is  the  origin  of 
ignorance  "^  Why,  it  could  not  be  helped. 
That  is  the  origin  of  ignorance.  It 
could  not  be  helped.  Do  you  wonder 
that  man  is  not  omniscient  ?  Is  that  a 
confounding  and  insoluble  problem  to 
you  ?  Why  not  go  on,  and  wonder  that 
man  is  not  almighty,  all-wise,  and  infi- 
nitely happy  ? 

But  now,  I  repeat,  if  any  one  goes 
into  detail,  and  says,  "  Why  this  ? 
Why  that  ?  Why  such  a  race  as  the 
human .''  Why  the  Chinese  or  Africans  ? 
Why  such  degraded  forms  of  being.'' 
Why  creatures  maimed  and  crippled  by 
hereditary  taint  ?  "  —  I  may  well  answer 
that  we  do  not  know  ;  that  it  is  quite 
beyond  us  to  know,  in  particular,  why 
these  special  forms  and  conditions  of 
being  exist.  Of  the  degree  of  imperfec- 
tion, best  for  this  world  or  for  that 
world,  it  is,  of  course,  quite  beyond  us 
to  form  any  judgment.  But  surely  it  is 
something  for  us  to  consider,  and  some- 
thing profoundly  entering  into  the  prob- 
lem of  our  existence,  that  it  was  in  the 
very  nature  of  things  impossible  to  re- 
move from  the  system  of  a  moral  crea- 
tion all  evil,  all  ignorance,  all  error,  all 
suffering.* 

*  As  I  am  anxious  to  relieve  this  conclusion  from 
all  unnecessary  objection,  I  will  add  that  it  is  not  alto- 
gether heterodox.  Since  I  first  delivered  this  course  of 
lectures,  I  have  read  Archbishop  King's  work  "  On 
tlie  Origin  of  Evil,"  translated  and  commented  upon 
by  Edmund  Law,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  —  some  weight  of 
testimony  certainly,  from,  the  Church  of  England,  — 


Let  me  now  detain  you  a  few  mo- 
ments longer,  while  I  attempt  to  carry 
this  argument,  necessarily  abstract  thus 
far,  into  some  of  its  practical  bearings 
upon  life,  and  upon  the  state  of  mind, 
in  our  reasonings,  which,  as  a  matter 
of  inference,  it  requires  of  us. 

I  say,  then,  in  the  first  place  —  let  it 
be  fixed  in  our  minds  that  the  system 
of  the  moral  world  is  a  system  of 
spontaneous  development.  It  could 
not  be  other  than  spontaneous  in  con- 
sistency with  its  own  nature.  The 
agent  is  free.  He  must  do,  within  the 
range  of  his  permitted  activity,  what  he 
will.  You  ask  why  things  could  not 
have  been  ordered  or  controlled  so  as 
to  bring  out  a  happier  result ;  why  such 
monsters  in  human  shape  as  Tiberius 
and  Cjesar  Borgia,  or  the  petty  tyrant 
in  his  own  family  or  village,  should  not 
have  been  hindered  from  their  excesses 
or  their  cruelties  ?  The  answer  is,  they 
could  not,  unless  by  being  deprived  of 
their  natural  freedom.  If  they  had 
been  animals,  they  might  have  been 
guarded  and  governed  by  instinct.  But 
they  were  allowed  to  be  worse,  by  as 
much  as  their  range  was  larger ;  and 
that  range  could  not  be  contracted 
without  giving  up  the  essential,  the 
moral,  character  of  the  system.  To 
all  such  hypothetical  questions  the 
answer  is,  — given  a  nature  moral  and 
free,  given  a  world  for  its  sphere,  and 
the  consequences  must  follow.  Let  the 
inquirer  seize  this  idea  of  spontaneous 
development  and  hold  it  fast.  Inter- 
positions, in  certain  circumstances  and 

in  which  substantially  the  same  view  is  taken.  Sub- 
stantially, but  I  may  say,  not  precisely.  The  course 
of  the  Archbishop's  argument  is  mainly  this :  Take 
away  anything  that  you  call  an  evil,  and  I  will  show 
you  that  a  greater  evil  would  come  in  its  place.  But 
the  ground  taken  in  this  lecture  is  that  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  things  impossible  to  exclude  it;  that  it  is  an 
essential  contradiction  in  ideas  to  put  imperfection, 
choice,  virtue,  on  one  side,  and  immunity  from  all 
evil,  error,  suflferincr,  on  the  other.  There  was  a  book 
published  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  some  years  since,  es- 
pousing, I  think,  mainly  the  same  solution  of  our 
problem,  and  I  was  pleased  to  see  a  notice  of  it  in 
the  "  New  Englander,"  in  which  this  solution  was 
commended  as  worthy  at  least  of  serious  considera- 
tion. 


538 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN  DESTINY. 


for  certain  purposes,  we  may  and  do  be- 
lieve in  ;  but  they  are  exceptions  from 
the  system,  not  the  rule.  As  if,  when 
the  Creator  had  made  the  world  and 
placed  man  upon  it,  He  had  then  left, 
and,  if,  I  may  say  so,  neglected  it  and 
cast  it  off,  to  run  its  own  free  course,  — 
such  is  the  general  aspect  and  light  in 
which  we  are  to  study  its  history.  If 
in  this  study  we  meet,  as  we  shall  meet, 
with  abundant  evidence  that  this  world 
is  not  cast  off,  that  it  is  controlled  and 
guided  while  it  is  left  free,  it.  will  be  our 
own  wisdom  and  great  happiness  to  see 
that.  If  we  meet  with  the  fact  of  Di- 
vine interposition,  as  we  believe  that 
we  do,  we  shall  receive  it  with  most 
reverent  joy  and  thanksgiving.  But 
still  we  must  clearly  distinguish  this 
from  the  general  course  of  events.  We 
must  distinctly  see  that  we  are  mainly  to 
study,  not  a  supernatural,  but  a  natural 
development;  and  moreover,  not  an 
animal  nor  angelic,  but  a  human  devel- 
opment. We  must  firmly  say,  —  what 
man  pleases  to  be,  that  he  must  be  ; 
what  human  reason,  conscience,  affec- 
tion will,  that  they  must  do  ;  and  what 
human  ignorance,  barbarism,  passion 
will,  that  they  must  do.  It  could  not 
be  helped,  unless  by  unmaking  this 
nature,  deranging  this  plan,  destroying 
this  system  of  the    world. 

In  the  next  place,  that  man's  growth 
and  action  be  free  and  rational,  the 
system  of  treatment  under  which  he 
lives  must  be  one  of  general  laws,  and 
not  of  sudden  and  violent  expedients  ; 
a  system  of  gentleness  and  patience,  of 
moral  influence,  and  much  of  it  indirect 
influence.  Our  human  short-sighted- 
ness and  passion  are  ready  often  to 
call  down  sudden  and  signal  vengeance 
upon  the  evil-doer.  "  Is  there  not 
some  chosen  curse,"  we  say,  "  some 
hidden  thunder,  to  blast  the  wretch  who 
violates  all  laws,  human  and  divine  ?  " 
But  suppose  it  were  so.  Suppose  that 
the  eternal  retribution  that  dwells  em- 
bosomed in  the  air  around  us  were  to 
burst  forth  in  thunder  upon  every  atro- 
cious crime.      Suppose  that  the  Infinite 


Intelligence  were  ever  devising  new  pen- 
alties for  guilty  deeds.  Or  suppose 
that,  by  a  general  law,  the  lying  lips 
were  always  smitten  with  an  instant 
blow,  or  that  there  were  a  whip  wielded 
by  an  invisible  hand  for  every  villain 
in  the  world.  It  might  be  no  more  than 
justice  ;  and  you  might  say  that  the 
world  would  then  be  strictly  governed. 
Yes,  but  the  government  would  then  be 
a  police,  and  not  a  providence.  Human 
nature  would  break  down  under  such 
a  system  of  treatment.  Men  would  be 
like  slaves  under  the  lash  ;  and  their 
virtue,  mere  terror  and  cowardice. 
Therefore  men  are  left  slowly  to  learn 
the  evil  of  their  ways,  and  human 
wickedness  is  suffered  to  run  far, 
that  the  experience  of  evil  may  be 
corrective,  and  contrition  for  it  gener- 
ous and  sincere,  and  repentance  deep 
and  thorough. 

Yet  it  is  not  to  be  overlooked,  in  the 
third  place,  that  the  system  of  this  moral 
creation  is  one  of  restraint  and  correc- 
tion. There  is  restraint  here.  There 
are  limits  to  man's  power  and  will 
and  wickedness.  He  cannot  over- 
leap the  barriers  of  the  world  ;  he 
cannot  jump  off  from  the  globe  which 
he  inhabits.  It  rolls  through  -the  in- 
finite void,  a  separate  sphere  and  school ; 
and  the  pupil  cannot  escape  from  it, 
but  by  an  act,  rarely  committed,  and 
almost  always  to  be  referred  to  insanity. 
Material  nature  around  us,  too,  and  so 
far  as  it  enters  into  and  forms  a  part 
of  our  own  compound  being,  is  full  of 
restraint  and  retribution.  Heat  and 
cold,  and  storm  and  night,  and  sleep 
and  hunger,  and  disease' and  pain,  hold 
their  place  amidst  all  the  strugglings  of 
our  will  ;  and  no  man  may  deny  or  dis- 
regard their  power. 

There  is  a  solemn  control  within  us. 
also.  I  feel  that  there  is  an  awful 
Providence  over  my  mind.  Amidst  the 
thousand  questionings  of  my  spirit  and 
the  ten  thousand  moral  emergencies 
of  my  experience,  conscience  rises  up 
before  me,  ay,  and  against  me,  if  I  do 
wrong,  like   a  lifted   finger.     There   is 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


539 


sometliing  within  me  which  is  above  my 
will,  and  despite  my  will  it  proclaims  a 
law.  He  who  made  our  nature  free, 
made  it  not  free  from  that  glorious, 
that  tremendous  bond.  All  written  law, 
every  covenant,  promise,  and  oath  in 
the  world,  —  all  rest  upon  that  inner 
bond.  To  obey  that  law  within,  is 
honor,  peace,  and  fulness  of  joy.  To 
disobey,  is  misery  and  ruin.  Amidst 
all  that  is  called  ruin  in  the  world,  there 
is  nothing  like  the  ruin  of  guilt  ;  and 
of  all  the  miseries  in  the  world,  there 
is  nothing  like  the  agony  of  remorse. 
And  though  the  sharpness  of  that  agony 
be  escaped  through  the  dulness  of  con- 
science, though  the  solemn  reality  be 
veiled  over  by  the  haze  of  prosperity, 
yet  I  do  not  believe  that  any  human 
being  ever  solved  the  problem  of  evil 
in  himself,  the  problem  of  sensuality  or 
avarice  or  malignant  passion,  without 
finding  and  feeling,  ay,  settling  it  in  his 
deepest  heart,  that  it  was  an  unhappy 
course.  Here,  then,  are  restraint  and 
retribution. 

Such,  in  fine,  and  as  a  matter  of 
incontrovertible  fact,  is  the  system  of 
the  world  :  material,  and  as  such,  a 
sphere  of  education  ;  moral,  and  there- 
fore free,  —  and  therefore  liable  in  its 
very  nature  to  aberration  and  evil,  to 
sin  and  suffering  :  a  system  by  its  very 
nature,  and  inevitably,  one  of  sponta- 
neous development,  a  system  neces- 
sarily, for  its  purposes,  one  of  general 
laws  ;  and  clearly,  by  the  intervention 
of  a  Power  above  humanity,  a  system  of 
stupendous  moral  restraints. 

Such,  as  I  read  it,  is  the  problem  of 
human  life  and  history  ;  and  such,  in 
the  most  general  form,  is  its  solution. 
We  utter  that  phrase  —  human  life  and 
history  —  in  a  breath  ;  but  what  infini- 
tude of  meaning  is  in  it !  What  ages 
of  tremendous  experience  does  it  de- 
scribe !  It  is  not  a  mere  cold  theme 
for  philosophic  disquisition  ;  it  is  life, 
yours  and  mine,  the  world's  life,  —  in- 
tense, unutterable,  steeped  in  joys  and  sor- 
rows unutterable,  —  wide  as  the  spread 
of  nations,  comprehending  the  experience 


of  unnumbered  millions  of  creatures, 
swelling  with  the  burden  of  long  ages 
of  existence.  A  solemn  story,  of  things 
not  one  of  which  can  be  indifferent  to 
him  who  is  a  man  !  History  and  biog- 
raphy have  written  it,  and  yet  they 
have  not  written  a  millionth  part  of  it; 
fiction  has  illustrated  it,  and  yet  it  is 
stranger  than  fiction  ;  poetry  has  em- 
balmed it  in  holy  inspiration  and  sym- 
pathy, and  yet  the  unwritten  poetry  is 
a  thousand-fold  more  than  the  written. 
Ay,  everywhere  has  life  —  the  now  dead 
and  vanished  lite  of  ages — been  such. 
In  crowded  empires  and  among  the  scat- 
tered isles  ;  in  gay  and  gorgeous  cities, 
and  in  solitary  and  lowly  huts  ;  in  the 
fisherman's  bark  upon  the  Northern  seas, 
and  the  shepherd's  Arabian  tent,  and 
the  hunter's  Alpine  path  ;  by  the  hearth 
and  the  fireside,  or  in  wandering  and 
weariness  ;  in  the  dark  and  dreary  cas- 
tles of  the  old  Northmen,  or  upon  the  sun- 
ny slopes  of  Italy,  of  Persia,  and  of  India, 
everywhere  life,  this  same  life,  has  had 
its  lot,  —  amidst  wailings  of  grief  and 
melodies  of  joyous  hearts,  amidst  the 
desolations  of  war  and  famine  and 
pestilence,  and  the  green  abodes  of 
peace  and  plenty  :  age  with  its  heavy 
sigh,  and  infancy  with  its  prattlings, 
have  had  part  in  this  human  lot;  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  parents  and  chil- 
dren, the  secret,  never- uttered  ruminat- 
ing upon  the  mortal  lot  and  immortal 
hereafter,  of  the  private  heart  ;  passion 
and  strife,  and  glory  and  shame  ;  cour- 
age and  aspiration,  and  defeat  and  de- 
spair, —  all  that  is  life,  and  all  that 
death  is,  —  all  bound  up  in  this  tremen- 
dous  bond  of  human   existence  ! 

Comparatively,  nothing  in  the  world 
is  worth  studying  but  that.  God's  wis- 
dom in  the  stupendous  problem  of  hu- 
man existence,  let  me  understand  that, 
or  let  me  understand  what  I  can  of  it. 
All  other  sciences  do  in  fact  converge 
to  that, —  the  illustration  of  God's  wis- 
dom in  the  world.  Ail  arts  —  sculpture, 
painting,  poetry,  music,  history,  and 
every  form  of  literature  —  are  studies 
and  illustrations  of  the  great  humanity. 


540 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


But  the  philosophy  of  it  all,  —  that  do  I 
seek  above  all  things. 

I  believe  that  all  is  well.  I  believe 
that  all  is  the  best  possible.  Under- 
stand me,  however.  I  hold  to  optimism 
in  this  sense  ;  not  that  man's  work  is 
the  best  possible,  but  that  God's  work 
is  the  best  possible, —  is  the  utmost  that 
it  was  possible  for  Divine  power  and 
wisdom  to  do  for  man.  "  What  could  I 
have  done  for  my  vineyard,  that  I  have 
not  done  for  it.-" "  saith  the  Lord.  It  is 
an  essential  part  of  the  theory  which  I 
adopt,  and  one  which  I  especially  desire 
to  illustrate,  that  the  free  will  of  man, 
while  perfectly  free,  is  yet  surrounded 
by  wise  instructions  and  powerful  re- 
straints ;  that  the  world  of  nature  and 
of  humanity  are  full  of  them.  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  good  Being  would  have 
created  a  moral  system  which  in  its  free- 
dom was  certain  to  run  down  to  utter 
destruction  and  misery.  I  believe  He 
saw  that  it  could,  with  his  care  and  aid, 
travel  upward,  higher  and  higher  through 
ages.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  it  was 
possible,  in  the  nature  of  things,  to  ex- 
clude pain  and  weariness,  or  stumbHng 
and  wandering  from  the  path  that  shall 
conduct  it  to  the  heights,  to  the  ever- 
rising  heights  of  virtue  and  happi- 
ness. 

But  in  this  theory  —  to  say  one  word 
more  —  there  is  no  place  for  moral 
apathy.  No  man  may  fold  his  arms, 
and  say,  "Things  must  be  so  ;  and  in 
erring,  I  yield  but  to  nature."  There 
is  no  fate  in  this  world  like  the  fate  that 
a  man  makes  for  himself.  That  is  fate 
indeed, — the  inevitable  necessity  that 
every  man  must  freely  work  out  his  own 
weal  or  woe.  If  there  be  any  practical 
value  in  this  discussion,  it  is  in  having 
drawn  your  attention  distinctly  to  this 
inevitable  necessity,  as  the  fact  on 
which  hinges  the  whole  moral  philoso- 
phy of  human  life  and  history.  It  is 
a  fact,  unalterable,  fixed  as  adamant. 
Whether  we  build  upon  that  rock  or 
break  upon  that  rock,  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain,—  it  cannot  be  removed.  But  we 
may   build   upon   it :    and    therefore   to 


point  it  out,  and,  amidst  the  wayes,  the 
strifes  and  perils  of  human  existence,  to 
lift  it  up  clearly  to  view,  is  to  send  out  a 
challenge  to  all  the  spiritual  heroism  in 
the  world,  ay,  and  an  alarm-call  to  all 
the  sluggard  indolence  in  the  world, 
and  to  summon  every  man  that  lives  to  do 
all  that  he  can  for  himself,  and  to  do  all 
that  he  can  for  others.  To  arm  the  soul 
to  look  that  dread  fact  of  inalienable 
moral  responsibihty  fairly  in  the  face, 
and  to  arouse  the  soul  to  discharge  it- 
self of"  that  stupendous  trust  with  hu- 
mility and  resolution,  —  these  are  the 
highest  ends  of  all  right  study  and  of 
all  true  wisdom. 

I  say  in  fine,  and  I  say  plainly,  that 
for  sickly  complainers,  for  poor  voluptu- 
aries, for  weak  worldlings,  for  ignoble 
creatures  that  had  rather  be  innocent 
sheep  and  be  happy,  than  wrestling  an- 
gel-natures, taking  blows  and  wounds  in 
the  lists  of  virtue, —  1  have  no  doctrine 
to  deliver.  I  say  deliberately  and  firmly, 
that  I  had  rather  have  commenced  my 
existence  as  I  have,  than  in  some  im- 
aginary elysium  of  negative,  stationary, 
choiceless,  unprogressive  innocence  and 
enjoyment. 

Give  me  freedom,  give  me  knowledge, 
give  me  breadth  of  experience  ;  I  would 
have  it  all.  No  memory  is  so  hallowed, 
no  memory  is  so  dear,  as  that  of  temp- 
tation nobly  withstood,  or  of  suffering 
nobly  endured.  What  is  it  that  we 
gather  and  garner  up  from  the  solemn 
story  of  the  world,  like  its  struggles, 
its  sorrows,  its  martyrdoms  ?  Come  to 
the  great  battle,  thou  wrestling,  glorious, 
marred  nature  !  strong  nature  !  weak 
nature  !  —  come  to  the  great  battle,  and 
in  this  mortal  strife  strike  for  immortal 
victory!  The  highest  Son  of  God  — 
the  best  beloved  of  Heaven  that  ever 
stood  upon  earth  —  was  "  made  perfect 
through  sufferings."  And  sweeter  shall 
be  the  cup  of  immortal  joy,  for  that  it 
once  was  dashed  with  bitter  drops  of 
pain  and  sorrow  ;  and  brighter  shall  roll 
the  everlasting  ages,  for  the  dark  shad- 
ows that  clouded  this  birthtime  of  our 
being. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


541 


LECTURE     III. 

THE    MATERIAL    WORLD    AS    THE    FIELD    OF    THE    GREAT    DESIGN 
ITS    ADAPTATIONS    TO    THE    END HUMAN    CULTURE. 


I  HAVE  attempted  to  set  forth  in 
my  first  lecture  tlie  apparent  design 
proposed  in  the  creation  of  the  world, 

—  human  culture;  and  in  my  second, 
the  ground  principles  involved  in  that 
design,  —  involved,  that  is  to  say,  in 
those  material  and  moral  agencies  that 
belong  to  the  present  constitution  of 
things.  A  scene  there  must  be,  a 
place,  a  sphere  for  human  activity;  a 
free  will  in  man  to  act  his  pleasure  ; 
and  from  such  a  condition  and  nature  I 
have  contended  tliat  it  was  impossible, 

—  as  far  as  we  can  conceive,  —  that  it 
was  shown  by  the  very  terms  of  the 
statement  to  be  impossible  to  exclude 
all  evil.  This  principle  I  believe  to  be 
incontrovertible.  There  are  difficulties 
about  its  application  ;  there  are  difficul- 
ties about  the  details,  and  to  these  it  is 
my  special  business  in  these  lectures  to 
address  myself  ;  but  there  is  no  diffi- 
culty about  the  principle. 

I  shall  now  proceed,  and  especially 
in  the  present  lecture,  to  consider  this 
material  world  as  the  sphere  of  human 
activity  and  culture. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Burnet,  —  an  Eng- 
lish divine  of  the  17th  century,  —  in  a 
book  of  his  called  "  The  Sacred  Theory 
of  the  Earth,"  imagines  the  world  origi- 
nally to  have  been  literally  a  perfect 
sphere.  "  In  this  smooth  earth,"  he 
says,  "  were  the  first  scenes  of  the 
world  and  the  first  generations  of  man- 
kind ;  it  had  the  beauty  of  3'outh  and 
blooming  nature,  fresh  and  fruitful,  and 
not  a  wrinkle,  scar,  or  fracture  in  all  its 
body  ;  "  —  (and  what  do  you  think  he 
means  by  "  no  wrinkle  nor  scar"?)  — 
why,  "no  rocks  nor  mountains,"  he 
says,  "  no  hollow  caves  nor  gaping  chan- 
nels,  but   even  and   uniform   all   over. 


And  the  smoothness  of  the  earth  made 
the  heavens  so  too  ;  the  air  was  calm 
and  serene ;  none  of  tliose  tumultuary 
motions  and  conflicts  of  vapors,  which 
the  mountains  and  the  winds  cause  in 
ours  ;  it  was  suited  to  a  golden  age,  and 
to  the  first  innocency  of  nature."  * 

It  is  strange  that,  even  to  this  eccen- 
tric writer,  such  a  world  should  have 
seemed  a  desirable  place,  or  even  habit- 
able. But  suppose  the  reverse  of  this  ; 
suppose  the  earth  to  have  been  ridged 
all  over  with  lofty  mountains,  without 
intervening  plain,  ocean,  or  river,  and  it 
is  still  more  obvious  that  it  would  have 
been  completely  uninhabitable ;  at  least 
by  any  such  race  as  now  occupies  it. 

In  a  happy  medium  between  the  in- 
accessible mountain  and  the  unbroken 
plain  lies  the  lap  of  earth  to  receive  and 
nourish  the  children  of  men.  They  grow 
and  multiply  in  the  fruitful  valleys  ;  they 
nestle  under  the  covert  and  shadow  of 
mountain  ranges,  which  send  down  re- 
freshing breezes  upon  them  ;  they  line 
the  river-banks  and  the  shores  of  the  sea 
with  their  villages  and  cities,  and  launch 
forth  from  them  their  ships  for  distant 
voyages.  And  in  the  most  obvious  view, 
this  arrangement  is  necessary  to  human 
growth,  intercourse,  and  culture ;  and 
not  only  so,  but  to  human  subsistence. 
Without  level  grounds  there  could  not 
be  productive  agriculture  ;  without  moun- 
tains there  could  not  be  gushing  springs 
nor  flowing  streams  ;  without  oceans  and 
the  immense  evaporation  from  their  sur- 
face there  could  not  be  cloud  nor  rain ; 
and  without  refreshing  rains  and  irri- 
gating rivers  there  could  be  no  vegetable 
growth,  and  man  and  beast  alike  must 
perish  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

*  p.  76,  London  ed.,  iSi6. 


542 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


But  this  adjustment  of  the  earth  to 
human  subsistence,  comfort,  and  culture  ; 
let  us  consider  it  more  nearly. 

The  earth  is  a  globe  ;  and  so  small 
is  the  deviation  from  a  perfect  sphere 
caused  by  the  highest  mountains,  that 
the  Davalagiri  in  Asia,  28,000  feet  high, 
stands  above  the  level  only  as  the  twelfth 
of  an  inch  would  on  an  artificial  globe  of 
ten  feet  in  diameter.*  It  does  not  belong 
to  us  to  decide,  scarcely  to  inquire,  wheth- 
er some  other  form  for  the  world  would 
have  answered  the  purpose.  It  is  evident 
that  a  square  or  any  irregular  figure,  or 
simply  a  vast  and  level  extension,  would 
have  been  unfavorable  to  its  revolutions 
on  its  axis  or  its  free  movement  in 
space.  All  the  other  heavenly  bodies 
are  spherical  ;  this  is  the  form  chosen 
by  the  Infinite  Builder  and  Maker.  The 
earth,  then,  is  a  globe  ;  and  it  follows 
that  some  portions  of  it  must  be  less  fa- 
vorably situated  for  human  comfort  and 
culture  than  others.  If  it  be  asked  why 
this  inequality,  this  inconvenience,  this 
evil,  is  permitted  ;  why  the  burning  zone 
is  assigned  to  some  for  residence,  and 
the  cold  Arctic  regions  to  others  ;  the 
answer  is,  that  in  the  system  of  things 
this  was  inevitable.  Here,  in  fact,  and 
especially  in  the  northern  cold,  is  the 
problem  of  evil  again,  —  the  problem  of 
evil  for  the  Greenlander  ;  and  he  can 
rationally  solve  it  in  no  other  way.  But 
suppose  that  some  other  form  /lad  heen 
chosen,  by  which  these  particular  incon- 
veniences would  have  been  avoided ; 
and  while  we  are  indulging  our  imagina- 
tion, let  us  somewhat  extend  the  field  ; 
let  us  conceive  of  certain  other  arrange- 
ments that  might  have  been  made  for 
human  comfort.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
that  the  earth  had  been  covered  over, 
at  convenient  distances,  with  houses, 
built  as  a  part  of  the  world,  of  ever-dur- 
ing  stone  and  rock ;  and  that  near  these 
dwellings  had  grown  trees,  for  shade  and 
for  fruit,  and  that  around  them  had 
spread  fields  and  farms.  And  suppose, 
too,  that  roads,  ay,  and  railroads,  of  na- 
ture's workmanship,  had  run  all  over  the 

•  Guyot's  Comparative  Physical  Geography,  p.  34. 


earth,  just  where  they  were  needed ;  or 
that  in  the  ocean  there  had  been  vast 
currents  running  opposite  ways ;  one 
from  America  to  Europe,  to  bear  our 
ships,  and  another  from  Europe  to 
America,  to  bring  them  back  :  suppose 
all  this.  Should  we  h'/cc  this  stereotyped 
order?  Should  we  not  wish  to  alter 
the  houses,  the  grounds,  the  groves,  the 
roads,  to  suit  our  taste  or  convenience  ? 
I  scarcely  ever  knew  a  man  to  buy  a 
house  but  he  must  needs  alter  it,  to  make 
it  suit  him.  But  the  same  houses,  the 
same  estates,  the  satne  arrangements, 
for  all  generations,  rude  and  civilized  — 
it  would  be  intolerable.  It  would  be  a 
solid  barrier  against  all  improvement. 
No  ;  better  that  the  world,  rough,  wild, 
shaggy,  be  given  to  man  as  it  is,  to  mould 
it  as  he  will.  And  I  do  not  doubt  he 
will  yet  mould  it  into  such  a  garden  of 
plenty,  such  an  abode  of  beauty  and 
happiness,  as  we  cannot  now  conceive 
of  ;  far  better  than  that  exact  plan,  that 
world  for  drones,  which  some  might 
prefer.  No  ;  man  is  better  cared  for,  by 
not  being  cared  for  too  much.  The  world 
is  given  to  him,  as  the  raw  material, 
to  work  upon.  That  fact  is  the  basis  of 
his  whole  earthly  culture. 

But  passing  by  this  general  form  and 
structure  of  the  earth,  I  wish  to  show 
how  things  are  adjusted  and  adapted  to 
human  subsistence,  development,  and 
improvement ;  and  that  far  more  admi- 
rably and  exquisitely  than  they  would 
be  by  any  such  arrangement  of  houses, 
farms,  roads,  or  ocean  currents  as  I 
have  just  supposed.  For  this  purpose, 
I  shall  consider,  first,  some  of  the  gen- 
eral arrangements  of  nature  ;  secondly, 
some  of  the  specific  adaptations  of  the 
world  to  man,  and  of  man  to  the  world; 
and  thirdly,  certain  ministrations  of  na- 
ture to  still  higher  ends  in  the  sphere  of 
human  culture. 

Under  the  first  head,  I  must  mention 
certain  arrangements,  —  not,  indeed,  to 
convey  any  new  knowledge  to  many  of 
you  ;  but  I  must  remind  you  of  them  ; 
they  belong  to  the  survey  we  are  taking 
of  the  world  as  a  place  of  human  abode. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


543 


and  their  very  familiarity  may  lead  us  to 
overlook  their  importance. 

The  world  is  constructed  to  be  the 
abode  of  human  life,  and  to  nurture  the 
means  and  provisions  of  that  life.  For 
this  purpose  it  must  be  supplied  with 
food  and  drink  ;  and  it  must  be  heated, 
ventilated,  and  refreshed  with  moisture. 

The  way  in  which  these  ends  are  ac- 
complished is  marked  with  such  design, 
such  adjustment,  restraint,  and  modifi- 
cation of  nature's  forces,  —  nay,  such 
actual  departure  from  nature's  ordinary 
methods,  when  it  is  necessary  that  it  is 
worthy  of  most  reverent  heed  and  con- 
sideration. It  shows  not  only  that  there 
was  care  for  a  general  material  order, 
but  care  for  7nan. 

I.  Thus,  with  regard  to  temperature, 
the  earth  might  hive  been  so  hot  or  so 
cold  that  man  could  not  have  dwelt  upon 
it.  It  is  held  in  a  medium  between  those 
extremes.  But  ages  —  ages  of  unknown 
length  — were  required  to  bring  it  to  this 
condition.  Whatever  theory  be  adopted, 
whether  the  nebular  hypothesis  or  any 
other,  it  is  commonly  held  among  geol- 
ogists that  the  earth  was  gradually  cool 
ing  through  unknown  and  indefinite  peri- 
ods of  time,  and  that  it  is  still,  at  the 
centre,  a  molten  and  fiery  mass.  And 
now,  if  the  heat  at  the  centre  were  far 
greater  than  it  is,  it  might  make  a  hot-bed 
of  the  whole  earth  :  it  might  produce 
enormous  growths,  like  those  of  the  pre- 
Adamite  earth  ;  when  the  fern  and  the 
brake  grew  eighty  feet  high,  —  fit,  indeed, 
to  make  coal-beds  (which  they  a'/^/make), 
but  not  fit  for  human  sustenance.  If  the 
central  heat  were  greater  still,  it  would 
destroy  all  vegetation.  But  if,  on  the 
contrary,  there  were  no  heat  in  the  world 
itself,  if  it  were  a  mass  penetrated 
throughout  with  icy  coldness,  it  may  be 
that  no  heat  from  the  sun  falling  upon 
its  frozen  bosom  could  make  it  a  fruit- 
ful, or  desirable,  or  habitable  abode  for 
man. 

But  further,  the  regions  of  the  equa- 
tor, over  which  the  sun  passes  and  upon 
which  lie  pours  down  his  direct  rays, 
are  liable  to  be  too  hot ;  and  the  regions 


of  the  pole,  upon  which  his  rays  fall 
slant  and  oblique,  too  cold.  This,  I 
have  said,  in  the  nature  of  things,  was 
unavoidable.  But  what  is  there  to  mod- 
ify and  temper  these  extremes  ?  On  the 
line  of  the  equator  the  earth  bulges  out, 
so  that  its  diameter  from  east  to  west  is 
twenty-six  miles  greater  than  from  north 
to  south.  Now  it  is  found,  from  boring 
into  the  earth,  and  from  examining  the 
temperature  of  mines  at  different  depths, 
that  the  heat  increases,  on  descending, 
at  the  rate  of  aijout  one  degree  for  fifty 
feet;  that  is  ic  s*y,  that  any  swell  on  the 
earth,  or  any  mountain  mass,  would  be 
—  the  internal  heat  alone  considered  — 
one  degree  colder  for  every  fifty  feet  of 
height,  twenty  degrees  for  every  thou- 
sand feet.  Doubtless  other  things  are 
to  be  considered,  and  especially  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  and  air  around  the 
mountiin  sides  ;  and  we  do  not  know 
the  conditions  of  this  central  heat.  Of 
course  the  calculation  cannot  be  applied 
with  any  exactness  ;  but  taking  into  ac- 
count simply  the  swell  Of  the  earth  around 
the  equator,  inasmuch  as  the  surface 
at  the  equator  is  about  thirteen  miles 
farther  from  the  centre  of  the  internal 
heat  than  the  surface  at  the  poles,  it 
seems  not  unreasonable  to  infer  that  the 
warmth  from  this  source  is  less  within 
the  tropics.  That  is  to  say,  if  there  were 
no  external  source  of  heat,  no  sun  shin- 
ing directly  upon  it,  the  now  burning 
zone  would  be  the  coldest  part  of  the 
earth. 

But  above  this  swelling  up  of  the  earth 
in  the  equatorial  regions  rise  again  the 
highest  mountains  in  the  world.  From 
these  heights  the  land  regularly  declines 
all  the  way  to  the  pole  ;  each  mountain 
range  lower  as  you  proceed,  each  plateau 
lower,  from  the  lofty  table-land  of  Thibet 
in  Asia,  14,000  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  ocean,  to  the  steppes  of  Tartary,  and 
the  great  plains  of  Siberia  in  the  ex- 
treme North ;  or,  to  take  it  in  the  New 
World,  from  Chimborazo,  21,000  feet 
high,  to  the  table-land  of  Mexico,  7.500 
feet  high,  and  the  plateau  of  Inner  Cali- 
fornia, 6,000,  and  so  onward  to  the  plains 


544 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY, 


of  Oregon  and  Hudson's  Bay.  The 
equatorial  mountains  rise  to  the  height 
of  from  twenty  to  nearly  thirty  thousand 
feet. 

On  ascending  these  mountains,  at  an 
elevation  of  about  fifteen  thousand  feet 
from  the  base,  we  reach  the  point  of  per- 
petual congelation.  Above  this  rise  the 
snowy  heights  —  stupendous  ice-houses 
to  cool  the  regions  below,  —  reservoirs  of 
water,  too,  to  refresh  them  ;  and  with- 
out which  neither  plant  nor  animal  nor 
man  could  have  lived  there.*  Now  if  a 
contrary  disposition  had  been  made  ;  if 
low  and  level  valleys  had  prevailed  near 
the  equator,  and  the  highest  mountains 
had  risen  within  the  Arctic  circle,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  both  would  have  been  uoin- 
habitable. 

I^et  us  now  turn  from  the  land  to  the 
water.  Nearly  three  fourths  of  the 
earth's  surface  is  covered  with  water. 
The  Pacific  Ocean  alone,  it  is  computed, 
occupies  more  space  than  all  the  dry 
land.  It  may  seem  a  strange  dispro- 
portion of  waste  and  apjjarently  useless 
water  to  fruitful  soil.  But  let  us  con- 
sider it.  This  soil  can  yield  nothing 
without  a  certain  amount  of  moisture. 
A  certain  amount,  —  neither  more  nor 
less  ;  too  much  would  saturate  and  de- 
bilitate the  vegetation,  too  little  would 
dry  it  up.  Now  the  sea  is  the  source  of 
moisture,  the  nurse  of  rains.  Evapora- 
tion Hfts  up  the  watery  particles  into  the 
air,  whence  they  are  borne  upon  the 
land,  to  fall  in  showers,  to  distil  in  dew, 
to  bathe  the  mountain  heights  whence 
they  gush  forth  in  springs,  gather  into 
streams,  and  form  and  feed  the  mighty 
rivers  ;  and  for  all  these  purposes  the 
supply  is,  in  the  general,  just  what  is 
wanted,  neither  too  much  nor  too  little. 
But  this  evaporation  from  the  sea,  what 
does  it  give  us  ?  Pure  water  ;  3.xi  extract 
from  the  mass,  as  e.xactly  separated  as 
if  it  were  distilled  in  an  alembic.  Sup- 
pose that  the  saline  particles  were  lifted 
into  the  air,  to  fall  in  rain  and  flow  in 
the  rivers  ;  that  it  rained  brine,  and  that 

*  I  am  indebted  for  these  estimates  to  Guyot's  Lec- 


brackish  and  bitter  waters  flowed  in  all 
our  streams  and  fountains  !  What  an 
element,  indeed,  what  a  blessing,  is  pure 
water  !  —  the  most  exquisite  refreshment 
of  thirst,  the  only  cleanser  of  impurity 
for  the  human  skin  and  for  all  that  per- 
tains to  human  use,  the  only  healthful 
solvent  of  vegetable  food  for  the  daily 
meal.  And  suppose  that  the  pure 
springs  or  the  medicinal  waters  were 
turned  into  bursting  fountains  of  cham- 
pagne wine  ;  it  would  seem  as  if  nature, 
in  her  secret  caverns,  had  plotted  for  our 
destruction  !  And  I  confess  that  I  am 
struck,  not  only  with  the  blessing  and 
beauty,  but  with  the  mystery  of  this  ele- 
ment. We  know  nothing  of  the  hidden 
connection  between  its  particles,  by 
which  it  is  a  flowing  liquid  instead  of 
a  mere  conglomeration  of  atoms.  If  it 
were  poured  into  our  cup  and  bowl  as 
disintegrated,  albeit  golden,  s:;nds,  we 
could  neither  drink  it  nor  wash  in  it. 
More  wonderful  than  any  enchanted 
cup  is  that  which  we  daily  put  to  our 
lips ;  choicer  than  all  the  cosmetics  of 
Arabia  is  that  morning  ablution  ;  and 
well  miglit  it  be,  every  morning,  as  an 
outpoured  oblation  of  pure  thanksgiving. 
And  wiien  it  falls  in  refreshing  rain,  — 
in  the  fine  rain  upon  the  mown  grass,  — 
who  can  help  sometimes  thinking  what 
it  would  have  been  if  it  had  come  down 
in  sheets  of  water  ;  how  it  would  have 
deluged  and  crushed  the  tender  herb 
beneath  ! 

But  why  is  the  sea  salt  ?  or  what 
purpose  is  served  by  its  saltness  ?  Pro- 
fessor Maury,  of  the  Washington  Obser- 
vatory, has  given  to  this  question  an  an- 
swer of  singular  interest.  He  has  shown 
that  the  whole  oceanic  circulation  de- 
pends mainly  upon  this  quality  of  salt- 
ness. And  upon  this  circulation  depends 
again  the  tempering  of  all  climates,  both 
hot  and  cold.  For  if  the  ocean  stood 
still,  then  increasing  masses  of  ice  in  the 
north,  and  increasing  heat  at  the  equator, 
would  make  both  zones  uninhabitable. 
Of  this  oceanic  circulation,  the  Gulf 
Stream  is  an  example  ;  but  there  are 
other  currents  no  less  remarkable.    The 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


545 


Arctic  voyagers,  wintering  in  Davis's 
Straits  and  Wellington  Channel,  found 
themselves  drifted  southward  by  a  sur- 
face current,  —  in  one  instance,  a  thou- 
sand miles  in  nine  months,  —  while,  at 
the  same  time,  icebergs,  sunk  deep  in 
the  water,  and  taking  the  effect  of  an 
undercurrent,  were  borne  the  very  opjDo- 
site  way,  —  borne  northward,  through 
crashing  fields  of  ice,  at  the  rate,  in  one 
instance,  of  four  knots  an  hour. 

But  how  is  this  effect  produced  ?  The 
immense  equatorial  evaporation  —  i.e., 
the  taking  up  of  immense  quantities  of 
water  —  lowers  the  sea-level.  A  surface 
current  from  the  north  flows  down  to 
supply  the  deficiency.  This  indeed 
would  take  place  if  the  sea  were  fresh. 
But  in  saltwater,  as  the  evaporation  does 
not  take  up  the  salt,  it  leaves  the  sur- 
face water  salter,  i.  e.,  heavier.  Con- 
sequently it  sinks  ;  and  thus,  by  its 
momentum,  it  prepares  in  the  depths 
of  the  equatorial  seas  an  undercurrent, 
which  flows  northward.  In  an  ocean  of 
fresh  water,  this  result  would  be  super- 
ficial and  partial. 

But  let  us  look  at  other  ministries  of 
the  ocean. 

At  first  sight  it  would  seem  as  if  this 
ocean  barrier  would  separate  nations,  — 
shut  them  up  in  solitariness  and  isola- 
tion. But  what  is  made  of  this  seeming 
obstacle  ?  Why,  in  fact,  nothing  is  made 
a  medium  of  intercourse  between  distant 
nations  like  the  ocean  ;  and  intercourse 
is  the  grand  educator,  civilizer.  If  Eu- 
rope had  been  separated  from  us  by 
3,000  miles  of  land,  we  might  hardly 
have  reached  her  yet ;  or  rather  she 
might  have  hardly  reached  us  —  hardly 
have  discovered  this  quarter  of  the 
world.  Or  if  some  wandering  tribes  had 
found  their  way  over  the  intervening  dis- 
tance, there  would  nevertheless  have 
been  little  or  no  intercourse.  The  vast 
plains  of  Asia  were  traversed  only  by 
here  and  there  a  trader  or  caravan,  or 
else  by  invading  armies.  Invasion  per- 
haps was  better  for  the  world's  culture 
than  sterile  seclusion,  —  than  the  sitting 
apart  and  alone,  each  people  and  nation 


alone,  amidst  hereditary  and  unbroken 
ideas  and  customs.     But  now  the  com- 
merce of    the  seas    is   peacefully  doing 
that  which  war  did  of  old.     It  is  bring- 
ing all  nations  acquainted  with  one  an- 
other,  interfusing   their   spirit  and  life- 
blood,  binding  them  together,  and  making 
brethren  of   hostile  races  ;    and,  at  the 
same  time,  opening  the  common  fund  of 
earth's  bounties  and  blessings  to  every 
clime  and  country.     The  dread  barrier 
of  the  sea  lias  melted  away  into  a  liquid 
plain,  best  fitted  to  buoy  up  and  bear  on 
our  vessels ;  better  for  intercourse  than 
if    it   were    spanned    with    bridges,   or 
crossed  in  every  direction  by  causeways 
of  stone  or  railroads  of  ever-during  iron. 
AncJ  if  there  be  a  few  persons  — and  I 
confess  myself  to  be  one  of  them  —  who 
would  prefer  the  causeways  and  the  rail- 
roads, —  prefer  any  conceivable  locomo- 
tion to  a  sea  voyage,  —  yet  nature's  plan  is 
not  to  gratify  the  few,  but  to  benefit  the 
many.     And  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
art  will  yet  find    means   to  reheve  this 
horrible  misery,  this  sickness  of  the  sea. 
It    was    indeed    a    dread    barrier    to 
those   who   first   saw  it ;    but   what  was 
its    effect  .''     It   tempted   their   courage 
and  enterprise  ;   it  called  out  their  en- 
ergy, hardihood,  and  skill,  and  has  thus 
contributed,  along  with  intercourse  and 
commerce,  to  make  them  the  most  pros- 
perous and  civilized  people  in  the  world. 
Witness  the  Egyptians,  the  Phoenicians, 
the  Greeks,  the  Romans,  and  the  mod- 
ern European  and  American  communi- 
ties.    Everywhere  the  highest  civiliza- 
tions have  found  their  home  upon  the 
shores  of  the    sea   and    upon   the    riv- 
ers that  flowed  down  into  it.     The  ship 
is  the  most  significant  emblem  in  the 
scutcheon  of  freedom,  polity,  and  prog- 
ress.    One  has  termed  it  "that  swan 
of  the  sea  ;  "  but  it  is  like  anything  but 
a  swan,  to  the  unpractised  beholder.     I 
remember  the  first  time  that  I   saw  a 
ship  part  from  the  shore,  —  the    solid 
shore   as   one    well   feels    it    to    be   at 
such  a  moment.     All    was   solid,   firm, 
calm,    quiet,   here  ;    but  there,   all  was 
alive,  and  seemed  rushing  upon    some 


35 


546 


THE   PROBLEiM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


unknown  fate  ;  the  roaring  of  the  wind 
in  the  cordage,  the  swelling  of  the  sails 
to  the  breeze,  the  straining  of  every 
yard  and  mast,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
of  every  mighty  rib  in  the  almost  living 
mass,  inspired  me  with  a  sort  of  terror. 
But  the  strong  hearts  that  swayed  it 
felt  no  terror  ;  every  motion  was  easy 
to  them,  every  rope  in  the  complicated 
network  that  bound  it  was  familiar,  and 
under  their  charge  it  swept  over  the 
deep  as  free  and  fearless  as  if  it  were 
some  huge  sea-bird  seeking  its  own 
natural  element. 

But  before  leaving  this  element,  water, 
1  must  advert  to  another  and  still  more 
remarkable  arrangement.  I  have  ven- 
tured to  say  that  nature,  when  it  is  neces- 
sary, departs  apparently  from  her  own 
laws.  Thus  it  is  laid  down  as  a  law  in 
physics  that  "heat  expands  all  bodies," 
and  so  makes  them  lighter.  Conversely, 
cold  contracts  all  bodies,  and  makes 
them  heavier.  This  is  the  law.  Sup- 
pose, now,  that  the  philosopher  had 
never  seen  ice,  or  had  never  before 
thought  of  this  remarkable  fact  that 
cold,  freezing  water  into  ice,  does  not 
contract,  but  expands  it,  and  thus  makes 
it  lighter  than  water.  It  certainly  would 
seem  to  him  like  something  miracu- 
lous. But  how  would  his  astonishment 
increase  when  he  saw  the  end  to  be  ac- 
complished by  this  deviation  from  law  ! 
Ice  now  floats  upon  the  surface,  and 
protects  from  freezing  the  water  be- 
neath. But  suppose  that  every  drop 
of  water  frozen  became  like  lead,  and 
sank  to  bottom  :  then  would  our  lakes, 
and  probably  our  rivers,  too,  become 
every  winter  solid  masses  of  ice,  which 
no  spring  gales  nor  summer  suns  could 
thaw,  so  as  to  make  the  earth  habit- 
able. "  It  struck  me  with  awe  when  I 
first  knew  this,"  said  one  who  men- 
tioned this  fact  to  me  :  *  "  nature  vio- 
lating one  of  her  own  laws  for  human 
benefit !  " 

But  to  return  :  I  have  spoken  of  evap- 
oration from  the  sea.  But  evaporation 
would  be  useless  if  its  burden  were  not 

*  Daniel  Webster 


borne  from  the  sea  to  the  land.  How 
is  it  borne  ?  If  there  were  vast  cur- 
tain-like fans  hung  over  the  deep,  and 
worked  by  soine  stupendous  machinery 
above,  to  waft  the  ocean  vapors  to  the 
shore,  we  should  say.  There  is  a  pro- 
vision !  But  equally  a  provision,  though 
noiseless  and  unseen,  is  the  power  that 
sets  in  motion  the  boundless  waves  of 
air  ;  that  is  heat.  Heated  air  rises,  and 
the  colder  air  flows  in  to  supply  its 
place.  Hence,  as  you  know,  the  reg- 
ular sea-breezes  upon  all  islands  and 
coasts.  Hence  the  less  regular  alter- 
nations and  changes  of  the  wind  daily, 
varied  also  by  the  intervention  of  trees, 
groves,  hills,  and  mountains.  But  the 
same  provision  has  a  wider  sweep  in 
the  monsoons,  and  especially  in  the 
trade-winds.  The  heated  air  upon  and 
near  the  equator,  constantly  rising,  cre- 
ates a  constant  tendency  in  the  lower 
strata  of  the  atmosphere  to  that  quar- 
ter ;  the  motion  of  the  earth  on  its  axis 
gives  it  a  turn  to  the  west,  like  the 
water  on  a  grindstone.  On  the  ocean 
it  has  an  unimpe'ded  course,  and  is 
there  a  regular  or  trade  wind.  When 
it  has  spent  its  force  in  that  direction  it 
turns  back,  from  reaction,  —  from  ac- 
cumulation, perhaps  we  might  say,  — 
toward  the  north  and  east,  thus  giving 
us  prevailing  west  winds  ;  and  thus  it 
spreads  its  breezes,  laden  with  refresh- 
ment, over  all  the  continents.  Thus,  by 
intermingled  land  and  water,  heat  and 
cold,  the  earth  is  fanned  with  healthful 
airs  ;  the  extremes  of  every  climate  are 
tempered  ;  the  torrid  zone  parts  with  its 
heat  to  the  north  ;  the  polar  cold  sweeps 
across  continents  and  seas,  to  cool  the 
burnino-  line  ;  and  not  one  of  those 
"  sightless  couriers  of  the  air "  goes 
without  commission. 

Kepler,  the  German  astronomer,  be- 
lieved that  the  earth'  was  a  huge  ani- 
mal, that  breathes  in  winds  and  tides, 
and  bellows  and  belches  out  its  fury  in 
volcanoes,  and  shakes  the  world  with 
throes  which  are  earthquakes.  I  once 
knew  a  man  who  held  the  same  opin- 
ion ;  and  as  he  took  me  over  his  planta- 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


547 


tion,  it  was  curious,  and,  if  sometimes 
liidicrous,  not  altogether  uninteresting, 
to  see  how  he  talked  and  felt  about  it. 
"  There  it  wanted  to  be  scratched," 
where  the  plough  was  needed  ;  and 
"there  it  needed  a  plaster,"  where  the 
spot  was  barren.  It  seemed  a  harm- 
less thought,  and  better  so  to  animalize 
nature  than  to  drive  all  life  out  of  it. 
I  had  rather  believe  with  Kepler  or 
with  Berkeley,  than  to  see  the  world 
as  a  stolid  substance,  —  the  petrified 
or  fossil  remains  of  an  extinct  energy. 
Everywhere,  seen  or  unseen,  is  action, 
movement,  life,  —  free,  flowing,  endless. 
There  are  rivers  in  the  ocean,  like  the 
Gulf  Stream,  —  ay,  thousands  of  feet 
deep,  —  that  flow  from  continent  to  con- 
tinent, bearing  warmth  in  their  bosom, 
and  tempering  the  climates  of  whole 
countries.  The  earth,  too,  is  bursting 
with  vegetable  life  through  all  its  pores; 
the  flowing  sap,  the  breathing  leaves, 
the  waving  grass,  all  speak  of  life. 
Light,  heat,  electric  fires,  play  over  its 
surface  ;  the  air  vibrates  to  perpetual 
sounds  ;  the  sea  rolls  with  unceasing 
tides  ;  the  forest  trees  are  filled  with 
music  ;  in  summer  and  autumn  days, 
it  seems  as  if  the  hillsides  and  the 
thickets  and  the  thick  grass  panted 
with  singing,  chirping,  joyous,  melo- 
dious life.  The  hum  that  comes  up 
from  all  the  earth  is  a  living  voice  from 
its  bosom.  The  summer  breeze  that 
falls  in  frolic  gusts  and  eddies  upon  the 
thicket  and  the  shrubbery  and  the  tall 
grass  makes  them  leap  and  dance  and 
sway  as  to  moods  of  laughter,  like  chil- 
dren turned  out  to  play.  The  serene 
heaven  that  bends  over  us  —  meteor  of 
beauty  as  it  is  — is  not  more  beauteous, 
nor  more  filled  with  a  celestial  pres- 
ence, than  the  fair  world  that  lies  be- 
neath. Matter  ?  It  is  time  to  give  up 
the  old  Manichaean  ideas  ;  even  science 
demands  it,  as  well  as  religion.  It  is 
not  obstruction,  but  manifestation  of  the 
Divinity  ;  it  is  not  the  cast-off  exuvice 
of  a  dead  and  departed  power,  but  the 
fle.xihle  and  ever-flowing  garment  of  the 
Infinite  Life. 


II.  We  have  surveyed  now,  in  their 
most  general  form,  the  great  and  palpa- 
ble elements  that  go  to  make  habit- 
able and  comfortable  and  agreeable  this 
earthly  home  for  man,  —  land,  water, 
and  air.  There  is  another  view  which 
I  wisli  to  present  to  you,  and  that  is, 
not  only  of  the  general,  but  of  the  spe- 
cific adjustment  of  things  to  human  use, 
and  of  man  himself  to  the  sphere  in 
which  he  lives. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me  irreverent  to 
look  upon  the  Divine  Power,  which  is 
working  in  all  things  around  us,  as 
working  with  infinite  skill,  —  as  adjust- 
ing things  with  wonderlul  adaptation  to 
their  purposes.  I  have  said  before  that 
there  are  natural  impossibilities  ;  as,  for 
instance,  a  thing  cannot  be  heavy  and 
light,  or  opaque  and  transparent,  at  the 
same  time  ;  as  a  thing's  being  best  fitted 
for  a  general  and  permanent  end  may 
preclude  its  being  equally  fitted  for  a 
limited  and  tempor'ary  emergency.  But 
while  tiiat  is  not  achieved'  which  is 
not  possible  in  the  nature  of  things, 
the  study  of  nature  will  delight  us  by 
showing  that  all  which  is  possible  is 
acJiieved J  that  all  the  good  is  accom- 
plished that  is  possible,  all  the  evil 
avoided  that  is  possible. 

Thus,  to  take  the  physical  adapta- 
tion of  the  human  being  himself  to  the 
scene  :  when  a  man  falls  into  the  water, 
we  might  for  the  moinent  wish  he  were 
light  as  cork,  that  he  might  n^  drown; 
his  drowning  is  an  evil,  concerning 
which  one  may  ask,  why  is  it  .''  or,  why 
is  it  not  avoided  .''  And  then  again,  if 
he  were  pushing  against  a  beam  that 
threatened  to  fall  upon  his  child,  one 
might  wish  for  the  moment  that  he  were 
as  heavy  and  solid  as  a  rock.  He  is 
neither  so  heavy  nor  so  light ;  in  short, 
his  weight  is  adjusted  to  more  general 
purposes,  to  more  permanent  situations, 
to  the  entire  sphere  he  moves  in,  and  to 
the  strength  of  the  sinews  which  are 
to  move  the  weight.  Now  this  weight, 
you  know,  must  depend  on  the  size 
and  density  of  the  world  in  which  he 
is  placed,  i.  e.,  upon  the  attraction  of 


548 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


gravitation.  In  the  sun,  it  would  be 
twenty-eight  times  as  great  as  it  is 
here  ;  in  Jupiter,  two  and  a  half  times  ; 
in  Mercury,  only  half  as  great  ;  in  the 
moon,  only  one  sixth.  With  the  heavier 
weight  he  could  have  done  nothing  ;  he 
could  have  neither  worked  nor  walked. 
With  the  hghter  he  would  have  lost  the 
force,  the  momentum,  necessary  to  his 
daily  taskwork,  to  his  useful  activity 
in  every  way.  His  weight,  in  short, 
is  exactly  adjusted  to  his  sphere  and 
strength. 

Look  again  at  the  natural  substances 
and  products  which  he  is  cultivating  or 
using  in  agriculture,  in  the  mechanic 
arts  in  every  form.  If  garden  vines,  in- 
stead of  running  on  the  ground,  had 
risen  up  into  the  air,  they  could  not 
have  sustained  the  melon  and  cucumber. 
If  wheat,  on  the  contrar}^,  had  lain  upon 
the  ground,  it  would  have  lacked  the  sun 
and  air  to  ripen  the  grain.  The  tree  — 
the  forest  tree,  that  is  —  is  to  answer 
a.  different  purpose  ;  and  what  is  that  ? 
To  furnish  timber  for  building.  In  its 
forest  state  the  growth  is  thick  ;  and 
the  consequence  is,  that  the  lower 
branches  die  and  fall  off,  and  a  long 
trunk  is  provided,  which  answers  the 
purpose  If  it  had  grown  sparsely,  it 
would  have  been,  as  we  see  it  in  the 
open  field,  unfit  to  be  hewn  into  beams 
or  to  be  sawed  into  boards.  And  so  if 
it  had  been  much  heavier  or  lighter, 
harder  o^softer,  tougher  or  more  brittle, 
than  it  is,  it  would  have  less  well  an- 
swered its  purpose. 

And  what  could  we  have  done  at  all 
with  it,  if  some  metal  had  not  been  pro- 
vided which  could  be  sharpened  into  the 
axe,  the  saw,  and  planing  tool.  Iron  — 
from  which  steel  is  made,  and  which  is 
the  only  metal,  I  believe,  capable  of  a 
similar  hardening  —  is  the  most  useful 
metallic  substance  in  the  world.  I  look 
upon  its  internal  structure  as  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  proofs  of  design  and 
skill.  No  other  metal  could  supply  its 
place  :  not  gold  nor  silver,  because  they 
are  too  ductile  and  flexible ;  nor  copper, 
because  it  is  too  brittle.    Iron  is  mallea- 


ble, and  it  can  be  melted,  so  that  it  can 
be  moulded  and  beaten  into  all  possible 
shapes ;  but  its  peculiarity,  that  which 
gives  it  its  special  value,  is  a  certain 
toughness,  a  certain  power  of  resist- 
ance, a  texture  making  it  fit  for  cutting, 
which  is  laid  in  its  internal  structure. 
We  know  nothing  of  that  mysterious 
interior  constitution;  but  we  see  the 
result,  —  that  without  which  civilization 
would  have  been  greatly  impeded,  if  not 
forever  held  back  even  from  its  present 
degree  of  advancement. 

And,  accordingly,  iron  is  more  abun- 
.dant  in  the  world  than  any  other  metal, 
or  all  others  put  together.  Gold  is  com- 
paratively rare,  and  <lepends  upon  this 
consideration,  as  well  as  its  freedom 
from  liability  to  rust  and  tarnish,  for 
its  extraordinary  value.  Both  fit  it  for 
that  most  important  agency  of  being  a 
circulating  medium,  or  a  current  rep- 
resentative of  all  sorts  of  value.  Nor 
is  it  likely  that  the  mines  of  Califor- 
nia and  Australia  will  yield  much  more 
than  a  needful  supply  for  the  growing 
wants  of  commerce  and  civilization. 
This  is  not  the  first  time  that  the  world 
has  been  dazzled  with  visions  of  bound- 
less accumulation..  The  mines  of  Mexico 
and  Peru  awakened  very  much  the  same 
feeling  in  the  sixteenth  century.  And 
among  the  Phoenicians  of  old,  as  Heeren 
tells  us,*  there  was  a  very  similar  ex- 
citement about  the  mines  in  Spain. 
The  ships  of  Tarshish,  mentioned  in 
Scripture,  were  Phoenician  vessels  sail- 
ing out  of  Tartessus  (Tarshish),  in 
Spain ;  and  it  was  said  in  that  time 
that  not  only  were  the  ships  laden  with 
gold,  but  that  their  anchors  were  made 
of  gold.  We  might  pass  now,  in  this 
brief  survey,  from  the  mineral  to  the 
animal  kingdom.  That  certain  quadru- 
peds, birds,  and  fishes  were  destined 
to  be  food  for  man,  is  a  point  not  ques- 
tioned, I  believe,  in  any  sound  physiol- 
ogy. I  confess  for  myself  to  a  feeling  of 
dislike  to  this  system  of  destruction.  I 
do  not  like  to  hunt  or  fish  for  the  same 
reason;  but   I   beheve  that  the   feeling 


*  Works,  vol.  i.  pp.  328,  329 


I 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


549 


is  more  scrupulous  than  wise.  It  is  no 
greater  hardship  for  animals  to  die  by 
the  hand  of  man  than  by  the  claw  or 
fang  of  their  fellows,  —  not  so  great ; 
and  sudden  destruction  is  better  than  to 
die,  untended,  of  lingering  decay.  In- 
deed, if  they  died  of  disease  or  decay, 
the  very  carrion  of  their  remains  would 
fill  the  world  witli  pestilence.  Nor  is 
the  amount  of  animal  happiness  les- 
sened ;  immediate  transformation  into 
new  life  takes  place,  and  the  world  is 
always  as  full  of  animal  life  as  it  can 
bear. 

But  there  is  another  use  of  the  animal 
kingdom  to  man  which  indicates  a  no 
less  striking  adaptation.  Certain  ani- 
mals were  evidently  made  to  be  domes- 
ticated, —  to  be  the  companions  and 
helpers  of  man.  For  this  there  is  a 
fitness  in  their  nature,  structure,  size, 
strength,  habitudes,  and  very  instincts. 
Not  the  lion,  the  tiger,  the  hippopota- 
mus, and  the  hyena  are  so  fitted,  but 
the  horse,  the  ox,  the  cow,  the  camel, 
the  ass,  and  the  faithful  dog.  And  it 
has  been  well  observed  that  the  want  of 
most  of  these  animals  among  our  own 
aboriginal  races  was  of  itself  enough  to 
prevent  any  great  advance  in  civilization. 

Nor  are  the  wild  tribes  of  creatures 
useless  to  man.  They  make  the  scene 
of  the  world  gay  and  beautiful.  They 
make  nature  vocal ;  they  supply  man  with 
food  ;  they  clothe  him  witii  furs  ;  they 
preserve  the  world  from  putrefaction 
and  pestilence.  Offensive  smells  would 
make  our  summer  walks  hateful  but  for 
them.  The  hyena,  the  vulture,  the  very 
worm  is  a  scavenger.  The  cleanliness 
of  the  animal  and  insect  tribes  them- 
selves is  most  worthy  of  notice.  The 
feathers  of  birds,  the  hair  of  quadru- 
peds, the  sharded  wings  of  insects,  take 
no  soil.  The  most  delicately  kept  child 
is  not  neater  than  the  bug  in  the  dung- 
hill. And  thus,  by  structure,  by  instincts, 
by  the  pursuit  of  food,  life  is  caused  to 
spring  from  decay  and  corruption  ;  and 
the  liouse  of  nature  is  kept  clean  and 
pure,  without  service  or  drudgery  or 
toil. 


III.  But  I  must  leave  these  details  in 
order  to  find  space  for  two  or  three  ob- 
servations on  the  general  and  yet  urgent 
adaptation  of  material  nature,  not  merely 
to  human  support  and  comfort,  but  to 
the  higher  spiritual  culture.  We  shall 
not  e.xhaust  the  theme  here  ;  for  we 
cannot  consider  the  human  constitution, 
as  we  propose  to  do  in  a  future  lecture, 
without  referring  to  the  circumstances 
in  which  it  is  placed,  to  the  outward 
agencies  by  which  it  is  developed.  But 
there  are  two  or  three  views  of  na- 
ture's influence  which  press  themselves 
upon  our  attention  now,  because  they 
help  to  complete  the  general  survey  of 
it  as  a  material  organization.  For  it  is 
not  enough  to  say  that  nature  has  pro- 
vided a  home  for  man  through  the  com- 
bined agencies  of  the  earth  and  ocean 
and  atmosphere,  or  that  she  has  adjust- 
ed the  objects  of  the  vegetable,  mineral, 
and  animal  creation  to  his  use  ;  for  she 
has  still  more  distinct  and  significant 
appeals  to  his  intelligence  and  moral 
culture. 

There  are  certain  arrangements  in  na- 
ture, then,  which  are  evidently  fitted  to 
answer  a  double  purpose  to  man,  —  a 
lower  and  a  higher  ;  to  give  sustenance 
and  pleasure  and  practical  direction,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  impart  higher  knowl- 
edge and  guidance.  The  arrangements 
I  shall  instance  are  the  fertility,  the 
order,  and  the  beauty  of  nature. 

In  the  first  place,  with  regard  to  the 
fertility  of  the  soil,  the  primary  object  is 
manifest.  But  has  it  never  occurred  to 
any  one  who  cultivates  the  soil  to  ask 
why  it  was  not  made  twice  or  ten  times 
as  fertile  as  it  is  now  ;  or  why,  when 
exhausted  by  a  crop,  it  could  not  have 
been  entirely,  as  it  is  in  part,  restored 
and  replenished  by  the  air?  By  these 
means  labor  would  have  been  relieved 
to  an  immense  extent.  We  are  apt,  un- 
thinkingly, to  take  the  existing  system 
as  if  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise. 
But  a  slight  change  in  fertility  —  i.  e.,  a 
soil  twice  as  fertile,  or  a  human  organiza- 
tion demanding  only  half  as  much  food, 
—  would  have  relieved   many  a  heavy 


5SO 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


burden.  Ay,  there  is  a  hard  strain 
upon  human  energy.  It  is  the  straining 
of  the  very  sinews  to  the  task.  Nay,  all 
work  is  hard,  because  field-work  is  hard. 
For  if  this  had  been  relieved,  human  en- 
ergies might  easily  have  achieved  the 
rest,  —  the  building,  the  manufacturing, 
the  artisan's  work  in  every  kind. 

Look,  then,  at  this  fact  of  moderated 
fertility,  and  see  what  it  means. 

I  say  moderated  i^x\\X\X.y  ;  for  it  might 
as  easily  have  been  less  as  more.  You 
sometimes,  as  you  travel,  pass  through 
a  district  or  by  a  farm,  of  which  you 
rather  disdainfully  say,  "■  It  must  be  a 
hard  scramble  for  life  here ;  you  would 
not  try  it,  for  your  part."  But  suppose 
the  whole  world  had  been  as  barren 
and  intractable,  or  worse.  What  then  ? 
Why,  then  had  we  been  a  race  of  miser- 
able drudges.  Then,  too,  had  there  been 
no  place  for  society  ;  no  place  for  the 
cultivation  of  the  sciences  and  elegant 
arts  ;  no  seventh  day  of  perfect  rest,  no 
altar  nor  priesthood  ;  but  all  the  refine- 
ments of  life,  all  its  mental  culture,  its 
graceful  arts,  its  religious  ordinances, 
and  all  the  splendor  of  its  cities,  palaces, 
and  temples  would  have  been  buried 
under  the  crushing  oppression  of  cheer- 
less toil.  You,  my  friends,  would  not 
have  been  here,  listening  to  a  lecture 
upon  this  subject  or  any  other  subject ; 
but  you  would  all  have  been  abroad 
upon  the  sterile  earth,  cutting  away  the 
intractable  forest,  levelling  the  rugged 
hills,  digging,  delving,  drudging  for  a 
bare  subsistence. 

But  turn  now  to  the  more  attractive 
side  of  the  picture,  and  suppose  a  soil 
so  prolific  that  the  labor  of  an  hour 
would  suffice  for  the  wants  of  a  week  ; 
and  what  then  would  follow  ?  Why, 
then  would  man  have  turned  to  idle  va- 
grancy, or  sunk  into  voluptuous  sloth  ; 
and  the  moral  fortunes  of  the  world 
would  have  been  as  certainly  wrecked 
and  ruined  by  indulgence  as,  on  the 
former  supposition,  they  would  have 
been  by  hardship. 

But  this  leads  me  to  notice  a  still 
more  exact  and  careful  adjustment  of 


the  law.  The  zones  of  the  earth  are  as 
much  marked  by  difference  of  strength 
and  of  wants  in  the  inhabitants,  as  by 
difference  of  heat  in  the  climate.  The 
men  of  the  torrid  zone  have  not 
the  physical  vigor  of  the  Northmen. 
The  labor,  therefore,  that  is  light  and 
easy  in  the  North,  to  the  more  delicate 
frame  and  languid  temperament  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  torrid  zone  would  be 
an  overwhelming  task,  crushing  both 
to  body  and  mind.  Accordingly  their 
wants  are  fewer.  They  require  less 
food,  less  clothing,  less  fuel,  less  expen- 
sive buildings.  In  the  northern  regions, 
where  man  is  more  vigorous,  more  pro- 
tection is  needed,  and  stronger  diet,  — 
more  of  animal  food.  The  Hindoo's 
dish  of  rice  would  not  suffice  for  the 
hunter  and  miner  on  the  steppes  of 
Siberia.  To  the  Esquimaux  and  Green- 
landers,  a  bountiful  dish  of  whale  oil 
is  said  to  be  a  delicacy.  The  Northern 
voyagers.  Parry  and  Franklin,  found 
that  their  crews  were  obliged  to  live 
almost  entirely  on  animal  food  ;  they 
lost  vigor  and  cheerfulness  without  it, 
—  a  fact  worthy  of  some  account  with 
our  extreme  dietetic  systems. 

And  then  observe,  in  fine,  by  what 
means,  by  what  agents,  this  general 
adjustment  of  fertility  is  effected ;  — 
the  air,  the  wind,  the  rain,  the  moulder- 
ing forest  leaves  and  disintegrated  par- 
ticles from  the  surface  of  mountain 
rocks,  the  fire  in  the  woods,  the  volcano 
in  the  abyss.  Wild  elements,  unde- 
fined instruments,  seemingly  they  are, 
and  yet  they  all  conspire  to  produce  a 
certain  degree  of  fertility.  Any  consid- 
erable swaying  either  way,  and  that 
balance  would  have  been  disturbed  in 
which  the  moral  destinies  of  the  world 
are  weighed.  Truly,  "  the  winds  are 
His  angels,  and  the  flaming  fires  His 
ministers."  Truly,  "  He  weigheth  the 
mountains  in  scales,  and  the  hills  in  a 
balance." 

Again,  in  the  order  of  nature  we  see 
a  double  purpose,  —  the  one  referring 
to  practical  convenience,  to  the  guid- 
ance of  daily  action  and  industry  ;  the 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


551 


other  to  the  cultivation  of  the  mind, 
lying,  indeed,  at  the  foundation  of  all 
science.  Without  the  first  we  could 
do  nothing  ;  without  the  last  we  could 
learn  nothing. 

The  first  purpose  is  answered  by 
many  obvious  arrangements.  If  the 
sun  did  not  daily  rise  and  set ;  if  day 
and  night  did  not  duly  succeed  each 
other;  if  the  year  did  not  bring  about 
its  circuit,  and  the  seasons  did  not 
revolve  in  fixed  cycles;  if  summer  and 
winter,  seedtime  and  harvest,  did  not 
know  their  place  ;  if  all  the  elements 
did  not  obey  certain  laws  ;  if  the  fire 
did  not  burn,  nor  water  fall,  nor  food 
nourish,  nor  the  seed  produce  the  plant, 
nor  the  plant  yield  seed,  with  invariable 
sequence,  we  could  do  nothing  upon 
any  regular  plan  ;  the  whole  action  and 
industry  of  life  would  be  brought  to 
a  stand.  Throw  all  this  into  confu- 
sion, and  man  would  stand  aghast,  and 
would  soon  sink  and  perish,  the  victim 
of  that  boundless  disorder.  He  cannot 
take  a  step  but  by  lines  which  nature 
has  drawn  all  around  him  for  his  guid- 
ance. 

But  now  let  it  be  observed  that  the 
order  of  nature  is  not  limited  to  the 
purpose  of  furnishing  this  palpable  guid- 
ance. Because  the  order  of  nature 
embraces  a  thousand  things  which  the 
common  eye  cannot  see,  with  which 
common  prudence  has  nothing  to  do. 
The  law,  for  instance,  of  definite  pro- 
portions in  chemistry,  —  that  is,  that 
so  many  parts  of  hydrogen  mix  with 
so  many  parts  of  oxygen  to  form  water, 
and  so  in  all  the  chemical  compounds, 
and  that  they  will  mix  in  no  other  than 
certain  definite  proportions,  —  this  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  common  uses  of 
water  or  iron,  of  lead  or  tin,  in  their 
common  forms.  So  the  laws  of  crystal- 
lization in  minerals,  by  which  gold  takes 
one  form  and  quartz  another  ;  the  won- 
derful system  of  genera  and  species  in 
plants  and  animals,  the  resemblances 
and  differences  so  marked  ;  and  the  geo- 
metric laws  that  reign  over  the  heavenly 
bodies,  —  these  have  no  palpable,  prac- 


tical uses.  Then  again,  to  go  into  the 
animal  creation,  —  though  the  horse, 
the  ass,  and  the  ox  had  not  stood 
before  us  as  distinct  species ;  though 
their  forms  and  qualities  had  been 
blended  and  mixed  in  such  utter  con- 
fusion tiiat  it  had  been  impossible 
to  classify  them,  still  they  could 
have  drawn  loads  and  borne  burdens. 
Whereto  then  serves  this  order  in  na- 
ture, which  partitions  it  out  into  realms 
and  ranks  ;  which  penetrates  the  most 
secret  cells  of  animal  or  vegetable  lile 
or  mineral  structure,  and  stretches  its 
sceptre  over  the  boundless  spheres  of 
heaven,  and  binds  the  universe  in  sub- 
lime harmony  ?  The  answer  is,  —  to 
teach  man.  I  need  not  deny  that  it  was 
chosen  for  its  own  sake :  but  I  say  it  has 
this  further  advantage  and  purpose,  — 
to  teach  man.  Only  through  this  order 
is  science  made  possible.  If  it  were 
not  for  this  order,  and  the  scientific 
classification  founded  upon  it,  the  hu- 
man mind  would  sink  helpless  amidst 
boundless  diversity  and  detail.  Only 
through  this  classification  is  any  avail- 
able language  possible.  The  words  ani- 
mal, mineral,  vegetable,  beast,  bird, 
fish,  stand  now  for  distinct  classes  of 
objects,  bound  together  by  definite  affin- 
ities. Break  that  bond ;  make  every 
object  to  differ  essentially  from  every 
other ;  and  then  every  object,  to  be 
pointed  out,  must  have  a  different 
name  ;  and  the  human  mind  would  sink 
as  helpless  beneath  the  burden  of  words 
as  beneath  the  burden  of  thoughts. 
There  are  objects  enough  on  your  farm 
or  in  your  warehouse  to  occupy  a  Hfe 
in  learning  to  designate  them  ;  the  cata- 
logue of  your  farm  or  warehouse  would 
be  as  large  as  a  dictionary  ;  and  every 
other  would  require  the  same  ;  and  the 
metes  and  bounds  of  knowledge  would 
be  as  narrow  as  the  metes  and  bounds 
of  your  estate.  A^ow  nature  spreads 
itself  before  us  as  a  volume,  with  its 
books,  and  chapters,  and  sections  ;  but 
let  its  order  be  broken  up,  and  it  would 
be  as  a  volume  in  which  the  words  were 
printed  hap-hazard,  without  connection 


552 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


or  consequence,  without  statement  or 
conclusion  ;  and  we  should  learn  com- 
paratively nothing. 

This  is  that  sublime  order,  so  attrac- 
tive and  beautiful  that  philosophers, 
both  ancient  and  modern,  have  endeav- 
ored to  resolve  it  into  some  one  primor- 
dial principle,  —  Pythagoras  and  Plato  in- 
to number  or  form  ;  the  Germans,  Schell- 
ing  and  Hegel,  into  some  subjective, 
metaphysic  law.  Augusta  Comte  im- 
agined at  least  that  it  may  be  reduced 
to  some  principle  in  nature  like  gravi- 
tation. Some  such  all-comprehending 
unity  is  the  dream  of  many  minds  still. 
But  fanciful  or  wise  as  the  search  may 
be,  certain  it  is  that,  without  this  sub- 
lime order,  the  universe  would  not  be  a 
temple  of  knowledge  and  worship,  but 
a  Babel  of  utter  confusion  and  frustra- 
tion to  all  study  and  inquiry. 

Finally,  beauty  in  nature  has  a  double 
function,  though  somewhat  less  distinctly 
marked. 

The  colors,  green  and  blue,  and  the 
neutral  tints,  scarcely  less  common,  are 
naturally  agreeable  to  the  eye ;  and  if 
red  and  yellow  were  the  pervading  hues, 
the  organ  of  sight  would  be  dazzled  and 
blinded  by  them.  Then  again  variety, 
both  in  color  and  form,  is  naturally 
grateful;  and  if  all  the  objects  in  nature 
were  of  one  shape  and  of  one  hue,  no 
prison  could  be  so  dreadful.  To  our 
constitution,  therefore,  nature's  garni- 
ture is  almost  as  necessary  as  her  sub- 
stantial supplies  of  food. 

But  the  beauty  of  her  works  ministers 
to  purposes  far  beyond  convenience,  far 
beyond  utility.  It  is  connected  with 
higher  laws  in  us  ;  it  touches  a  finer 
sense  than  of  good,  than  of  advantage. 
Beauty,  to  all  who  truly  know  it,  is  a 
thing  divine.  Its  treasures  are  poured 
with  lavish  abundance  through  the 
world,  its  banners  are  spread  upon  the 
boundless  air  and  sky,  to  entrance 
the  eye  and  soul  with  visions  of  more 
than  earthly  loveliness. 

The  whole  influence  of  nature's  beauty, 
and  of  all  that  is  akin  to  its  beauty, — 
how   manifestly  is   it  divine  !      It  holds 


no  compact  with  anything  base  or  low. 
Man  may  mar  and  desecrate  its  fairest 
scenes ;  but  he  can  never  say  to  the 
majesty  or  loveliness  of  nature,  "  Thou 
hast  tempted  me  !  "  Wicked  and  hateful 
passions  may  break  out,  —  jarring  upon 
her  sublime  symphonies,  disturbing  her 
holy  quiet;  but  tiature  has  no  part  with 
them.  Did  ever  the  grandeur  of  the 
midnight  heaven,  or  the  thunder  in 
the  sky,  or  the  answering  thunder  of  the 
ocean  beach,  make  any  man  proud .'' 
Did  the  murmurings  of  the  everlasting 
sea,  or  the  solemn  dirge  of  the  winter's 
wind,  or  the  voice  of  birds  in  spring,  or 
the  flashing  light  of  summer  streams,  or 
the  mountain's  awful  brow,  or  the  vales 

"Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between,"  — 

did  ever  these  make  any  man  rude  or 
ungentle  ?  Did  ever  the  fulness  and 
loveliness  of  the  creation,  weighing 
upon  the  human  sense  and  soul  almost 
with  an  oppression  of  joy,  make  any 
man  selfish  and  grasping?  No;  the 
true  lovers  of  nature  are  never  ignoble 
nor  mean.  She  would  unnerve  the  op- 
pressor's hand,  or  melt  the  miser's  ice, 
or  cool  the  voluptuary's  fever,  this  hour, 
if  he  would  open  his  heart  to  her  trans- 
forming companionship. 

Nor  are  the  treasures  of  her  beauty 
yet  half  explored.  A  finer  culture  of 
the  senses  and  soul  will  unfold  new 
wonders.  "  What  powers,"  says  Her- 
der, "are  there  in  each  one  of  our  senses, 
which  only  necessity,  sickness,  accident, 
or  the  failure  of  the  other  senses,  brings 
to  light !  The  blind  man's  acuteness  of 
hearing  and  touch  seems  at  times  almost 
miraculous.  May  it  not  be  a  hint  of 
what  is  possible  to  all  the  senses,  —  of 
powers  yet  undeveloped  in  us  ?  Bishop 
Berkeley  observes,"  he  continues,  "that 
light  is  the  language  of  God,  of  which 
the  most  perfect  of  our  senses  can  yet 
spell  but  a  few  elements  "  *  Looking  at 
(hat  grand  kaleidoscope  made  on  the 
back  of  the  pianoforte,  and  which  doubt- 
less many  of  you  have  seen,  I  was  led 
to  think  of  these   undeveloped   powers 

*  The  Philosophy  of  Humanity. 


J 

i 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


3  J 


of  sense,  and  what  visions  of  supernal 
o-lory  may  yet  be  opened  to  the  eye. 
What  unfolding  wonders  s/ia//  yet  burst 
upon  us ;  what  pictures  shall  be  un- 
rolled to  the  vision  of  purer  natures  ; 
what  seals  shall  be  taken  from  the  great 
deeps  of  beauty,  it  may  not  be  for  us 
to  know  in  this  world.  Our  sense  is 
dim.  our  power  feeble;  the  present  rev- 
elation, I  suppose,  is  all  that  we  can 
bear.  But  the  time  may  come  when 
there  shall  visit  us  melodies  such  as 
were  never  drank  in  by  the  ravished  ear, 
sights  such  as  never  entranced  mortal 
eye ;  when  perpetual  raptures  may  be 
felt  without  exhaustion ;  when  lofty 
states  of  mind,  such  as  noble  genius 
and  heroism  inspire,  may  become  the 
habit  of  the  soul,  and  ecstasy  may  crowd 
on  ecstasy  forever. 

Full  of  moral  influence,  full  of  proph- 
ecy, full  of  religion,  is  the  true  sense 
of  beauty.  When  I  sit  down  in  a  sum- 
mer's day,  with  the  shade  of  trees 
around  me,  and  the  wind  rustling  in 
their  leaves  ;  when  I  look  upon  a  fair 
landscape,  —  upon  meadows  and  streams 
stealing  away  through  and  behind  the 
clustering  groves  ;  when  the  sun  goes 


down  behind  the  dark  mountains  or 
beyond  the  glorious  sea,  and  fills  and 
flushes  the  deeps  of  the  western  sky 
with  purple  and  gold;  when,  through 
the  gates  of  parting  day,  other  worlds, 
other  heavens,  come  to  view,  —  spheres 
so  distant  that  it  takes  the  light  thou- 
sands of  years  to  reach  us :  then  only 
one  word  is  great  enough  to  embrace 
all  the  wonder —  God  !  Beautifully  says 
a  great  poet,  and  no  less  justly  :  — 

"  He  looked  — 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth, 
■And  ocean's  liciuid  mass,  beneath  him  lay. 
In   gladness   and   deep   joy.      The   clouds   were 

touched, 
And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 
Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy  :  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle ;  sensation,  soul,  and  form 
All  melted  into  him;  they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being  ;  in  them  did  he  live. 
And  by  them  did  he  live;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  vvas  not :  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request ; 
Rapt  into  still  communion,  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  Power 
That  made  him." 


LECTURE     IV. 

THE    BODY    AND    THE    SOUL,    OR    MAN's    PHYSICAL    CONSTITUTION 
THE    MINISTRY    OF    THE    SENSES    AND    APPETITES. 


The  body  and  the  soul  —  the  relation 
of  the  body  to  the  soul  —  the  ministry 
of  the  body  to  the  soul  —  this  is  the 
subject  of  tlie  lecture  before  us  :  and  I 
say  at  once  that  it  is  my  wish  and  pur- 
pose to  vindicate  man's  physical  organ- 
ization from  the  charge  that  it  is  naturally 
low  and  debasing,  or  was  ever  meant  to 
be  so  ;  that  it  is  my  wish  and  purpose, 
in  approaching  this  heaven-built  sanc- 
tuary of  the  soul,  to  offer,  not  scorn  and 
desecration,  but  reverence  and  worship. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  houses  that  a 


man  lives  in.  There  is  the  house  that 
the  carpenter  built.  And  there  is  ^/u's 
house,  that  God  hath  built  for  the  spirit's 
dwelling.  The  former  is  built  for  an 
end  ;  for  the  use,  for  the  accommoda- 
tion, and,  justly  considered,  for  the  moral 
cultivation  of  its  inhabitant.  Can  we 
suppose  less  of  the  latter  ?  The  body 
is  an  organic  structure,  with  a  thousand- 
fold more  contrivance  in  it  than  a  house, 
or  a  whole  city  of  houses.  But  organi- 
zation is  a  means  to  an  end.  Now  this 
relation    is  what   I    understand   by  the 


554 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


term  philosophy :  and  I  might  have  said, 
that  my  lecture  this  evening  is  on  the 
philosophy  of  the  human  organization, 
.■senses,  and  appetites. 

Let  me  pause  upon  this  point  a  mo- 
ment ;  for  I  must  try  to  keep  distinctly 
before  your  minds  the  object  of  these 
lectures,  and  to  make  it  constantly  ap- 
pear how  legitimate,  practical,  and  im- 
portant that  object  is ;  nay,  of  what 
interest  it  is  to  all  thoughtful  persons. 

Organization,  I  say,  is  a  means  to  an 
end  ;  and  the  perception  of  this  relation 
is  philosophy.  The  philosophy  of  a 
thing  is  the  knowledge  of  the  end  to ' 
be  answered  by  that  thing,  and  of  the 
means  embraced  in  it  to  accompHsh 
that  end. 

1  confess  that  I  am  somewhat  tired  of 
hearing  this  word, /////<?i-<7//y.  It  was 
formerly  a  mystery  ;  then,  afterward,  it 
was  a  terror  to  religion  and  faith  ;  and 
now,  perhaps,  it  has  become  a  weari- 
ness. We  have  philosophies  of  every- 
thing. Nevertheless,  this  constant  repe- 
tition of  the  word,  this  fixed  direction  of 
thouglit,  I  hold  to  be  a  very  remarkable 
sign,  ay,  and  a  very  good  sign  of  the 
time. 

That  which  is  indicated  by  it  is  im- 
measurably the  highest  kind  of  knowl- 
edge. Observe  that  the  two  elements 
must  go  together.  The  knowledge  of 
the  means  by  itself,  or  of  the  end  by 
itself,  is  not  philosophy,  but  a  very  in- 
ferior thing.  Thus,  for  example,  a  man 
may  understand  the  end  or  use  of  a  ma- 
chine, engine,  or  implement,  without  un- 
derstanding the  organization  or  adjust- 
ment of  its  parts  ;  and  then  he  is  not  a 
philosopher,  but  a  mere  handicraftsman. 
Or  he  may  consider  the  parts  alone  ;  he 
may  pore  over  the  details  of  an  instru- 
ment, the  mere  isolated  facts,  —  and  so 
of  the  great  system  of  nature  and  life, 
—  and  go  no  further,  think  nothing  of 
an  ultimate  aim,  nothing  of  order,  plan, 
or  purpose  ;  and  then  he  is  not  a  phi- 
losopher, but  a  mere  matter-of-fact  man. 
He  who  comprehends  both  the  means 
and  the  end  —  sees  the  parts  with  their 
relations,    and   the    result  —  is   in   that 


regard  a  philosopher.  He  may  never 
have  thought  of  caUing  himself  such  ;  he 
is  perhaps  a  humble  laborer  in  the  field 
of  life  ;  but  he  is,  in  relation  to  one  thing, 
and  may  be  to  many  more,  a  philosopher. 
Suppose,  to  illustrate  slill  further  the 
superiority  of  this  kind  of  knowledge, 
that  a  small  section  from  the  great  field 
of  nature  were  offered  for  inspection, 
and  that  it  were  a  quarry  of  granite. 
The  examiner  enters  it,  and  ascertains 
what  may  be  called  \\-\^  facts  presented  ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  discovers  and  distin- 
guishes the  tiiree  elements,  —  quartz, 
feldspar,  and  mica.  But  if  he  knows 
nothing  further,  if  all  his  knowledge 
and  thought  are  shut  up  in  the  heart  of 
this  quarry,  of  what  interest  can  it  be  to 
him  ?  He  might  as  well  know  anything 
else,  or  know  nothing.  But  now  sup- 
pose that  he  goes  out  into  the  world  of 
adaptations  and  uses  ;  that  he  sees  the 
bedded  rock  as  a  material  for  building  ; 
and  further,  that  he  marks  upon  its  up- 
per surface  how  its  particles  are  crum- 
bling away  into  a  soil  ;  and  then  traces 
that  soil  through  vegetable,  through 
animal,  through  human  life,  to  all  the 
majestic  purposes  for  which  man  and 
nature  are  made  ;  what  then  does  he 
say  ?  "  Philosophy  !  "  —  might  he  not 
exclaim, —  "  well  art  thou  called  divine  ; 
for  thou  dost  unbar  the  gates  of  wis- 
dom, and  pour  light  and  beauty  through 
the  world." 

So  regarded,  the  action  of  life  would 
become  thought,  and  its  experience, 
wisdom.  Some  tendency  of  this  kind, 
I  believe,  is  to  be  observed  at  this  day. 
The  world  is  entering  upon  that  state  of 
early  manhood  whose  natural  impulse  it 
is  to  ask  the  reasons  of  things  ;  and  1 
cannot  but  think  that  this  word,  phi- 
losophy, so  often  repeated,  so  often 
printed,  heading  and  lettering  so  many 
books,  is  like  a  blazoned  banner,  going 
before  and  leading  on  a  nobler  progress 
than  the  world  has  yet  seen. 

To  proceed  now  with  the  subject  of 
this  lecture:  I  have  already  explained 
to  you  that  my  theme  is  not  Natural 
Theology,  not  a  discussion  or  illustra- 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


555 


tion  of  the  Divine  Perfections  as  mani- 
fested in  nature  and  life.  We  do, 
indeed,  teach  all  this  indirectly  ;  it  is 
the  grandest  interest  of  this  subject,  as 
it  is  of  every  subject  of  high  philoso- 
pliy;  but  our  specific  object  is  to  show 
how  things  in  nature  and  life,  and  so 
in  the  human  organization,  senses,  and 
appetites,  are  framed  to  answer  a  cer- 
tain purpose,  —  to  minister  to  the  high- 
est of  all  purposes,  the  culture  of  the 
human  soul. 

Now  the  human  frame  has  much  in 
common  with  the  animal  organism.    All 
this,  though  it  abundantly  manifests  me 
wisdom  and   goodness  of  the   Creator, 
and  would  demand  attention  in  a  system 
of  Natural  Theology,  I  shall  leave  out 
of  the  account,  save  and  in  so  far  as  it 
serves  especially  to  elicit  and  train  the 
human  faculties.     With    the   benefit  of 
this  exception,  we  may  fairly   say  that 
the  eye  and  the  ear,  though  common  to 
man  and  animal,  have  for  man  a  pecul- 
iar, that  is  to  say,  a  mental  and  moral 
instrumentality.    In  considering  the  min- 
istry of  the  body  to  the  soul,  I    shall 
keep  in    mind  this  distinction  between 
the  liuman  and  animal  organization,  be- 
cause it  touches  the  very  point  in  hand. 
The   animal   organism   ministers  to   in- 
stinct merely  ;  the   human,  to  intellect 
and  moral  culture.     Take,  for  instance, 
the  sense  of  touch,  which  animals  pos- 
sess, indeed,  but  in  a  degree  so  inferior 
that,  comparatively,   they  may  be   said 
not  to  possess  it  at  all.     If,  instead  of 
this   sensitive   vesture    of   feeling,   man 
had   been    clothed   with    hide   and   hair 
and  hoof,  the  human  soul  had  been  im- 
prisoned in  obstruction  and  stupor.     It 
is  the  mother's  caress  that  first  wakes 
the  infant  soul  to  life.     The  fond  em- 
i)race  is  the  earliest  nurture  of  affection 
and  seal  of  friendship.     In  all  the  ani- 
mal world  there  is  no  kiss.     The  grasp 
of  the   hand  —  all    over  the  world  the 
sign  of  comity  and  kindness  —  is  a  sig- 
nificant token  of  the  human  destiny;  it 
is  the  sign-manual  upon  the  great  char- 
ter  of    human    brotherliood.      Shaking 
hands,  —  it  may   be   a  very  wearisome 


thing  to  a  popular  favorite  in  a  Ion'-- 
summer's  day,  it  may  seem  to  many  a 
very  unmeaning  ceremony,  but  it  links 
and  binds  the  race  in  the  bonds  of 
moral  fraternity.  But  the  whole  frame, 
too,  is  thus  sensitive.  The  air  that  falls 
upon  it  in  softer  than  veils  of  down 
breathes  exquisite  pleasure  through 
every  pore.  The  sense  of  touch,  the 
eldest-born  and  earliest  teacher  of  all 
the  rest,  imparts  in  fact  a  character  to 
all  the  other  senses,  and  to  the  whole 
nature  ;  so  that  I  am  tempted  to  say 
that  the  delicacy  or  torpor  of  this  or- 
ganization is,  for  auy  child,  one  of  the 
clearest  prognostics  of  his  future  de- 
velopment ;  and  I  doubt  whether  a  man, 
who  can  let  a  fly  walk  all  over  his  face 
without  knowing  it,  though  deep  powers 
and  passions  may  dwell  within,  is  ever 
a  man  of  fine,  quick,  and  sympathetic 
sensibility. 

Next,  the  faculty  of  speech  is  pecul- 
iar to  man.  This  is  given  for  ex- 
pression ;  but  mark  that  it  is  given 
for  the  expression  and  culture  of  higher 
things  than  are  found  in  animal  natures. 
Much  may  be  revealed,  it  is  true,  in 
dumb  show,  in  pantomime,  or  by  in- 
articulate cries ;  and  animals  do  this  : 
and  man's  most  ordinary  wants  could 
be  so  expressed ;  and  those  who  main- 
tain that  speech  was  an  immediate, 
divine  gift  to  man  from  his  Creator, 
because  it  was  an  immediate  necessity, 
seem  to  me  to  overlook  this  fact,  be- 
sides that  a  miracle  is  not  to  be  sup- 
posed where  a  miracle  is  unnecessary  ; 
and  I  have  known  two  children  playing 
by  themselves  for  a  single  summer  to 
form  a  language  of  their  own.  Neither 
dumb  show,  however,  nor  childish  prat- 
tle suffices  for  the  higher  wants  of  hu- 
manity. For  the  finer  discriminations 
of  thought  and  feeling,  for  the  opening 
and  culture  of  the  human  understand- 
ing, cultivated  speech  is  necessary  ;  and 
such,  we  cannot  doubt,  is  its  special 
office. 

I  cannot  altogether  pass  over  the  won- 
der of  this  thing  in  our  humanity,  though 
I  must  not  dwell  upon   it.     Language, 


556 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


the  breath  of  all  human  thought,  the 
living  tissue  of  all  human  communica- 
tion, the  telegraphic  line  that  stretches 
through  thousands  of  years,  the  texture 
into  which  are  woven  the  character  and 
history  of  nations  and  ages,  all  other 
devices,  all  other  arts,  sink  in  compari- 
son with  this  grand  instrument,  at  once 
of  Divine  intelligence  and  human  in- 
genuity, —  the  common  speech  of  men. 
To  describe  the  organs  of  speech,  their 
structure,  relations,  and  action ;  and 
then  the  corresponding  organ  that  re- 
ceives it,  the  ear ;  and  then  the  medium 
of  speech,  the  subtile  and  elastic  air, 
would  require  ample  treatises.  And  yet 
the  act  of  an  instant  calls  all  these 
agencies  into  play.  A  man  utters  a 
word,  but  one  word  ;  and  a  volume 
could  not  describe  all  that  has  been 
concentrated  in  that  utterance.  Nor 
to  one  ear  alone  does  the  utterance 
pass,  but  to  many.  A  man  utters  a 
word  ;  and  instantly  it  breaks,  as  it 
were,  into  a  thousand  particles,  which 
pass  like  sunbeams  through  the  air,  and 
in  one  moment  of  time  print  an  intel- 
ligible thought  upon  the  minds  of  thou- 
sands. And  the  might  of  speech,  the 
power  given  to  a  word,  the  living 
strength  that  girds  a  man  when  his 
whole  nature  speaks  out, —  there  is  no 
force  in  the  world  that  is  felt  like  that. 
Justly,  therefore,  is  the  power  of  God 
represented  by  a  word.  "  By  the  word 
of  the  Lord  were  the  heavens  made, 
and  ah  the  host  of  them  by  the  breath 
of  His  mouth." 

There  is  another  peculiarity  in  man, 
of  a  totally  opposite,  and  yet  perhaps  of 
a  no  less  significant  character ;  and  that 
is  laughter.  Some  men  question  much 
about  recreation  ;  whether  they  will  have 
it  or  have  it  not ;  whether  they  will  ad- 
mit it  into  their  plan.  But  Heaven  has 
sentit  into  their  plan  ;  and  they  must  have 
it,  whether  they  will  or  not.  Nay,  they 
laugh  about  nothing,  too  which  makes 
it  yet  more  significant  in  this  view.  But 
laughter  has  a  still  further  and  higher 
significance.  It  is  the  expression  of  the 
mind's  freest  enjoyment.     It  is  like  the 


clapping  of  hands  in  an  assembly,  —  the 
riotous  outbreak  in  us  of  pleasure,  de- 
light, sympathy.  It  is  healthful,  too,  I 
might  say,  by  the  bye.  It  helps  more 
to  digest  a  dinner  than  old  wine  or  any- 
thing else  fancied  to  help  it.  But  its 
highest  office  is  in  the  delicacy  of  appre- 
hension which  it  indicates.  There  are 
twenty  kinds  of  laughter,  with  as  many 
meanings.  Laughter  is  the  relish  of  wit, 
the  mockery  of  folly,  the  utterance  of 
joy,  the  murmur  of  approbation,  the 
shout  of  welcome.  It  expresses  what 
words  cannot.  It  is  the  flower  that 
bursts  from  the  hard,  logical  stem  of  talk. 
Sad  were  the  life  in  which  there  was  no 
laughter ;  sad  and  bad,  I  should  fear. 
Men  do  not  laugh  when  they  are  medi- 
tating wicked  deeds  ;  the  guilty  face  is 
serious  enough,  —  stern  or  livid  with  its 
seriousness.  Sad  were  the  life  to  which 
nothing  ludicrous  ever  presented  itself  ; 
it  were  scarcely  human.  In  fact,  laugh- 
ter is  perhaps  the  most  distinctive  visible 
mark  of  our  humanity.  If  an  anomalous 
or  masked  being  were  presented  before 
us,  concerning  which  we  doubted  wheth- 
er it  was  a  man,  —  that  which  would  most 
immediately  decide  the  point  in  his 
favor  would  be  a  burst  of  laughter. 
There  are  sighs  and  screams,  and  there 
is  singing  in  the  animal  world,  but  not 
laughter. 

There  are  other  peculiarities  in  the 
human  organization  to  be  noticed. 

One  is  the  countenance.  •  You  can 
conceive,  though  perhaps  with  difficulty, 
that  on  striking  an  ox  or  a  dog  with  a 
cruel  blow,  the  animal  might  turn  around 
upon  you,  with  a  distinctly  human  ex- 
pression of  indignation  or  reproach,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  have  my  thoughts, 
and  this  is  cruel."  If  no  other  feature 
could  express  that,  the  eye  might.  It 
does  not ;  that  power  is  r\oi  given  to  the 
animal  face  :  if  it  were,  it  would  be  such 
a  metamorphosis  as  would  fill  us  with 
terror,  and  would  penetrate  with  horror 
every  reckless  or  savage  abuser  of  the 
uncomplaining  dumb  creatures  that  God 
has  given  for  his  service.  But  man  is 
made  to  stand  erect,  and  the  crowning 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


557 


glory  of  Iiis  person  is  a  countenance 
every  lineament  of  which  is  clothed  with 
moral  expression.  The  lowering  brow 
of  defiance,  the  cheek  blanched  with  in- 
ch 2;nation,  the  eye  challenging  truth,  or 
killing  with  accusation,  or  veiled  and 
shaded  with  softening  pity,  the  winning 
sweetness  of  smiles,  the  whole  manifold 
mirror  of  radiant  goodness  and  honor,  — 
all  is  moral  ministration.  And  indeed, 
speaking  of  smiles,  I  think  I  never  saw 
a  smile  that  was  not  beautiful.  Hardly 
less  remarkable,  perhaps,  is  the  circum- 
stance of  every  man's  face  being  his  own, 
clearly  distinguishable  from  all  others. 
We  see  the  inconvenience,  and  some- 
times fatal  inconvenience,  of  not  being 
able  to  distinguish  one  man  from  "an- 
other in  the  very  few  and  rare  cases  of 
remarkable  resemblance.  If  this  were 
common,  it  would  hardly  be  too  much 
to  say  that  the  intercourse,  the  business, 
the  very  civilization  of  the  world  must 
stop.  Not  to  know  certainly  whom  we 
talked  with,  whom  we  traded  with,  who 
had  told  us  or  promised  us  this  or  that, 
whom  we  had  married  or  who  our  chil- 
dren were,  —  the  world  would  be  thrown 
into  utter  confusion,  and  all  good  re- 
lations would  become  impossible.  To 
prevent  this,  there  is  achieved  in  the 
human  countenance  what  seems  to  me 
scarcely  short  of  a  miracle.  Here  it  is, 
—  a  little  patch  of  white  ground,  nine 
inches  long  and  six  wide,  with  the  parts 
the  same,  the  configuration  the  same,  and 
the  hues  generally  the  same  ;  and  yet,  if 
all  the  hundreds  of  millions  of  the  human 
race  were  brought  together,  every  man 
could  pick  out  from  them  all  his  friend, 
with  a  certainty  equal  to  that  of  his  own 
identity. 

Finally,  the  human  hand  is  to  be  men- 
tioned. It  serves,  indeed,  one  of  the 
purposes  of  the  animal  claw  or  forefoot, 
i.e.,  to  obtain  food.  Taking  into  ac- 
count the  forearm,  the  arm,  and  shoulder, 
it  is  worthy  of  note  that  a  similar  for- 
mation prevails  throughout  the  entire  an- 
imal economy,  as  if  nothing  more  perfect 
could  be  devised.  That  is  to  say,  there 
are  the  scapulae  or  shoulder  blades,  the 


j  clavicles  or  collar-bones  to  keep  them 
I  from  pressing  upon  the  chest,  the  arm, 
the  forearm,  and  the  hand,  claw,  or  hoof, 
as  the  case  may  be.  The  same  general 
construction  is  found  in  the  fins  of  the 
fish,  the  wings  of  the  bird,  and  the  fore- 
leg of  the  quadruped.  But  in  man,  this 
organ,  I  do  not  say,  comes  to  its  per- 
fection,—  for  all  is  perfection,  evecy  ani- 
mal has  that  which  is  best  for  itself,  — 
but  this  organ  comes  in  man  to  an- 
swer purposes  peculiar  to  himself  ;  and 
most  of  these  are  mental  and  moral. 
"  The  indefeasible  cunning  "  that  lies  in 
the  right  hand  has  more  to  do  than  to 
procure  food.  For  instance,  it  has  to 
fashion  clothing,  without  which  there 
could  not  be  comfort  in  all  climates,  nor 
civilization  in  any.  No  animal  could 
cut  cloth,  or  sew  it,  or  thread  the  needle. 
Then,  again,  all  the  practical  arts  depend 
upon  the  hand,  —  building,  the  use  of 
tools,  all  skill  in  making  fabrics,  which 
is  called  /najmia-Cixarmg.  Then,  all  the 
fine  arts  require  the  hand,  —  painting, 
sculpture,  music.  Then,  once  more,  all 
writing  is  handwriting.  All  human  com- 
munication, beyond  that  which  is  oral, 
all  literature,  all  books,  all  works  of 
genius,  all  the  grandest  agencies  in  the 
world,  depend  upon  the  hand.  Yes,  in 
the  human  hand  lies  the  whole  moral 
fortune,  the  whole  civilization,  the  whole 
progress  of  humanity.  The  right  arm 
is  a  lever  that  moves  the  world. 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  certain  parts 
of  the  human  organism  as  superior  to 
the  animal,  and  as  evidently  intended  to 
answer  a  higher  purpose,  —  touch,  speech, 
laughter,  the  human  face  and  hand.  Let 
us  now  consider,  in  the  next  place,  the 
general  ministry  of  the  senses,  appetites, 
and  passions. 

Some  of  you,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  feel, 
when  you  hear  these  words,  appetites 
and  passions,  as  if  I  named  things  that 
are  not  friends,  but  enemies,  to  human 
culture.  You  have  associated  with  them 
perha])s  only  ideas  of  temptation.  But 
in  the  good  order  of  Providence,  I  am 
persuaded  it  will  always  be  found  that 
temptation  and  ministration  go  together, 


558 


THE   PROBLExM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


and  that  ministration  is  the  end,  and 
temptation  only  the  incident.  Temp- 
tation is  but  another  word  for  strong 
attraction  to  a  thing  ;  that  attraction  is 
necessary,  and  was  never  meant  to  be 
injurious,  but  useful.  I  do  not  say,  there- 
fore, with  some,  that  powerful  passions 
and  appetites  were  placed  in  man  on 
purpose  to  try  his  virtue,  but  that  they 
were  placed  there  for  other  ends  ;  that 
they  are,  in  fact,  a  necessary  part  of  the 
human  economy  ;  and  that  the  trial  is 
purely  incidental,  and  in  fact  unavoid- 
able. Just  as  fire  was  not  meant  to  burn 
the  house,  nor,  as  the  main  intent,  to 
make  the  keepers  vigilant,  but  simply  to 
warm  it,  though  it  could  not  warm  with- 
out being  liable  to  burn  it. 

I  shall  solicit  attention  particularly  to 
this  part  of  the  human  economy,  to  these 
fires  of  appetite  and  passion  in  the  house 
of  life,  because  here  arises  the  only 
moral  question  about  our  sensitive  con- 
stitution ;  and  I  am  persuaded  the  ques- 
tion can  be  met.  But  I  ask  the  inquirer 
to  see,  in  general,  what  his  simple  senses 
teach  him.  I  ask  him  to  consider  his 
own  physical  frame,  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully made,  as  the  very  shrine  of  wise 
and  good  teaching,  and  to  listen  to  the 
oracle  that  comes  from  within.  Ay,  to. 
the  oracle  ;  but  remember,  it  is  when 
nature's  flame  burns  upon  the  altar,  and 
not  the  strange  fire  of  idolatrous  passion. 
I  appeal  to  nature  against  sensualism, 
and  am  willing  to  risk  the  cause  of  vir- 
tue on  that  issue.  I  will  show  you  —  I 
think,  at  least,  I  can  show,  that  simple, 
natural  appetite  it  is  not,  that  leads  to 
vicious  and  ruinous  excess,  but  some- 
thing else.  I  concede  the  liberty  in  our 
physical  constitution  —  provided  it  be 
truly  understood  —  to  follow  nature. 

"  Fatal  concession  !  "  1  hear  it  said. 
"  Fatal  concession  !  "  exclaim  both  an- 
cient philosophy  and  modern  religion. 
"What  can  the  body  teach,  but  evil, 
error,  excess,  vice  ? " 

Let  us  see.  You  find  yourself  pos- 
sessed with  a  nature  other  than  your 
spiritual  nature  ;  different  from  it,  in- 
ferior to  it  ;  and  you  hastily  conclude 


that  because  its  qualities  are  lower,  its 
uses  must  be  lower,  and  its  tendencies 
all  downward.  You  say,  or  think,  per- 
haps, that  if  your  being  were  a  purely 
spiritual  essence,  you  would  be  free 
from  all  swayings  to  evil.  But  how 
do  you  know  that  ?  Nay,  keener  than 
the  temptations  of  sense  itself  are  the 
spiritual  passions,  — ambition,  envy,  re- 
venge, and  malignant  hate.  You  im- 
agine that  if  your  present  frame  were 
exchanged  for  some  ethereal  body,  you 
would  have  passed  out  of  the  sphere  of 
evil  and  peril.  That,  again,  you  do  not 
know.  Come,  then,  to  the  simple  fact, 
and  let  it  stand  unprejudiced  by  any 
theory  or  any  fancy  or  any  comparison. 
God  has  given  to  us,  in  the  present 
stage  of  our  being,  this  body,  this 
wonderful  frame.  Sinews  and  ligaments 
bind  it  together,  such  as  no  human  skill 
could  ever  have  devised.  Telegraphic 
nerves  run  all  over  and  through  this 
microcosm,  this  little  world,  and  bear 
mysterious  messages,  vital  as  thought 
and  swift  as  sunbeams.  Now  I  say 
that  these  are  all  moral  bonds,  good 
ministries,  channels  meant  to  inform 
and  replenish  the  soul,  and  not  to  clog 
or  corrupt  it. 

1  hardly  need  say  this,  in  the  first 
place,  of  the  five  distinct  senses,  —  touch, 
taste,  smell,  sight,  hearing.  They  are 
the  mind's  instruments  to  communicate 
with  the  outward  world  ;  instruments 
so  varied  as  to  convey  every  kind  of 
information  ;  servants  that  need  not 
to  be  sent  to  and  fro  on  errands,  but 
that  statid  as  perpeiital  ministrants,  — 
before  the  gates  of  morning,  and  amidst 
the  melody  of  groves,  and  by  the  bow- 
ers of  fragrance,  and  at  the  feast  of 
nature,  and  wherever  the  pressure  of 
breathing  life  and  beauty  comes  to  ask 
admission  to  the  soul.  The  body  is  a 
grand  harmonicon,  a  panharmonicon, 
strung  with  chords  for  all  the  music  of 
nature.  Serving  all  needful  purposes 
also,  —  to  walk,  to  run,  to  move  from 
place  to  place  ;  to  work,  to  achieve 
more  than  all  animal  organisms  together 
can  do;  it   is,    at   the   same    time,    an 


I 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


559 


organon  scicntiarum,  an  organ  of  all 
knowledge.  It  is  more  than  a  walk- 
ing library,  it  is  a  walking  perception  — 
of  things  that  no  library  can  teach  ;  it 
is  a  walking  vision  —  of  things  that  no 
language  can  describe  :  like  the  wheels 
that  appeared  to  the  rapt  Ezekiel,  full 
of  eyes  within  and  without. 

All  this,  then,  it  will  not  be  denied, 
is  good  and  useful  ministration  to  the 
mind.  One  might  as  well  inveigh 
against  a  telescope  or  an  ear-trumpet, 
as  against  the  eye  or  ear. 

But  now  to  this  system  belong  certain 
distinct  susceptibilities,  which  are  not 
classed  under  the  head  of  senses  ;  these 
are  called  appetites.  Such,  for  instance, 
is  hunger  :  or,  in  other  words,  the  gen- 
eral relish  for  food  and  drink,  which, 
when  denied  for  a  certain  time,  becomes 
hunger  or  thirst.  I  have  before  alluded 
to  the  uses  of  this  particular  appetite, 
but  I  wish  to  say  a  word  further  and 
more  distinctly  of  it  in  this  connection. 

You  can  easily  conceive  that  a  being 
might  have  been  made  without  this 
appetite,  —  made  to  move,  to  act,  to 
live,  but  not  to  eat.  Or  you  can  con- 
ceive that  he  might  have  had  the  relish 
for  agreeable  food  and  drink,  without 
the  intolerable  pain  he  feels  when  they 
are  long  denied.  Why,  then,  this  pain  ? 
I  look  upon  it  as  a  distinct  provision, 
designedly,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  gratui- 
tously put  into  the  system,  to  arouse 
man  from  indolence,  to  arouse  him  to 
activity.  I  look  upon  it  just  as  if  na- 
ture had  provided  a  whip  ;  just  as  if 
there  were  an  organ  attached  to  the 
human  body  as  the  arm  is,  and  fashioned 
like  a  scourge,  and,  when  the  man  is 
sinking  to  ruinous  indolence,  lifting  it- 
self up  and  striking  him  with  a  blow, 
to  stir  him  to  action.  It  is  a  sting,  and 
answers  that  purpose.  And,  moreover, 
it  is  a  stimulus  exactly  adjusted  to  the 
strength  of  the  agent,  and  also  to  the 
means  of  gratification.  If  hunger  re- 
turned every  hour,  instead  of  two  or 
three  times  a  day,  human  sinews  could 
not  bear  it,  nor  provide  for  it,  nor  the 
world-supply  of  food  suffice  it. 


And  is  it  a  point  too  low  for  phi- 
losophy to  observe,  furthermore,  that 
hunger,  with  the  peculiar  needs  of  that 
appetite  in  man,  promotes  social  inter- 
course ?  I  say,  with  the  peculiar  needs 
of  that  appetite  in  man  :  for  his  food 
must  be  cooked.  He  cannot  pursue  his 
prey  or  pull  up  his  root,  like  the  wild 
animal,  and  eat  it  on  the  spot,  alone. 
He  must  bring  it  hoine,  he  must  have 
arrangements  for  cookery ;  and  the  con- 
venience of  this  process  makes  it  almost 
necessary  that  families  should  assemble 
at  certain  times  of  the  day  and  eat  to- 
gether. I  am  persuaded  that  we  little 
suspect  the  immense  social  and  civil- 
izing effect  of  these  daily  gatherings 
around  the  social  board. 

Bift  admitting  that  the  appetites  have 
their  uses,  —  which  is  the  first  position 
I  take,  —  it  is  said,  nevertheless,  that 
they  have  bad  tendencies,  —  tendencies 
to  excess,  to  vice,  to  ruin.  On  this 
point  there  is,  in  the  second  place,  a 
most  important  distinction  to  be  made, 
and  that  is,  between  appetite  in  its  sim- 
ple, natural  state,  and  appetite  in  its 
artificial  and  unnatural  state,  —  a  state 
brought  on  by  voluntary  habit  and  cor- 
rupting imagination  and  mental  desti- 
tution ;  for  which  man's  will  is  respon- 
sible, and  not  his  constitution.  Look, 
then,  at  simple,  unsophisticated,  un- 
perverted  appetite.  Is  the  draught  of 
intemperance,  or  the  surfeit  of  glut- 
tony, naturally  agreeable  ?  Far  other- 
wise. Moreover,  ail  those  stimulant 
and  narcotic  substances  and  those  rich 
condiments,  of  which  excess  makes  its 
principal  use,  are  naturally  distasteful 
and  disgusting  in  the  highest  degree. 
I  do  not  say  that  even  they  were  cre- 
ated in  vain,  or  must  necessarily  be 
injurious,  for  everything  is  good  in  its 
place  and  degree,  —  even  poison  is  so; 
but  I  say  that  there  is  no  natural  de- 
mand for  these  strong  stiinulants.  On 
the  contrary,  fever  in  the  veins,  poison 
in  the  blood,  sickness,  nausea,  are  re- 
monstrances of  simple  appetite,  remon- 
strances of  nature  against  them  ;  and 
show  me  what  diseased  and  vicious  pas- 


560 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY 


sion  you  will,  and  I  will  show  you  that 
it  is  the  mind's  guilt,  and  not  the  body's 
defect  ;  that  it  is  not  the  passion  let 
alone,  still  less  duly  controlled  by  the 
higher  nature.  It  is  not  nature,  but 
bad  example  or  companionship,  that 
leads  to  evil.  It  is  imagination  that 
nurses  passion  into  criminal  desire. 
There  is  a  natural  modesty  which  unhal- 
lowed license  always  has  to  overcome. 
Let  no  man  lay  that  flattering  unction 
to  his  soul  that  God  has  made  him  to 
love  evil,  —  made  vice  and  baseness  to 
be  naturally  agreeable  to  him,  —  lor  it 
is  not  true  ! 

But  these  appetites,  besides  their 
general  uses,  and  besides  their  natural 
innocence,  seem  to  me,  in  the  third 
place,  to  bear  a  specific  relation  tb  the 
mind.     They  are  urgent  teachers. 

They  teach,  first,  moderation.  They 
teach  the  necessity  of  self-restraint,  of 
self-denial.  I  have  no  doubt  that  a 
being  not  clothed  with  flesh,  a  pure 
spiritual  essence,  would  feel  the  neces- 
sity of  self-restraint  ;  but  if  any  physi- 
cal organization  belonging  to  an  intel- 
lectual nature  could  be  made  to  enforce 
this  law,  it  appears  to  me  it  would  be 
that  of  our  human  senses  and  appetites, 
because  it  is  manifest  that  their  un- 
restrained indulgence  works  the  direst 
ruin  to  the  whole  nature.  What !  does 
this  our  sensitive  frame  teach  lessons 
of  evil,  lessons  of  vice?  God  and  na- 
ture forbid  !  Open,  patent,  everlasting 
fact  teaches  the  very  contrary.  The 
woes  of  intemperance,  gluttony,  licen- 
tiousness, excess,  are  the  very  horrors 
and  calamities  of  the  world  in  every 
age.  They  are  so  horrible  that  we  dare 
not  describe  them.  Here,  then,  is  "  elder 
Scripture  writ  by  God's  own  hand," 
written  before  ever  voice  was  heard  on 
Sinai  or  by  the  shores  of  Galilee,  writ- 
ten all  over  the  human  frame,  and  within 
every  folded  leaf  of  that  wonderful  sys- 
tem. Yes,  upon  the  ghastly  form  it  is 
written,  and  upon  the  burning  cheek, 
and  deep  in  the  branching  arteries,  and 
along  the  secret  and  invisible  nerves  is 
it  written  ;  and  sometimes  you  may  read 


the  writing  by  the  literal  alcoholic  fires 
kindled  in  the  veins,  which  with  visible 
flame  burn  up  the  man,  and  sometimes 
by  such  haggard  lines  of  deformity  as 
nothing  but  the  worst  license  of  vice 
ever  drew  upon  the  human  frame.  I 
once  saw  in  Paris  a  collection  of  wax 
figures  taken  from  life,  and  designed  to 
present  such  an  illustration.  1  do  not 
wish  to  speak  of  it,  nor  of  the  vice 
illustrated,  nor  of  the  nightmare  horror 
felt  by  the  beholder  for  hours  after  it 
is  seen  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  no 
preaching  on  earth  was  ever  like  that 
silent  gallery. 

You  must  have  patience  with  me,  my 
friends,  for  I  must  overthrow  entirely, 
and  utterly  demolish,  this  plea  of  the 
senses  for  vice.  My  argument  for  the 
ministry  of  the  senses  and  appetites 
cannot  stand  at  all  unless  I  do  that. 
The  truth  is,  the  senses,  fittest  for  vir- 
tue, happiest  in  innocence,  are  only 
capable  of  vice,  —  that  is  all  ;  but  no 
conceivable  organization  could  be  sur- 
rounded with  more  tremendous  remon- 
strances against  evil.  So  the  mind  is 
capable  of  evil,  and- so  is  the  mind,  too, 
guarded ;  and  it  might  as  well  be  said 
that  the  mind  seduces  to  ill  as  that  the 
body  does,  —  nay,  I  think  better,  —  with 
far  more  reason.  But  because  sensual 
aberration  is  more  apparent,  and  the 
effects  are  more  visible,  therefore  the 
world,  with  little  insight  as  yet  into  the 
truth  of  things,  has  agreed  tu  charge 
this  fact  of  temptation  especially  upon 
the  body.  It  would  be  coming  nearer 
to  the  truth  to  say  that  the  mind  is  the 
real  culprit. 

What  are  the  comparatively  poor, 
puny,  and  innocent  senses,  but  ser- 
vants of  the  mind,  compelled  to  do 
its  bidding  ?  I  know  it  is  a  doctrine 
of  old  time  that  the  body  does  all  tlie 
mischief;  that  the  body  is  the  enemy 
of  the  mind,  a  clog,  an  encumbrance, 
a  corrupter.  The  pliilosopher  Plotinus 
affected  to  have  forgotten  his  birthplace 
and  parentage,  because,  says  Porphyry. 
*'  he  was  ashamed  that  his  soul  was  in 
a  body."     He  imagined   that  the  mind 


1 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


56r 


had  good  cause  to  complain  of  the 
body  ;  but  I  believe  it  would  not  be 
difficult,  and  scarcely  fanciful,  to  set 
forth  a  counter  plea.  "  I  have  wan- 
dered," might  the  substance  of  the 
body  say  to  the  mind,  —  "I  have  wan- 
dered tiirough  all  the  regions  of  exist- 
ence, and  never  was  abused  till  I  came 
in  contact  with  you.  I  have  made  a 
part  of  animal  natures,  that  were  in- 
nocent ;  I  have  lived  in  the  beautiful 
forms  of  vegetable  life  ;  I  have  flowed 
in  the  streams  and  sported  in  the  air, 
all  purity  and  freshness  and  freedom; 
and  never,  till  I  was  subjected  to  your 
influence,  was  I  breathed  upon  by  any 
bad  spirit ;  never  till  then  was  I  tainted 
by  the  diseases  of  vice,  or  made  a  loath- 
some mass  of  sin-wrought  corruption  ; 
never  till  then  was  my  nature  perverted 
from  its  uses  and  made  the  instrument 
of  evil." 

But  to  speak  most  seriously  :  what  a 
wonderful  moral  structure  is  our  physi- 
cal frame  !  If  a  command  to  be  pure 
were  written,  imprinted  in  visible  let- 
ters, upon  every  limb  and  muscle,  it 
could  not  be  a  clearer  mandate,  and 
by  no  means  so  powerful.  It  was  said 
to  the  mad  and  rebellious  Saul,  "  It 
is  hard  for  thee  to  kick  against  the 
thorns."  Such  a  message  comes  in- 
deed from  no  open  vision,  but  from  his 
inmost  frame,  to  every  raging  volup- 
tuary. Thorns  and  tortures  does  it 
shoot  out  against  him  from  every  part. 
If,  every  time  he  indulged  in  any  ex- 
cess, he  were  covered  with  nettles  and 
stings,  the  intimation  would  not  be  a 
whit  more  monitory  than  it  is  now. 

How  different  is  it  with  the  animal ! 
You  may  feed  him  to  repletion,  you 
may  fatten  him  into  a  monster,  and 
there  is  no  disease,  no  suffering  ;  there 
is  only  enjoyment ;  and  so  far  as  he  is 
destined  for  food,  he  is  the  more  fitted 
for  his  purpose.  But  if  you  do  this  to 
man,  disease  and  pain  enter  in  at  every 
pore. 

The  ancient  philosophers,  in  their 
theories,  desecrated  matter  ;  the  mod- 
erns, and  especially  the  sensual  school 


36 


in  France,  have  deified  it.  They  boldly 
proclaimed,  —  I  speak  of  the  French  in- 
fidel philosophers  of  the  latter  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  —  they  boldly 
proclaimed  matter  to  be  the  true  divin- 
ity, the  human  frame  its  altar,  and  the 
appetites  its  priesthood.  Selfishness 
with  them  was  the  only  motive,  sensa- 
tion the  only  good,  and  life  a  bowing 
down  in  worship  to  the  appropriate 
divinity.  But  whoever  tries  that  the- 
ory will  find  that  matter  is  indeed  a 
god  too  powerful  for  him  ;  the  fleshly 
altar  will  be  burned  up  and  destroyed 
by  the  strange  fire  that  is  laid  upon  it ; 
and  the  priests,  the  appetites,  will  per- 
ish in  that  profane  ministration. 

The  Government  builds  prisons  for 
culprits,  and  protects  the  honest  house. 
All  men  pronounce  that  to  be  a  moral 
administration.  But  what  if,  when 
wrong  was  perpetrated  in  the  honest 
house,  and  it  had  become  the  habitation 
of  the  base  and  vile,  it  should,  by 
some  wonder-working  intervention  of 
the  Government,  grow  dark  and  deso- 
late, and  should  gradually  turn  into  a 
prison,  —  the  windows  narrowing  year 
by  year,  and  grated  bars  growing  over 
them  ;  the  rooms,  the  ceilings,  slowly 
darkening;  the  aspects  of  cheerful  and 
comfortable  abode  gradually  disappear- 
ing, and  gloom  and  filth  coming  instead, 
and  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sobs 
and  moans  of  prisoners,  or  the  sadder 
sound  of  cursing  and  revelling  ?  Such  — 
mark  it  well!  —  becomes  the  body,  the 
more  immediate  house  of  life,  to  every 
abandoned  transgressor !  Not  alone 
the  mount  that  burned  with  fire  ut- 
ters the  commandment  of  God  ;  not 
alone  the  tabernacle  of  Moses,  covered 
with  cloud  and  shaken  with  thunder ;  but 
this  cloud-tabernacle  of  life  which  God 
has  erected  for  the  spirit's  dwelling,  and 
the  electric  nerves  that  dart  sensation 
like  lightning  through  it,  —  all  its  won- 
ders, all  its  mysteries,  all  its  veiled 
secrets,  all  its  familiar  recesses,  are  full 
of  urgent  and  momentous  teaching. 

But    there    is    something    further    to 
be  observed  concerning  this  teaching; 


562 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


there  is   one  respect  in  which  it  is  yet 
more  urgent.     For  it  demands  not  only 
moderation  and  self-denial,  but  activity : 
it  forbids  not  only  excess,  but  indolence. 
It   demands   of  those    who    do    not  la- 
bor, daily,  out-of-door  exercise,  —  not  a 
lounge  in  a   carriage   only,   but  a  walk, 
or  some   bracing  exercise  in  the   open 
air,  —  demands  that,  or  says,  '•  Pay  for 
your    neglect"       Some   inuring,    some 
h  irdness, — hardship,  if  they  please  to 
call    it,  —  nature    exacts    even    of    the 
gentlest   of    its    children.      The    world 
was  not  built  to  be  a  hot-house,  but  a 
gymnasium  rather.     Voluptuous  repose, 
luxurious    protection,    enervating    food 
and  modes  of  life,  are  not  the  good  con- 
dition, not  the  permitted  resort,  for  our 
physical  nature.     Half  of  the  physician's 
task,  with  many,  is  to  fight  offthe  effects 
of  such   abuses.     The  laws  of  the  hu- 
man constitution  are  moral  laws  ;  they 
address,  the   conscience,  the  moral  na- 
ture ;  they  exact   penalties  for   neglect. 
And  doubtless  the  penalties  are  severe. 
That  is  not  nature's  fault,  but  nature's 
excellence.       Doubtless    the   penalties 
are   severe.      1  am   persuaded,    indeed, 
that  if  they  could  be  enumerated ;  if  all 
the  languid  and  heavy  pulses  could  be 
numbered  ;    if  all  the   miseries  of  ner- 
vous and  diseased  sensation  could  be 
defined  ;  if  all  that  could  be  described 
which  surrounds  us  with  wasted  forms, 
or  sequesters  them  in  silent  chambers, 
an   aggregate  of    ills    could    be   found 
which   would   match    the    statistics    of 
pauperism  or  of  intemperance  itself.     I 
believe  there   is   less    suffering   among 
the    idler  and   more    luxurious  classes, 
from  violent  disorders,  than  from  those 
chronic  and  nervous  ailments,  which  do 
not    always    inflict    acute    pain,   which 
do  not  alarm  us  for  the  patient,  —  well 
if   they  did  !  —  but  which  enfeeble  the 
energies,  destroy  the  elasticity  of  the 
frame,  undermine  the  very  constitution 
of  the  body  ;  which  depress  the  spirits, 
too,   wear  out   the    patience,    sour   the 
temper,  cloud  the  vision  of  nature,  dis- 
robe society  of   its  beauty  and  despoil 
it  of  its  gladness,  and  send  their  victim 


to  the  grave  at  last,  from  a  life  which 
has  been  one  long  sigh.  And  all  might 
have  been  prevented  by  one  brisk  daily- 
walk  in  the  open  air. 

This  subject  —  and  1  mean  now  this 
whole  subject  of  the  right  training 
and  care  of  the  body  —  is. one,  I  con- 
ceive, of  unappreciated  importance. 
Our  physical  nature  is  more  than  the 
theatre,  more  than  the  stage  ;  it  is  the 
very  costume,  the  very  drapery  in  which 
the  mind  acts  its  part  ;  and  if  it  hangs 
loosely  or  awkwardly  upon  the  actor,  if  it 
weighs  him  down  as  a  burden,  or  entan- 
gles his  step  at  every  turn,  the  action, 
the  great  action  of  hTe  must  be  lame 
and  deficient.  What  that  burden,  that 
entanglement  is  now,  and  what  is  the 
genuine  vigor  and  health  of  a  man  ; 
what  is  the  true,  spiritual  ministry  of 
the  body  to  the  soul,  I  am  persuaded, 
we  do  not  yet  know. 

I  confess  that  I  sometimes  think  that 
this  subject  —  what  old  Lewis  Cornaro 
denominated  in  his  book  "  the  advan- 
tage,—  not  the  duty  only,  —  but  the 
advantage  of  a  temperate  life"  —  is 
one  that  goes  behind  all  the  preaching. 
The  physical  system,  though  not  the 
temple,  is  the  very  scaffolding  without 
which  the  temple  cannot  be  built.  We 
call  from  the  pulpit  for  lofty  resolution, 
cheering  courage,  spiritual  aspiration, 
divine  serenity.  Alas  !  how  shall  a 
body  clogged  with  excess,  or  searched 
through  every  pore  with  nervous  debil- 
ity, —  how  shall  a  body,  at  once  irritable, 
pained,  and  paralyzed,  yield  these  vir- 
tues in  their  full  strength  and  perfec- 
tion ?  We  ask  that  the  soul  be  guarded, 
nurtured,  trained  to  vigor  and  beauty, 
in  its  mortal  tenement  ;  that  the  flame 
in  that  shrine,  the  body,  be  kept  bright 
and  steady.  Alas  !  the  shrine  is  shat- 
tered ;  and  rains  and  windflaws  beat  in 
at  every  rent ;  and  all  that  the  guardian 
—  conscience  —  can  do,  oftentimes,  is 
to  hold  up  a  temporary  screen,  first  on 
one  side  and  then  on  another ;  and 
often  the  flickering  light  of  virtue  goes 
out,  and  all  in  that  shrine  is  dark  and 
cold  and  solitary  ;  it  has  become  a  tomb  ! 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUM'AN    DESTINY. 


563 


I  am  endeavoring,  in  this  part  of  my 
lecture,  to  defend  man's  physical  con- 
stitution in  general  from  the  charge  that 
it  naturally  develops  evil,  vice,  intem- 
perance, excess  every  way.  I  betore 
showed  that  the  specific  organs  and 
attributes  of  the  physical  structure  — 
the  sense  of  touch,  speech,  laughter, 
the  human  face  and  hand  —  are  fine 
ministries  to  the  intellectual  nature.  I 
came  then  to  what  is  tliought  the  more 
questionable  tendency  of  the  senses  and 
appetites  ;  and  I  have  shown,  first,  that 
they  are  useful,  —  as  hunger,  for  in- 
stance, impelhng  to  industry  ;  secondly, 
that  they  are  naturally  innocent,  i.  e., 
that  they  do  not  like,  but  naturally 
dislike,  excess  ;  and  thirdly,  that  they 
powerfully  teacli  and  enforce  wholesome 
moderation  and  healthful  activity. 

I  deny,  therefore,  that  the  bodily 
constitution  naturally  ministers  to  evil, 
to  vice.  A  similar  organization  shows 
no  such  tendency  in  anininls.  It  is  the 
mind,  then,  that  is  in  fault.  But  now  I 
wish  further  to  show,  before  I  leave  the 
subject,  that  vicious  excess  is  a  com- 
plete inversion  of  the  natural  relations 
of  the  mind  and  body  ;  that  instead  of 
being  according  to  nature,  it  turns 
everything  upside  down  in  our  nature. 

Certainly,  in  the  natural  order  of  our 
powers,  the  mind  was  made  to  be  mas- 
ter; the  body  was  made  to  be  servant. 
Naturally  the  body  does  not  say  to  the 
mind,  "Go  hither  and  thither;  do  this 
and  that;''  but  the  mind  says  this  to 
the  body.  The  mind,  too,  has  bound- 
less wants  that  range  through  earth 
and  heaven,  through  infinitude,  through 
eternity  ;  and  it  must  have  boundless 
resources.  Can  it  find  them  in  the 
body?  —  in  that  for  which  "two  paces 
of  the  vilest  earth  "  will  soon  be  "  room 
enough."  Our  physical  frame  is  only 
tlie  medium ;  as  it  were,  an  apparatus 
of  tubes,  reflectors,  yColian  harpstrings, 
to  convey  the  mysterious  life  and  beauty 
of  the  universe  to  the  soul.  So  far  as 
it  loses  this  ministerial  character,  and 
becomes  in  itself  an  e?id  on  which  the 
mind     fastens,    on    whose    enjoyments 


the  mind  gloats,  all  is  wrong,  and  is 
fast  running  to  mischief,  misery,  and 
ruin. 

For  suppose  this  dreadful  inversion 
to  be  effected ;  suppose  that  the  all- 
grasping  mind  resorts  to  the  body  alone 
lor  satisfaction,  —  forsakes  the  wide 
ranges  of  knowledge,  of  science,  of 
religious  contemplation,  tlie  realm  cf 
earth  and  stars,  and  resorts  to  the  body 
alone,  and  has,  alas  !  for  it,  no  other 
resource.  What  will  the  mind  do  Ihen  ? 
It  will,  —  I  had  almost  said,  it  must,  — 
with  its  boundless  craving,  push  every 
appetite  to  excess.  It  must  levy  unlaw- 
ful contributions  upon  the  whole  physi- 
cal nature.  It  must  distrain  every 
physical  power  to  the  utmost.  Ah  !  it 
has  so  small  a  space  from  which  to 
draw  its  supplies,  its  pleasures,  its 
joys.  It  must  exact  of  every  sense, 
not  what  it  may  innocently  and  easily 
give,  but  all  that  it  cangwo..  What  ere- 
long will  be  the  result  of  this  devotion 
to  the  body  and  to  bodily  pleasures  ? 
Tliere  comes  a  fearful  revolution  in  the 
man  .'  The  sensual  passions  obtain 
unlawful  ascendency,  —  become  mas- 
ters,—  become  tyrants  ;  and  no  tyranny 
in  the  world  was  ever  so  horrible.  None 
had  ever  such  agents  as  those  nerves 
and  senses,  —  seductive  senses  call  you 
them?  —  say  rather  those  ministers  of 
retribution,  those  mutes  in  the  awful 
court  of  nature,  that  stand  ready,  silent 
and  remorseless,  to  do  their  work.  The 
soul  which  has  used,  abused,  and  dese- 
crated the  sensitive  powers,  now  finds 
in  them  its  keepers.  Imprisoned, 
chained  down,  famishing  in  its  own 
abode,  it  knocks  at  the  door  of  every 
sense  ;  no  longer,  alas  !  for  pleasure, 
but  for  relief.  It  sends  out  its  impa- 
tient thoughts,  those  quick  and  eager 
messengers,  in  every  direction  for  sup- 
ply. It  makes  a  pander  of  the  imagi- 
nation, a  purveyor  for  indiscriminate 
sensuality  of  the  ingenious  fancv.  a  prey 
of  its  very  affections  ;  for  it  will  sacri- 
fice everything  to  be  satisfied. 

Could  it  succeed, — could  it,  like  the 
martyr,  win  the  victory  through   these 


564 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


fiery  agonies,  —  but  no ;  God  in  our 
nature  forbids.  Sin  never  wins.  Ruin 
fails  upon  soul  and  body  together.  For 
now,  at  length,  the  worn-out  and  abused 
senses  begin  to  give  way:  they  can  no 
longer  do  the  work  that  is  exacted  of 
them.  The  eye  grows  dim  ;  the  touch 
is  palsied;  the  limbs  tremble;  the  pil- 
lars of  that  once  fair  dwelling  are  shat- 
tered, and  shaken  to  their  foundation  ; 
the  whole  head  is  sick,  and  the  whole 
heart  faint ;  the  elements  without  be- 
come enemies  to  that  poor,  sick  frame  ; 
the  fires  of  passion  are  burning  within  ; 
and  the  mind,  like  the  lord  of  a  belea- 
guered castle,  sinks  amidst  the  ruins  of 
its  mortal  tenement,  in  silent  and  sullen 
despair,  or  with  muttered  oaths  and 
curses  and  blasphemies. 

Oh,  let  the  mind  but  have  had  its  own 
great  satisfactions,  its  higli  thoughts  and 
blessed  affections,  and  then  it  could  say 
to  these  poor  proffers  of  sense,  "  1  want 
you  not ;  1  am  happy  already ;  I  want 
you  not ;  I  want  no  tumult  nor  revel ;  1 
want  no  cup  of  excess  ;  1  want  no  secret 
nor  stolen  indulgence  ;  and  as  for  pleas- 
ure, I  would  as  soon  sell  my  body  to 
the  fire  for  pleasure,  as  1  would  sell  my 
soul  \.o  you  iox  pleasure.'''' 

Such  is  the  true  and  natural  relation 
of  the  mind  and  body;  such  is  the  law 
of  their  common  culture.  Under  this 
law  the  body  would  be  fashioned  into  a 
palace  of  delights  hardly  yet  dreamed 
of.  We  want  a  higher  ideal  of  what  the 
body  was  made  and  meant  to  be  to 
the  soul.  Sensualism  has  taught  to 
the  world  its  terrible  lessons.  Is  not  a 
higher  aesthetic  law  coming,  to  teach  in 
a  better  manner  ?  Sensualism  is  but  the 
lowest  and  poorest  form  of  sensitive  en- 
joyment. One  said  to  me  many  years 
ago,  "  I  have  been  obliged,  from  delicacy 
of  health,  to  abstain  from  the  grosser 
pleasures  of  sense  ;  neither  feast  nor 
wine  have  been  for  me  :  perhaps  I  have 
learned  the  more  to  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  nature,  —  the  pleasures  of  vision  and 


the  melodies  of  sound."  The  distinction 
here  taken,  shows  that  the  very  senses 
might  teach  us  better  than  they  do.  For 
I  say,  was  that  witness  a  loser  or  a 
gainer  ?  Vision  and  melody ;  shall  gross- 
er touch  and  taste  carry  off  the  palm 
from  thein  ?  Vision,  that  makes  me  pos- 
sessor of  the  earth  and  stars  !  —  the  eye, 
in  whose  mysterious  depths  is  pictured 
the  beauty  of  the  whole  creation  !  —  and 
what  comprehensive  wonders  in  that 
bright  orb  of  vision  !  Think  of  grosser 
touch  and  taste  ;  and  think,  for  one  mo- 
ment, what  sight  and  hearing  are.  It  is 
proved  by  experiments  that,  naturally, 
and  by  mere  visual  impression,  the  eye 
sees  all  things  as  equidistant  and  near 
—  close  to  us  —  a  pictured  wall.  By 
comparisons  of  apparent  size  and  hue, 
we  have  learned  to  refer  all  objects  to 
their  real  distance.  Sky  and  clouds, 
mountain-sides  and  peaks  and  rocks, 
river,  plain,  and  grove,  every  tree  and 
swell  of  ground,  —  all  are  fixed  in  their 
place  in  an  instant  of  time.  Hundreds 
of  comparisons,  hundreds  of  acts  of 
mind,  are  flung  into  that  regal  glance  of 
the  eye  !  But  more  than  the  telescopic 
eye  is  the  telegraphic  ear.  More,  to  my 
thought,  lies  in  the  hidden  chambers  of 
viewless  sound  ;  in  that  more  spiritual 
organ,  which  indeed  expresses  nothing, 
but  receives  the  largest  and  finest  im- 
port of  things  without  ;  in  that  myste- 
rious, echoing  gallery,  through  which 
pass  the  instructive,  majestic,  and  win- 
ning tones  of  human  speech  ;  through 
which  floats  the  glorious  tide  of  song,  to 
fill  the  soul  with  light  and  melody.  In- 
struments of  godlike  skill,  types  and  teach- 
ers of  things  divine,  harbingers  of  greater 
revelations  to  come,  are  these.  Not  for 
temptation,  not  for  debasement,  was  this 
wondrous  frame  built  up,  let  ancient  phi- 
losophers or  modern  voluptuaries  say 
what  they  will;  but  to  be  a  vehicle  of 
all  nobleness,  a  seer  of  all  beauty,  a 
shrine  of  worship,  a  temple  of  the  all- 
pervading  and  indwelling  Life 


I 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


565 


LECTURE     V. 

OF   MAN'S    SPIRITUAL   CONSTITUTION MINISTRY  OF  THE    MENTAL 

AND  MORAL  FACULTIES. 


From  the  statement  of  the  problem  of 
human  destiny,  to  the  ground  principles 
of  it  as  laid  in  the  finite  and  free  nature  of 
man  ;  from  the  general  structure  of  the 
material  world  as  the  place  of  human 
abode  and  culture,  to  man's  physical 
organization,  and  the  ministry  of  his 
senses  and  appetites,  —  this  has  been  the 
order  of  discourse  in  our  previous  lec- 
tures. Let  us  now  proceed  to  the  mind 
itself  ;  to  that  presiding  power  which 
dwells  within  the  bodily  organization, 
and  yet  is  as  distinct  from  it  in  its  na- 
ture and  essence  as  if  it  were  ensphered 
in  heavenly  splendor  :  to  that  life  within, 
that  cannot  be  wanting  to  the  purpose 
which  all  life  around  it  subserves. 

On  any  theory  of  human  nature,  this 
field  of  inquiry  is  fairly  open  to  us.  For 
though  the  theory  about  the  soul  be  this, 
—  that  it  is  by  nature  spiritually  dead, 
and  can  wake  to  life  only  by  a  regener- 
ating power  ;  though  the  soul  were  re- 
garded as  a  dry  and  dead  mechanism, 
helpless  and  incapable  of  moving  itself, 
yet  when  the  stream  of  influence  is 
poured  upon  it,  that  stream  it  will  not 
be  denied,  finds  and  sets  in  motion  a 
machinery  fitted  to  answer  high  pur- 
poses. It  is  into  this  grand  mechanism 
that  we  are  now  to  look. 

In  its  nature,  I  say,  it  stands  com- 
pletely apart  from  the  physical  mechan- 
ism. Thought,  feeling,  conscience,  is 
one  thin^: ;  bone,  sinew,  brain,  is  another 
thing.  Because  they  are  intimately  as- 
sociated, because  thought,  feeling,  con- 
science, operate  through  bone,  sinew,  and 
brain,  therefore  to  say,  as  the  material- 
ist does,  that  they  are  of  the  same  nature, 
is  as  if  he  should  say,  that  because  light, 
to  be  perceived,  passes  through  the  eye, 


therefore  light  and  the  eye  are  of  the 
same  nature;  or  because  life  dwells  in 
the  plant,  therefore  the  material  structure 
of  the  plant  is  the  same  thing  as  the 
mysterious  life  that  animates  it.  Or  if 
he  says  that  thought  is  the  result  of  a 
bodily  organization,  he  says  that  which 
can  be  no  matter  of  perception  or  knowl- 
edge to  him,  —  which  is  nothing,  in  fact, 
but  the  merest  imagination.  He  may 
imagine,  if  he  pleases,  and  he  might  as 
well,  that  thought  is  an  exhalation  from 
the  earth,  that  it  comes  up  through  the 
soles  of  the  feet,  that  it  passes,  like  raw 
material,  through  the  mechanism  of  the 
human  system,  till  it  issues  from  the 
brain  the  finished  product.  To  all  such 
dreaming,  we  may  say,  —  if  mind  is  not 
one  thing,  and  matter  is  not  another 
thing  ;  if  mechanic  organization  is  not 
one  thing,  and  the  conscious  and  living 
will  is  not  another  ;  if  these  substances 
or  modes  of  being  do  not,  in  fact,  lie  at 
the  opposite  poles  of  thought ;  then 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  difference  in  the 
universe. 

And  let  me  say  also  that  the  mind, 
the  inner  being,  is  not,  as  an  object  of 
thought,  enveloped  in  that  peculiar  ob- 
scurity commonly  ascribed  to  it.  Meta- 
physics may  be  abstruse,  and  far  away 
from  the  ordinary  paths  of  thought,  but 
the  mind  is  not.  It  is  imagined  to  he 
far  more  mysterious  and  inaccessible 
than  matter.  But,  strictly  speaking,  in 
the  nature  of  things  the  very  contrary 
is  the  truth.  Things  without  me  are 
matters  of  observation ;  things  within,  of 
conscio-usness.  The  things  within  are 
nearer  and  more  certain  to  me.  I  know 
myself  as  I  know  nothing  else.  I  know 
mv    thought   better    than    I    know   anv 


566 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


object  without  me.  When  I  compare 
thought  with  thought,  and  draw  a  con- 
clusion, that  process  is  far  more  intel- 
ligible to  me  than  when  I  put  heat  to 
fuel  and  produce  combustion.  The  out- 
ward world  is  phenomenal  and  shadowy 
compared  with  the  inward.  Some  phi- 
losophers have  doubted  whether  it  exists 
at  all ;  but  none  have  doubted  their  own 
existence.  I  can  easily  believe  that  if 
we  could  get  back  to  our  original  ex- 
perience we  should  find  that,  at  first,  the 
bodily  organs  themselves  seemed  as 
external  and  foreign  to  us  as  the  ma- 
terial world,  —  the  foot  no  more  a  part 
of  ourself  than  the  ground  it  trod  upon ; 
but  no  such  mistake  could  be  made 
with  regard  to  our  thought,  our  feeling, 
our  consciousness  :   that  is  ourself. 

Into  this  innermost  home  of  our  hu- 
manity, then,  let  us  enter,  and  see  what 
is  created  there  to  minister  to  the  great 
end  of  our  being. 

In  the  mind,  then,  considered  as  dis- 
tinct from  bodily  sensation,  there  are 
three  great  faculties,  or  classes  of  fac- 
ulties. 

First,  there  are  the  intellectual  powers. 
And  what  is  their  ministry?  Plainly,  to 
discover  truth.  This  is  the  one  object, 
the  destined  result,  of  their  entire  action. 
There  is  the  intuition  of  truth  which 
embraces  mathematical  axioms  and  the 
original  moral  conceptions  ;  which  em- 
braces ideas  of  truth  as  superior  to  error, 
of  right  as  higher  than  wrong,  of  cause 
and  effect,  of  time  and  space,  both  finite 
and  infinite  ;  ideas  native  to  the  mind, 
created,  embedded  in  it  ;  ideas  which 
are  the  foundation  of  all  reasoning. 
Then  there  is  perception  of  facts  around 
us,  and  consciousness  of  facts  within 
us ;  and  judgment,  which  compares 
these  facts  and  draws  conclusions  ;  and 
imagination,  which  ranges  through  the 
creation,  and  gathers  new  and  anal- 
ogous facts  and  principles  ;  and  memory, 
the  storehouse  of  knowledge  —  without 
which  there  could  be  no  comparison, 
no  process  of  thought.  All  these  facul- 
ties obviously  have  one  design,  the  dis- 
covery of  truth. 


Secondly,  there  are  the  esthetic  fac- 
ulties, whose  office  is  the  perception 
of  beauty.  Certain  forms,  proportions, 
colors,  and  sounds  are  naturally  agree- 
able to  us  ;  others  are  disagreeable.  I 
am  not  aiming  at  any  full  or  detailed 
analysis  of  the  mind.  I  only  wish,  in 
the  general,  to  direct  your  attention  to 
its  cardinal  principles.  And  certainly 
there  is  such  a  part  of  our  mental  con- 
stitution as  I  now  indicate,  which  has 
no  direct  regard  either  to  truth  or  right, 
though  it  is  in  many  ways  connected 
with  both.  There  is  nothing  strictly 
intellectual  or  moral  in  the  agreeable- 
ness  of  certain  forms  and  colors,  in  the 
sense  of  proportion  and  harmony  and 
melody.  These  belong  to  the  aesthetic 
part  of  our  nature. 

Thirdly,  there  is  the  moral  faculty,  — 
that  is,  conscience,  —  and  its  nature  and 
office  cannot  be  mistaken.  What  it  is, 
there  can  be  no  doubt;  though  the  ques- 
tions, how  it  arises  in  the  mind,  and  how 
it  acts,  have  admitted  of  various  expla- 
nations. They  are  very  familiar,  —  those 
of  Hartley,  Adam  Smith,  Paley,  and  of 
the  later  and  better  philosophers,  Ger- 
man, French,  and  English,  who  hold  that 
conscience  is  a  distinct  and  original 
faculty.  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  con- 
sider them  in  detail,  because  they  all 
admit  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  con- 
science ;  that  it  is  a  discrimination  of 
the  right  from  the  wrong  ;  that  it  is  an 
approval  of  the  right  and  a  condemna- 
tion of  the  wrong.  Neither  does  a  mis- 
guided conscience,  of  which  the  world 
has  seen  enough,  and  of  which  flippant 
sceptics  have  made  so  much,  any  more 
prove  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
conscience,  than  a  misguided  reason 
proves  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
reason.  Beneath  the  rubbish  of  ail 
human  errors  lies  the  indestructible 
basis.  Nay,  more;  within,  wrapped  up 
within  every  moral  mistake  that  ever 
was  committed,  lies  the  nticletis  convic- 
tion that  soinething  is  right.  Conscience, 
however  imperfect,  unenlightened,  err- 
ing, has  ever  held  that  there  was  some- 
thing right  in  the  very  wrong  which  it 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


567 


sanctioned.  It  lias  sanctioned  cruelty, 
oppression,  war.  Why?  Because  it 
believed  them  to  be  rioht.  The  very 
persecutor,  like  Paul,  thought  he  was 
doing  God %GX\\ct.  That  inborn  element 
was  never  worked  out  of  the  moral  judg- 
ments of  men.  That  great  and  solemn 
word,  right,  was  never  erased  from  the 
tablet  of  humanity,  howsoever  worn  and 
defaced,  and  never  will  be. 

Let  us  now  consider  how  this  spiritual 
constitution  of  our  humanity,  intellec- 
tual, zesthetic,  and  moral,  conduces  to 
the  end  for  which  we  say  that  it  was 
made  ;  how,  indeed,  it  is  a  kingdom  built 
up  within  us,  with  laws  and  ordinances 
and  powers  all  conspiring  to  that  end. 
In  doing  this,  we  must  take  care  to  dis- 
tinguish, in  human  nature,  the  perma- 
nent from  the  casual,  the  necessary  from 
the  contingent,  the  fundamental  from 
the  superincumbent,  God's  work  in  the 
mind  from  man's  overlaying.  In  works 
of  human  art,  if  the  critic  or  student 
should  neglect  to  make  this  distinction, 
if  he  should  confound  fragments  and 
defacements  and  ruins  with  the  original 
structure  and  design  of  statue  or  temple, 
he  would  stumble  at  the  first  step.  And 
the  original,  the  Divine  work  in  the  soiil, 
is  to  be  distinguished  from  all  that  mars 
it,  or  there  will  be  no  proper  ground  for 
any  study  of  it.  Ground  there  is,  how- 
ever; and  this  consideration  of  the  mat- 
ter—  the  distinction,  that  is,  which  I 
here  make — is  most  pertinent  and  prac- 
tical to  the  present  state  of  men's  minds. 
For  the  aberrations  of  our  humanity, 
by  many,  are  mistaken  for  its  laws  and 
principles.  Because  men  have  fallen 
into  deep  and  sad  erring,  they  seem  to 
suppose  that  nothing  better  than  erring 
is  to  be  expected  of  them.  Depravity 
as  a  doctrine  is  made  an  apology  for 
depravity  as  a  life.  And  man,  '•  made 
but  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,"  made 
for  angelic  aspiration,  suffers  himself,to 
be  low  and  vile  almost  without  shame, 
certainly  without  any  keen  and  convert- 
ing self-reproach. 

The  error  is  as  old  as  the  most  ancient 
philosophy,  and  as  new  as  almost  the 


latest.  The  Persian  sages,  the  Greek 
philosophers,  Plato  himself,  the  Gnostics 
generally,  and  even  some  of  the  Christian 
fathers,  held  that  the  world  and  its  in- 
habitants were  so  ill  made  that  they 
would  not  ascribe  the  work  to  the  Su- 
preme God,  but  charged  it  upon  some 
inferior  being,  —  Demiurge  or  Satan. 
Even  the  learned  Cudworth,  so  late  as 
two  centuries  ago,  maintained,  and  his 
opinion  is  countenanced  by  the  acute 
and  liberal-minded  Le  Cierc,  that  all 
things  here  below  are  arranged  and  or- 
dered by  a  certain  power,  which  he  calls 
"Plastic  Nature,"  a  power,  he  says, 
"incorporeal,  but  low  and  imperfect." 

Assuredly  we  have  learned  better 
things  than  these,  and  can  vindicate  a 
better  philosophy.  Humanity  ill  made  ? 
Indeed,  the  best  argument  for  that  theo- 
ry would  be  the  blindness  that  could  see 
no  better.  Ill  made  ?  It  is  made,  first 
of  all,  to  recognize  the  sovereignty  of 
truth.  Errors  and  deviations  and  con- 
troversies there  have  been,  and  enough 
of  them,  in  the  world  :  but  the  one  chal- 
lenge of  all  dispute,  from  the  first  hour 
that  ever  a  man  debated  anything  with 
his  neighbor,  has  been  this  :  "  I  have 
the  truth,  and  you  have  it  not."  All  in- 
tellectual erring,  at  least  in  the  regions 
of  abstract  inquiry,  has  been  involun- 
tary, and  has  evermore  been  a  seeking 
tor  the  truth.  If  it  had  yY7?^«</ nothing, 
then,  indeed,  would  a  case  be  made  out 
against  us  of  stupendous  abortion.  But 
what  do  the  words,  science,  philosophy, 
literature,  art,  poetry,  common -sense 
mean,  if  the  search  has  been  in  vain  ? 
And  if  there  stood  upon  the  earth,  now 
and  here  before  us,  one  who  had  discoT- 
ered  a\\  the  truths,  the  secret  and  mys- 
terious truths  of  nature  and  life  and 
humanity,  that  being  would  draw  from 
the  whole  world  a  homage  such  as  was 
never  paid  at  the  throne  of  monarch  or 
pontiff.  So  is  man  made  ;  so  to  bow 
down  before  the  truth,  before  the  simple, 
naked,  invisible  truth,  as  he  bows  be- 
fore no  outward  shrine.  The  eternal 
reason  speaks  in  him,  and  its  word  is 
an  oracle.    Above  all  earthly  power  and 


568 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY, 


grandeur  sits  sage  wisdom.  The  mon- 
archs  of  the  world  are  such  as  Plato, 
Homer,  Milton,  Shakspeare. 

Homage  to  such  is  natural.  Truth 
leads  not  downward,  but  upward.  There 
is  something  ennobling  in  the  bare  pur- 
suit of  it,  in  the  most  abstract  forms. 
One  cannot  listen  to  a  clear  and  lofty 
discoursing  without  feeling  his  very 
frame  to  expand  with  swelling  thoughts. 
There  are  books,  and  even  those  of  the 
abstrusest  philosophy,  like  Dugald  Stew- 
art's, which  I  cannot  hear  read  without 
feeling  as  if  I  wanted  to  rise  up  and 
stride  through  the  room,  and  were  a 
head  taller.  I  am  reminded,  in  this 
connection,  of  the  beautiful  eulogium 
which  Sir  James  Mackintosh  passes  on 
Dugald  Stewart.  "  How  many,"  he  says, 
"are  still  alive,  in  different  countries, 
and  in  every  rank  to  which  education 
reaches,  who,  if  they  accurately  exam- 
ined their  own  minds  and  lives,  would 
not  ascribe  much  of  whatever  goodness 
and  happiness  they  possess  to  the  early 
impressions  of  his  gentle  and  persuasive 
eloquence  ! "  * 

Turn  now  to  the  department  of  sci- 
ence. It  does  not  fall  within  my  pres- 
ent design  to  speak  at  length  of  its 
vastness,  —  of  the  grand  fabric  of  scien- 
tific knowledge  which  man  has  built  up 
in  the  world ;  to  show  how  he  has 
stretched  the  compass  of  his  investiga- 
tion from  the  earth  to  the  skies  ;  how 
he  has  analyzed  every  known  substance, 
and  studied  the  laws  of  invisible  agen- 
cies, and  penetrated  into  the  beds  and 
layers  of  the  old  creation  and  deciphered 
its  history ;  how  he  has  descried  millions 
of  living  creatures  sporting  in  a  globule 
of  water,  and  then  risen  to  follow  the 
millioned  globes  of  heaven  in  their 
courses ;  how  he  has  traced  out  aston- 
ishing analogies  of  structure  between 
the  flower  of  the  field  and  the  systeni 
of  heavenly  spheres,  —  between  the 
arrangement  and  development  of  the 
solar  system  and  the  branchings  of  our 
forest  trees,  —  showing  them  all  to  be 

*  View  of  the  Proeress  of  Ethical  Philosophy  in 
the  Seventeenth  and  Eighteenth  Centuries,  p.  213. 


of  one  type,  one  order,  one  creative 
idea.  But  whither  can  all  this  stu- 
pendous knowledge  lead,  but  to  God  ? 
Where  can  man  bow  down  his  awe- 
struck reason,  but  before  the  throne  of 
the  invisible  Might?  Science  is  the 
natural  ally  and  minister  of  religion. 
And  this,  notwithstanding  the  assump- 
tions of  some  philosophers,  whom  not 
science,  but  irreverence,  has  made  Athe- 
ists, has  now  come  to  be  regarded  as 
the  established  truth. 

"  Still,"  I  hear  it  said,  "the  mass  of 
mankind  is  buried  in  ignorance."  It  is 
curious  to  observe  how  constantly  we 
use  the  word  ignorance,  as  if  there  were 
no  knowledge  but  that  of  books  and 
theories.  The  active  classes,  I  think, 
have  some  right  to  complain  of  this 
book-learned  assumption.  What  are 
we  to  say  of  that  vast  accumulation  of 
knowledge  called  common -sense,  the 
light  of  daily  hfe,  the  light  of  guidance 
that  shines  upon  all  the  paths  of  human 
pursuit  ?  All  the  philosophy  in  the 
world  could  not  supply  the  place  of 
that ;  all  the  philosophy  in  the  world,  in 
utility,  is  perhaps  inferior  to  it.  It  has 
been  reserved  for  some  of  the  French 
philosophers  —  Jouffroy  and  others  —  to 
raise  this  truth  to  its  proper  place.  M. 
Jouffroy  has  raised  it,  perhaps,  some- 
thing above  its  place ;  for  this  is  his 
view  of  the  matter  :  "  Seeing  and  observ- 
ing,^'' he  says,  "are  different  things. 
Seeing  is  universal  ;  observing  is  the 
philosopher's  province.  Observing  is 
the  seizing  and  examining  of  particular 
aspects  of  things  ;  and  although  keener 
than  the  common  and  general  seeing, 
and  having  its  own  immense  impor- 
tance, it  is  apt  to  be  narrow  and  one- 
sided Hence  the  varying  and  conflicting 
systems  of  philosophy.  But  seeing  is 
broader,  though  less  clear ;  sight  is  the 
mirror  that  holds  all  things.  The  com- 
mpn  man  sees  all  things,  in  nature  and 
humanity,  as  truly,  as  the  philosopher; 
and  having  no  bias,  no  theory  to  sup- 
port, is  likely  to  see  them  more  justly, 
though  far  less  deeply."  Common-sense 
therefore  corrects  the  aberrations  of  phi- 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


569 


losophy.  Thus  he  says,  "The  history 
of  philosophy  presents  a  singular  spec- 
tacle ;  a  certain  number  of  problems  are 
reproduced  at  every  epoch  ;  each  of  these 
problems  suggests  a  certain  number 
of  solutions,  always  the  same :  philoso- 
phers are  divided;  discussion  is  set  on 
foot ;  every  opinion  is  attacked  and  de- 
fended with  equal  appearance  of  truth. 
Humanity  listens  in  silence,  adopts  the 
opinion  of  neither,  but  preserves  its 
own,  which  is  what  is  called  common- 
sense."  * 

But  it  is  more  especially  to  my  purpose 
to  say  that  common-sense  has  come  to 
distinctly  moral  conclusions.  These  are 
embodied  in  a  mass  of  maxims,  prov- 
erbs, apothegms,  the  hived-up  wisdom 
of  all  ages,  which,  if  I  had  space  to  re- 
peat them,  you  would  see  to  possess 
only  less  truth  and  authority  than  Holy 
Writ  itself.  Such  are  the  maxims  that 
"  honesty  is  the  best  policy ;  all  is  not 
gold  that  glitters  ;  handsome  is,  that 
"handsome  does  ;  time  and  tide  wait  for 
no  man ;  forewarned,  forearmed  ;  right 
wrongs  no  man ;  every  door  may  be 
shut  but  death's  door  ;  man's  extremity 
is  God's  opportunity ;  man  proposes, 
God  disposes  ;  no  cross,  no  crown ; 
better  the  child  weep  than  the  father," 
and  a  multitude  of  others.  Common- 
sense,  though  leaning  much  to  prudence 
and  worldly  wisdom,  is  nevertheless  a 
moral  censor,  and  sometimes  a  profound 
teacher  of  the  highest  things.  It  is 
always  the  corrective  of  fanaticism,  the 
satirist  of  folly,  the  condemner  of  vice, 
the  reprover  of  injustice,  the  patron  of 
truth,  integrity,  and  well-doing. 

In  the  next  place,  the  aesthetic  part 
of  our  nature,  the  sense  of  beauty  and 
melody,  though  not  in  philosophical 
strictness  of  speech  either  intellectual 
or  moral,  is  most  immediately  associated 
with  our  noblest  faculties,  and  ministers 
to  their  growth  and  perfection. 

I  have  before  spoken  of  the  beauty  of 
nature,  and  of  the  power  of  music.  1 
have  spoken  of  the  eye  and  ear.     Let  us 

*  See  the  Essay  translated  in  Ripley's  Specimens, 
vol.  i. 


now  penetrate  beyond  them,  —  beyond 
the  sphere  of  sights  and  sounds,  beyond 
those  organs  of  seeing  and  hearing,  to 
the  sense,  the  feeling,  of  beauty  and 
melody  in  our  esthetic  and  spiritualized 
nature.  The  animal  has  eye  and  ear, 
and  outward  world,  but,  properly  speak- 
ing, no  feeling  of  beauty  or  of  music. 
Who  ever  saw  one  gazing  upon  a  land-  ■ 
scape,  or  upon  the  silver  orb  of  night, 
unless  it  were  to  "  bay  the  moon "  ? 
Who  ever  saw  one  testify  delight  in 
music,  save  as  it  was  associated  witii 
his  master's  presence,  or  with  his  going 
forth  to  hunt  or  to  fight  ?  These  higher 
things  are  reserved  for  higher  natures. 

Again,  this  sense  of  beauty  is  innate, 
as  much  so  as  reason  or  conscience. 
Outward  sights  and  sounds  do  but  wake 
it  up,  do  but  nurture  and  cultivate  the 
inward  power,  do  but  answer  to  it.  A 
fair  landscape  does  not  create  the  sense 
of  beauty.  That  already  existed  within, 
made  ready  by  the  hand  of  its  Creator 
to  receive  the  outward  impression.  The 
soul  detnands  beauty  and  harmony,  just 
as  it  demands  truth  and  right,  to  satisfy 
it.  It  can  no  more  admire  deformity 
and  discord  than  it  can  admire  false- 
hood and  injustice.  It  is  not  education 
that  creates  these  finsr  instincts.  If  a 
human  being  were  brought  up  amidst 
ugly  forms  and  jarring  dissonances,  the 
moment  that  lovely  sights  and  sweet 
melodies  broke  upon  his  eye  and  ear 
he  would  turn  to  them  delighted. 

Nay,  more,  this  inner  sense  is  never 
satisfied.  All  that  fills  the  eye  and  ear 
does  but  awaken  the  desire  of  things 
more  beautiful,  of  sounds  more  melo- 
dious. The  realm  of  cultivated  taste 
and  imagination  is  forever  widening,  and 
forever  leading  the  soul  onward  and 
upward. 

I  say  distinctly,  upward;  from  things 
seen  to  things  unseen  ;  from  things 
earthly  to  things  heavenly.  It  is  pos- 
sible, indeed,  but  it  is  7ioi  natural,  to  he- 
hold  all  the  glory  and  goodliness  of  the 
creation  without  being  led  to  the  Infinite 
Glory.  It  is  not  natural.  It  is  as  if 
one  should  look  upon  a  lovely  counte- 


570 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


nance,  and  never  think  of  the  loveliness 
which  it  enshrines. 

No,  the  grandeur  and  loveliness  of 
nature,  —  sunsets  and  stars,  and  the  al- 
most literally  uplifting  deeps  of  the  blue 
sky,  as  we  gaze  upon  them  ;  and  earth, 
with  its  beauty,  soft,  wild,  entrancing, 
with  its  glorious  verdure,  its  autumn 
•  splendor,  its  sprinkled  wilderness  of 
charming  hues  and  forms  ;  and  ocean, 
bathing  its  summer  shores,  and  bearing 
like  many-colored  gems  upon  its  bosom 
the  green  and  flowery  islands,  —  these 
things  are  not  only  beautiful,  but  they 
are  images  and  revelations  of  a  glory 
and  a  goodliness  unseen  and  ineffable. 
They  steep  the  soul  in  reveries  and 
dreams  of  enchantment,  unearthly  and 
immortal.  How  has  the  radiant  vision 
kindled  the  poet's  eye  and  lighted  the 
torch  of  genius,  and  come  down  as  fire 
from  heaven  upon  the  altars  of  piety  in 
all  ages  !  A  bed  or  a  bouquet  of  flow- 
ers,—  who  can  read  anything  upon  their 
soft  and  shining  petals  and  delicate  hues, 
but  sweetness,  purity,  and  goodness ; 
and  how  many  silent  thanksgivings  from 
those  who  bend  over  them  have  as- 
cended to  Heaven  on  the  breath  of 
their  fragrant  incense  !  And  music  — 
what  chord  in  all  its  wondrous  harmo- 
nies ever  touched  any  evil  passion  ?  I 
have  heard  of  voluptuous  music  ;  but 
I  never  heard  it,  and  cannot  conceive  of 
it.  Words  may  be  voluptuous,  or  wrath- 
ful, or  revengeful  ;  but  not  melodies. 
Hot-beds  of  musical  culture  there  may 
be  that  corrupt  the  heart;  but  it  is  not 
music  that  does  it.  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  a  sunbeam's  soiling  the  atmos- 
phere it  passes  through.  No,  there  is 
no  possible  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
there  is  no  combination  of  tones  within 
the  range  of  harmony,  but  it  weaves 
garments  of  light  and  purity  for  the 
soul.  All  melody  naturally  bears  the 
thoughts  into  realms  of  holy  imagining, 
sentiment,  and  worship.  I  would  culti- 
vate music  in  a  family  with  the  same 
intent  as  I  would  build  an  altar.  Away 
with  the  unworthy  notion  of  it  as  a 
mere  fashionable  accomplishment!     It 


is  a  high  ministration.  And  the  highest 
musical  culture,  so  far  from  being  time 
and  means  thrown  away,  is  really  as  a 
priesthood  in  the  household. 

In  the  third  place  to  be  considered, 
with  reference  to  our  argument,  is  the 
moral  part  of  our  nature, —  conscience. 
And  there  are  three  elements  in  con- 
science to  which  I  wish  to  draw  your 
attention  ;  its  directive,  its  authoritative, 
and  its  executive  power. 

We  are  saying  in  this  lecture  that  the 
whole  interior  constitution  of  man  was 
made  to  guide  him  to  truth,  to  virtue,  to 
the  supreme  good  and  Goodness.  The 
most  powerful  aid  to  this  end  is,  doubt- 
less, the  conscience. 

It  is  directive.  Do  you  say  that  you 
know  men  with  very  queer  consciences, 
and  that  nations  and  ages  differ  about 
what  is  right,  and  so  infer  that  there  is 
no  direction  ?  A  moment's  reflection 
must  convince  you  that  these  differ- 
ences do  not  touch  the  principle  of  con- 
science, but  only  the  applications  of  the 
principle.  To  plead  these  differences 
in  denial  of  the  principle  would  be  as 
if  one  said  that  because  there  are  errors 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  truth  ;  because 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  darkness,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  light ;  or  because 
there  are  variations  of  the  needle,  there 
are  no  magnetic  poles.  Nay,  but  how 
knew  you  of  variations,  if  there  were 
no  direction  ?  How  knew  you  of  dark- 
ness, if  there  be  no  light .''  And  what 
is  error,  but  distorted  truth  .''  And 
so  the  very  aberrations  of  conscience 
prove  that  there  is  a  conscience. 

Nay,  but  it  is  directive.  It  approves 
of  justice,  truth,  integrity,  —  gratitude, 
generosity,  disinterestedness,  —  gentle- 
ness, pity,  kindliness.  It  says,  "  This 
is  the  way ;  "  nobody  can  doubt  it.  And 
now  suppose  that  across  the  field  of  life 
there  fell  from  heaven,  before  every 
man's  eye,  a  bright  track  of  light,  such 
as  you  have  seen  the  moon  cast  athwart 
the  troubled  waters  ;  or  suppose  that  on 
your  hand  were  a  compass  and  a  needle, 
pointing  ever  to  the  right  way ;  what 
guidance,  you  would  say,  is  here ! 


THE   PROBLEM   OF  HUMAN   DESTINY. 


571 


But  more  than  sunbeam  or  needle 
points  the  way.  An  awful  sceptre  is 
stretched  over  us.  Conscience  is  more 
than  guidance  ;  it  is  authority.  When 
a  man  says,  "I  ought"  — may  I  beg 
of  you  to  pause  a  moment  upon  that  ex- 
pression, and  to  consider  what  it  means  ? 
When  a  man  says,  •'  I  ought,"  he  has 
an  indescribable  sense  of  allegiatice  - 
\o  somethi?!^.  He  knows  not  what  — 
it  may  be  ;  no  visible  power  commands 
him  :  he  does  not  think  what  it  is  ;  but 
that  word  '■'■  otight,"  binds  him  —  to  an 
unseen  Lawgiver.  I  know,  gentlemen, 
that  the  lecture-room  is  not  the  place 
for  preaching  or  for  rhetoric  ;  but  I  do 
feel  that  here  is  a  fact  of  awful  signifi- 
cance—too  little  considered.  This  silent 
reign  of  fight  in  our  humanity,  —  this 
magnet  in  the  soul,  ever  drawn,  by  an 
invisible  influence,  to  the  right, — what 
is  it?  What  does  it  mean?  What 
does  it  proclaim  ?  I  answer  —  there 
must  be  a  God!  — for  God  only  could 
have  impressed  that  mysterious  law 
upon  our  humanity.  Ah  !  poor,  human 
trembler  beneath  that  awful  mandate ! 
—  great  witness,  shall  I  not  rather  say, 
to  that  sublime  authority?  —  does  he 
think  to  escape  from  it  ?  Go  to  the 
deepest  and  darkest  cavern  of  the  earth  ; 
go  where  thou  art  alone  and  no  eye  sees 
thee,  —  where  no  power  of  the  Church 
shall  coerce,  no  enactment  of  law  bind, 
no  hand  of  government  compel,  —  where 
there  shall  be  nothing  save  thine  un- 
utterable consciousness  with  thee  ;  but 
when  thou  sayest,  "I  ought" — altar 
and  throne  sink  to  the  dust;  they  are 
but  symbols  of  that  eternal  authority 
that  speaks  within  you,  —  an  authority 
that  binds  altar  and  throne  and  empire 
and  the  world  together. 

Does  any  man  think  to  evade  it  ? 
Nay,  by  Heaven  and  the  eternal  law  ! 
that  siiall  he  not.  Conscience  is  execu- 
tive too.  No  infirm  aid  does  it  ofiFer  to 
the  right;  no  inefficient  hindrance  to 
the  wrong.  It  announces  no  idle  requi- 
sition. It  has  rewards  for  the  good, 
sweet  as  the  most  precious  happiness; 
and  penalties  for  the  bad,  dire  as  the 


most  dreadful  misery.  No  human  gov- 
ernment was  ever  so  urgent  and  impera- 
tive as  this  power  of  conscience.  It 
goes  down  to  the  depths  of  the  heart  ; 
it  touches  the  secretest  nerve  ;  it  pene- 
trates where  no  human  tribunal  can  go. 
The  human  law  may  be  evaded  ;  but  let 
a  man  carry  down  into  his  heart  the 
thought  that  he  has  done  wrong  ;  and 
that  thought  is  misery,  —  is  misery 
amidst  all  the  blandishments  of  pleas- 
ure and  the  splendors  of  fortune.  And 
let  a  man  bear,  in  a  bosom  lacerated 
with  every  wound,  the  blessed  conscious- 
ness that  he  has  done  right,  — has  done 
right,  —  and  no  floods  of  disaster  nor 
fires  of  martyrdom  can  deprive  him  of 
the  sweetness  of  that  conviction. 

No  man,  I  repeat,  shall  evade  this 
law.  Retribution  is  more  than  a  doc- 
trine, it  is  a  fact.  No  violation  of  con- 
science is  so  hidden  or  so  slight,  but  it 
pays  the  penalty.  There  is  one  great 
error  on  this  subject,  old  as  the  world, 
and  new  as  the  delusion  of  to-day,  but 
it  is  an  error  still,  —  and  that  is,  that 
concealment  is  escape,  that  punishment 
comes  only  with  disclosure  or  catas- 
trophe. But  suppose  the  concealment 
to  be  effected, —  the  theft,  the  fraud,  the 
lie,  the  bad,  base  deed  to  escape  detec- 
tion,—  does  the  j/zati  escape  ?  The  f;ian  ! 
Why,  he  knows  it.  If  all  the  world 
knew  it,  and  he  knew  it  not,  then,  in  a 
sense,  might  he  be  said  to  escape  ;  he 
would  escape  from  his  own  reproach. 
But  even  then  he  would  not  escape  the 
worst,  —  the  very  and  essential  curse  of 
evil  in  himself,  "  Maxima  peccati  poena 
Q.s,\. peccasse,^''  says  Seneca;  "the  great- 
est penalty  of  sin,  is  to  have  sinned  !  " 
Are  men  punished  only  by  and  by,  or 
when  they  grow  old  ?  Nay,  says  Plu- 
tarch, "  they  are  not  punished  when  they 
grow  old,  but  they  are  grown  old  in 
punishments.  Can  we  say,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  that  a  man  is  not  punished 
when  he  is  in  prison,  or  hath  his  fetters 
upon  him,  till  his  execution  comes  ? 
We  may  as  well  say  that  a  fish,  which 
hath  swallowed  the  hook,  is  not  taken 
because  it  is  not  fried  or  cut  in  pieces  ! 


572 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


So  it  is  with  every  wicked  man ;  he 
hath  swallowed  the  hook  when  he  com- 
mitted the  evil  action."*  Lysimachus, 
Alexander's  general,  is  said  to  have 
given  away  a  kingdom  to  the  Getse  for  a 
draught  to  quench  his  extreme  thirst : 
when  he  had  taken  his  draught,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  What  a  wretch  was  I,  to  lose 
a  kingdom  for  so  short  a  pleasure !  " 
This  may  be  fable  ;  but  how  many  a 
man,  to  quench  the  thirst  of  some  rag- 
ing passion,  gives  away  the  kingdom  of 
all  inward  tranquillity  and  fortune  !  It 
has  been  well  said  that  our  English  salu- 
tation —  "  How  are  you  ?"  —  touches 
the  heart  of  all  welfare.  Ay,  how  are 
you  ?  —  that  is  the  question. 

Again,  the  taint  that  is  in  a  man,  how- 
ever concealed  and  however  slight,  is 
breathed  out  into  the  very  air  around 
him,  steals  through  the  very  pores  of  his 
hfe,  infects  his  conversation.  His  fam- 
ily, his  children,  society  around  him, 
those  dearest  to  him,  all  suffer  for  it. 
If  it  be  selfishness,  avarice,  vanity, 
though  he  himself  be  but  half  conscious 
of  it,  it  lowers  the  whole  tone  of  his  char- 
acter, conversation,  and  infiuence.  If  it 
be  an  act  of  gross  fraud  or  vice,  he  can- 
not heartily  speak  at  all  for  the  right,  for 
virtue,  for  what  is  noblest  in  the  world. 
What  a  retribution  is  that !  —  to  be  dumb 
where  good  men  talk  —  to  flee  from  the 
converse  of  virtue  !  Concealment  only 
increases  tlie  evil.  If  it  were  known, 
the  whole  power  of  society  might  be 
united  to  crush  and  stamp  it  out  of  ex- 
istence ;  but  now,  like  a  poison  or  a  gan- 
grene, it  spreads  its  secret  blight  through 
all  the  relations  of  family,  friendship, 
and  society.  All  this,  too,  reacts  upon 
the  offender  in  many  ways.  And  in  pal- 
pable cases  it  is  often  a  saving  reaction. 
How  many  have  forborne  the  inebriating 
cup,  lest  it  should  ruin  their  children  ! 
And  if  the  parent  forbears  not,  and  they 
are  ruined,  what  can  inflict  a  deeper 
pang?  And  if  he  is  brutalized  to  that 
extent  that  he  cares  not,  that,  I  repeat, 
is  the  deepest  retribution  of  all. 

The  adjustment  of  this  law  of  retribu- 

*  Origines  .Sacrx,  B.  III.  c.  iii.  p.  ii6. 


tion  to  our  humanity,  the  mingled  sever- 
ity, forbearance,  and  discrimination  with 
which  it  is  exercised,  are  worthy  of  fur- 
ther attention. 

It  makes,  for  instance,  a  significant 
distinction  between  palpable  vice  and 
that  more  indefinite  erring,  of  which  the 
world  is  full.  Palpable  vice  brings  a 
swifter  judgment,  because  it  is  a  more 
manifest  wrong.  I  do  not  deny  that 
some  forbearance  is  shown  even  here. 
Providence  waits  a  little  with  the  youth- 
ful voluptuary,  that  he  may  see  the  evil 
and  reform.  It  does  not  take  many  ex- 
periments with  vice,  however,  —  with  the 
inebriating  cup,  for  instance,  —  to  show 
him  the  evil ;  and  it  very  soon  appears 
that  nothing  will  do  but  blasting  disease 
and  smiting  shame.  But  with  ordinary 
and  decent  selfishness,  with  the  world's 
covetousness,  pride,  and  vanity,  the  case 
is  different ;  it  takes  more  time  to  solve 
the  problem,  and  more  is  given.  But 
by  and  by,  with  every  thoughtful  man, 
the  problem  is  solved,  —  solved,  if  not 
sooner,  amidst  the  shadows  of  declin- 
ing years.  Then  life  begins  to  spread 
itself  around  the  selfish  man,  cold  and 
barren  and  cheerless  ;  over  one  green 
spot  and  another  the  waste  stretches  ; 
there  are  none  truly  to  love  him,  who 
never  truly  loved  anybody  but  himself  ; 
there  are  none  to  care  for  him,  unless  it 
be  with  a  care  purchased,  or  paid  to  the 
sense  of  duty  ;  the  man  may  be  rich,  but 
wealth  does  not  make  him  happy  ;  feast- 
ing, wine,  faring  sumptuously  every  day, 
do  not  make  him  happy ;  splendor, 
equipage,  a  crowd  of  attendants,  do  not 
make  him  happy;  and  the  poor,  starved 
nature  within,  which  the  wealth  and  gar- 
niture of  a  thousand  worlds  could  not 
suffice,  sighs  for  some  better  thing. 

Or  turn  to  a  different  scene  ;  where 
evil  goes  to  that  extent  that  it  seems  to 
be  only  misery  and  exasperation  ;  where, 
amidst  want  and  woe,  amidst  oaths  and 
blows,  life  goes  on  like  a  wild  and  wrath- 
ful battle  with  calamity.  If  there  is  any- 
thing that  fills  me  with  horror  and  de- 
spair beyond  all  things  else,  it  is  some 
vile  and  abandoned  city  quarter,  where 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


57: 


wild  uproar  and  mad  revellings  go  on 
amidst  filth  and  raggedness  and  wretch- 
edness unspeakable  ;  with  fiery  draughts 
poured  out  at  all  corners  ;  with  pale  and 
haggard  brows  leaning  against  the  posts 
and  gates  of  the  streets  ;  and  in  the 
chambers,  horrible  diseases,  untended, 
slirieking  in  agony.  Is  this  Stygian 
pool,  this  midnight  of  the  world,  this 
blackness  of  darkness,  —  is  it  Hell  ?  No, 
misery  is  merciful,  even  here  ;  nature  is 
not  devilish  ;  sighings  and  tears  mingle 
witli  these  horrors,  —'ay,  and  prayers  for 
deliverance ;  and  it  may  be  God  will 
hear;  and  man  may  help.  Poor,  for- 
saken wretches! — outcasts  from  the 
world  —  exiles  from  the  light  of  many 
homes  —  could  they  see  that  God  hath 
stricken  them  in  mercy,  that  a  paternal 
Providence  knocks  at  all  their  gates  — 
could  human  entreaties  mingle  with  their 
mad  blasphemi'es  —  they  might  return 
and  find  a  Father  in  heaven  —  though 
there  be  none  below  —  perhaps  they 
have  killed  him!  —  none  on  earth  to 
receive  them. 

Sad  and  heart-sinking  spectacle!  — 
but  is  there  no  counterpart  to  that  pic- 
ture ?  Can  retribution  find  its  way  only 
through  broken  gateways  and  "  looped 
and  windowed  raggedness "  ?  Nay, 
through  castle  walls  and  plating  gold,  as 
well.  On  pillows  of  down  and  beneath 
planks  of  cedar  there  are  agonies  as  bit- 
ter as  those  which  men  are  wont  to  pity 
so  deeply.  Vice  desolates  all  where  it 
comes,  —  makes  the  full  house  empty,  and 
the  great  house  mean.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain destitution  in  evil,  even  when  there 
is  no  remorse.  As  cold  is  but  the  ab- 
sence of  heat,  so  a  vice,  like  avarice,  may 
be  but  the  absence  of  virtue ;  but  it 
is  very  cold  and  death-like.  And  even 
where,  in  other  forms,  it  kindles  a  fire 
in  the  veins,  it  leaves  the  heart  cold  and 
dead.  To  the  soul,  it  is  all  poor  and 
paltry.  Search  the  records  of  its  most 
prosperous  career,  and  there  is  nothing 
but  dust  and  desolation  in  the  path. 
Thus  the  gayest  and  the  most  fortunate 
in  the  evil  way  have  always  become  the 
greatest  complainers.     The  poor  man's 


complaints  and  scorns  and  rages  against 
the  world  are  nothing  to  those  of  the 
broken  and  worn-out  man  of  pleasure. 
So  it  has  been  with  them  all,  from  the 
Imperial  Tiberius  to  the  Aspasia  of  mod- 
ern French  gayety,  Ninon  de  I'Enclos, 
who  said,  that  if  she  could  have  foreseen 
what  her  life  was  to  be,  she  would  rather 
have  died  upon  the  threshold,  than  to 
have  lived  that  gay  and  guilty  life. 

Or  turn  to  the  Emperor  Tiberius. 
What  bad  man  could  be  happy,  if  he 
could  not  .-*  He  had  an  empire,  when 
that  empire  was  the  world,  to  use  for  his 
ambition  —  to  farm  for  his  pleasures. 
But  what  was  his  life  ?  Read  a  letter 
of  his  to  the  Roman  Senate.  "  What  I 
shall  write  to  you,  conscript  fathers,"  he 
says,  "or  what  I  shall  not  write,  or  why 
I  shall  write  at  all,  —  may  the  gods 
plague  me,  more  than  I  daily  feel  that 
they  are  doing,  if  I  can  tell !  "  "  Than 
I  daily  feel  that  they  are  doing."  This 
spreads  the  confession  over  a  portion  of 
his  life.  It  was  a  miserable  life;  and 
every  bad  man's  life  is  a  miserable  one. 

Such,  then,  as  it  presents  itself  to 
me,  is  the  picture  of  our  inward  nature. 
Its  original  faculties  are  all  instruments 
constructed,  pointed,  sharpened  for  the 
work  of  aiding  virtue  and  resisting  vice. 
And  thus,  in  fine,  do  I  state  the  case, 
and  in  the  form  of  a  comparison.  If 
you  were  to  examine  a  machinery  which 
you  knew  was  designed  to  produce  a 
certain  result  ;  if  you  saw,  in  the  first 
place,  a  general  preparation  and  ten- 
dency of  all  its  parts  to  that  end ;  if  you 
saw,  in  the  next  place,  certain  sharp  in- 
struments exactly  formed  and  fashioned 
to  cut  and  shape  out  the  very  thing  to 
be  made,  your  mind  would  rest  with  sat- 
isfaction upon  it  as  a  well-adjusted  piece 
of  work.  But  what  would  be  your  aston- 
ishment, if,  when  you  saw  things  going 
wrong  in  that  mechanism,  you  observed 
a  secret  spring  suddenly  lift  itself  up,  to 
resist  and  correct  the  wrong  tendency. 
Such  admiration  and  wonder,  I  believe, 
justly  belong  to  the  constitution  of  our 
humanity. 

But   now,  on   the  whole,  it   may  be 


574 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


asked,  "What  has  this  humanity  done  ? 
You  say  it  was  made  for  culture. 
Where  is  it  ?  You  say  it  was  made 
to  produce  certain  results.  Where  ate 
those  results  t  Bring  your  theory  to 
the  test  of  facts.  This  fine  nature,  in- 
tellectual, ^Esthetic,  moral,  —  what  has 
it  done  ?  Culture,  do  you  say,  is  the 
end  of  Providence  !  Is  it  not  produc- 
tion rather.''  Multiplication  of  the  spe- 
cies seems  to  be  the  end,  with  little 
care  for  its  development  and  growth. 
Transplantation  to  another  clime  may 
be  the  ultimate  object,  —  and  would 
seem  to  be,  —  so  thick  and  stunted  is 
the  growth  of  men  here." 

There  is  one  singular  and  emphatic 
refutation  of  all  such  reasoning,  in  the 
fact  that  the  children  of  a  single  pair 
are  not  fifty,  but  commonly  five  or  six. 
This  fact  shows  that  care  is  to  be  taken 
of  them  ;  that  culture  is  the  object,  and 
not  mere  multiplication. 

But  let  us  look  at  this  objection,  for 
a  few  moments,  in  two  views. 

In  the  first  place,  with  regard  to  the 
mass  of  men,  the  least  cultivated,  — 
Hindoos,  Hottentots,  what  you  will,  — 
1  say  that  the  objection  overlooks  the 
actual  amount  and  value  of  their  culti- 
vation. If  all  human  beings  died  in 
the  earliest  infancy,  the  objection  might 
seem  to  be  valid;  but  even  then  I  should 
doubt  it.  We  know  not  what  valuable 
impressions  even  infancy  may,  in  a  sin- 
gle year,  acquire  ;  but  follow  this  be- 
ing through  twenty,  thirty,  fifty,  seventy 
years,  and  how  much  has  he  learned,  — 
ay,  without  school  or  institute,  without 
book  or  Bible,  —  on  the  Ganges  or  the 
Niger  !  He  has  looked  upon  nature, 
seen  and  classified  thousands  of  ob- 
jects, and  understood  the  uses  of  many. 
He  has  learned  to  labor,  to  provide  for 
a  family,  and  by  skill  in  tillage,  or  hunt- 
ing, or  the  care  of  flocks,  he  has  be- 
come lord  of  the  surrounding  scene. 
He  has  learned  to  distinguish  between 
right  and  wrong  ;  and  though  he  has 
abused,  he  has  cultivated,  the  moral 
sense.  And  within  his  range  have  come 
still  higher  things.   Tradition  has  poured 


into  his  ears  its  mystic  lore.  He  has 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and  his 
thoughts  above  the  heavens  to  the  Infi- 
nite Being.  Is  this  passage  from  blank 
infancy  to  the  crowded  page  of  human 
experience,  —  from  the  conception  of 
nothing  to  the  conception  of  Infinitude, 

—  is  this,  I  say,  no  progress,  no  cul- 
ture ?  Measure  these  few  mortal  years, 
and  mark  the  steps  passed  over  ;  tlien 
measure  the  years  of  eternity  ;  and 
whither  shall  they  not  bear  a  being  who 
has  begun  thus  ?    ' 

But,  in  the  next  place,  I  say  it  is  un- 
fair to  the  argument  to  take  the  lowest 
examples  of  human  culture.  If  there 
were  a  hundred  similar  machines  sub- 
mitted to  your  examination,  and  one  of 
them  in  its  working  far  surpassed  all 
the  rest,  —  the  rest  halting  or  breaking 
down  through  the  bungling  of  artisans, 

—  you  would  take  that  07te  as  the  proper 
illustration  of  the  design  and  wisdom  of 
the  original  inventor.  Not  the  ignorant, 
the  low  and  base,  then,  but  the  sages, 
philanthropists,  heroes,  the  noblest  men 
in  the  world,  —  these  proclaim  the  end 
for  which  human  nature  was  made,  and 
for  which  its  original  powers  are  fitted. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  this  human 
nobleness  ;  I  have  not  space  left,  nor 
power  to  do  it  justice  ;  but  I  will  for 
myself  simply  profess  what  I  think  of 
it,  let  the  cynic,  or  the  satirist,  or  the 
desponding  sceptic  or  complainer,  say 
what  he  will.  I  look  around  upon  the 
universe,  and  I  see  many  briglit  points, 

—  a  dome  of  brightness  above,  and 
stars  that  are  set  in  the  brow  of  night, 
and  mountain  tops  that  kindle  their 
altar  fires  with  the  beams  of  morning. 
But  in  all  this  universe  there  is  nothing, 
save  the  majesty  of  God  most  High,  that 
draws  forth  my  reverence,  my  enthusi- 
asm, my  delight,  like  a  noble  and  good 
man.  Of  all  things  known  to  me,  this 
is  the  brightest  spot.  There  may  be 
angels,  there  may  be  seraphim,  —  super- 
nal natures  above  the  reach  of  my  sym- 
pathy. I  know  them  not ;  I  never  saw 
such  an  one  ;  I  never  saw  book  of  his 
writing,  nor  action  of  his  performing, 


i 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


575 


nor  life  that  he  Hved,  nor  deatli  that  he 
died  ;  but  I  have  seen  mett,  through 
struggle  and  weariness,  and  pain  and 
death,  soaring  to  knowledge,  to  virtue, 
to  heaven,  —  through  lonely  studies, 
through  the  trampled  fires  of  passion, 
through  mortal  infirmity,  through  baits 
and   snares  of  evil  thick  strewn  upon 


all  their  path  and  trodden  under  foot, 
mounting  to  the  heights  of  the  world. 
They  are  seated  on  the  thrones  of  the 
world,  compared  with  which  the  Cassars 
held  the  dominion  of  a  day.  They  are 
indeed  "the  representative  men"  of  (he 
earth,  —  the  representative  men  of  our 
humanity. 


LECTURE    VI. 


THE  COMPLEX  NATURE  OF  MAN,  PERIODS  OF  LIFE,  SOCIETY,  HOME, 
BALANCE  OF  THE  PHYSICAL  AND  MENTAL  POWERS. 


I  HAVE  spoken  in  my  last  two  lec- 
tures of  the  physical  and  spiritual  con- 
stitution of  man.  There  is  a  union  of 
both,  a  complex  nature  of  man,  which 
requires  to  be  considered  with  refer- 
ence to  its  end. 

Under  this  head  are  to  be  mentioned, 
in  the  first  place,  the  different  periods 
of  life.  These  steps  of  life  all  have 
their  place,  and  give  their  aid  in  the 
process  of  human  development.  The 
physical  adaptation  in  these  periods  of 
life  images  and  helps  a  moral  adapta- 
tion. Look  at  the  supple  and  flexible 
limbs  of  a  child,  at  the  strengthening 
bone  of  manhood,  and  at  the  relaxing 
fibre  of  age.  How  necessary  are  these  ! 
—  the  one  to  the  safe  training  of  life, 
the  next  to  its  stable  vigor,  and  the  last 
to  that  loosening  of  the  hold  upon  life's 
labors  and  cares  which  is  necessary 
to  the  quietude,  the  meditativeness,  the 
ripened  wisdom,  that  befit  the  closing 
period  of  our  earthly  existence.  This 
remark  is  familiar  in  physiology,  but  it 
is  equally  applicable  to  the  moral  econ- 
omy of  the  human  constitution. 

Childhood  is  the  world's  great  ex- 
perimenter. It  is  the  season,  not  of 
the  deepest,  but  of  the  most  rapid 
learning.  It  wants,  therefore,  a  pecul- 
iar susceptibility  to  feel,  a  freedom  to 
choose,  and  a  flexibility  to  change.  It 
must  try  this  and  try  that,  and  not  fix 


too  strong  a  grasp  upon  anything.  It 
must  be  full  of  hope  and  buoyancy  and 
facility.  Lay  the  weight  of  prejudice, 
or  custom,  or  matured  vice,  upon  child- 
hood, and  it  would  be  crushed  entirely. 
We  are  alarmed  when  we  see  in  a  child 
a  disposition  to  prevaricate  ;  but  we 
should  be  shocked  beyond  measure  if 
that  practice  were  clothing  itself  with 
the  strength  of  fixed  habit.  We  are 
vexed  when  we  see  a  boy  taking  on  airs 
of  superiority  to  his  mates  on  account  of 
the  homage  paid  to  his  parent's  wealth 
or  fame  ;  but,  thank  Heaven  !  the  great 
enslaving  law  of  opinion  yet  bears  lightly 
on  his  ignorance  and  innocence.  But 
what  should  we  think  if  we  saw  the 
full-grown  vices  of  sensuality  or  worldly 
ambition  developing  themselves  in  the 
body  or  mind  of  a  child  ?  We  .«hould 
give  him  up  in  despair. 

You  will  be  more  sensible  of  this  guar- 
dianship thrown  around  the  earliest 
period  of  life,  if  you  observe  the  barrier 
that  separates  childhood  from  manhood. 
In  youth,  and  in  its  passage  to  maturity, 
there  is  a  very  singular  crisis  ;  the  form, 
the  face,  the  voice,  the  temperament,  the 
sentiments,  the  passions,  pass  through 
a  remarkable  change.  The  previous 
time  of  life  seems  to  have  been  a  dispen- 
sation by  itself  ;  marked  by  a  certain  in- 
difference, by  a  certain  mingled  levity 
and  apathy  with  regard  to  the  wider  in- 


576 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


terests  of  life.  The  child  has  a  safe- 
guard in  his  profound  ignorance  of  much 
that  is  around  him.  He  lives  in  the 
midst  of  the  world;  but  a  friendly  veil 
is  thrown  around  him,  that  tempers  its 
bright  and  deceitful  glare.  He  lives  in 
an  enclosure  protected  from  temptations 
that  would  be  as  wild  beasts  to  his  gen- 
tle innocence.  His  ambition  does  not 
wander  beyond  the  school  and  the  play- 
ground. The  impulses  of  sense  and 
passion  yet  slumber  in  his  bosom.  His 
loves  are  school-day  friendships  and 
family  regards.  His  life  is  comparative 
joyance  and  repose.  But  now  at  length 
the  time  comes  when  the  great  veil  that 
hides  the  world  begins  to  rise  ;  when 
the  first  battle  with  the  stronger  powers 
that  sleep  in  the  human  breast  is  to  be 
tought ;  and  the  previously  secure  and 
calm  house  of  life  becomes,  as  it  were, 
a  forge,  an  arsenal,  a  citadel.  There  are 
flashings  out  of  new  and  unwonted  fires; 
there  is  solemn  and  even  sad  brooding 
over  the  enterprises  and  destinies  of  ex- 
istence ;  there  are  trumpet  calls  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  guarded  house  ;  there 
is  the  disturbance  and  disorder,  the  dust 
and  confusion,  the  thronging  thoughts 
and  energies,  that  betoken  the  entrance 
upon  a  new  and  momentous  scene. 
Forces  like  these  would  have  split  and 
shattered  in  pieces  the  frail  and  dehcate 
tenement  of  childhood  ;  but  now,  to  vir- 
tuous resolution  and  youth's  first  strug- 
gling prayer  to  Heaven,  strength  is 
given  to  meet  them. 

The  next  stage  is  manhood.  Now 
something  is  to  be  decided  on,  and  some- 
thing is  to  be  done.  Before,  there  was 
activity ;  now,  there  is  to  be  work.  There 
is  to  be  plan,  pursuit,  profession,  —  some 
end  to  be  chosen  ;  and  there  is  to  be  a 
concentration  of  energies  to  gain  it.  The 
field  is  wider.  Before,  the  word  was,  — 
"  Learn  these  lessons  and  continue  to 
learn  them,  and  you  shall  be  at  the 
head."  Now,  many  things  are  to  be 
learned  and  many  things  done,  to  get  to 
the  head,  or  to  get  along  at  all.  The 
head  is,  not  a  certificate,  a  diploma,  a 
valedictory  oration,  but  the  leading-staff 


of  empire,  of  authorship,  of  art,  of  busi- 
ness, of  social  or  professional  distinction. 
The  world  is  full  of  varied  interests,  full 
of  exigencies,  full  of  competitors.  The 
business  of  life  is  complicated,  urgent, 
exhausting.  Think  of  a  child,  a  boy  of 
fifteen,  charged  with  all  this  care,  this 
responsibility.  It  would  confound  and 
crush  his  faculties.  Especially  would  it 
crush  down  all  joyance  and  free  growth. 
But  al)  this,  to  right-hearted  manhood, 
is  a  noble  culture.  Manhood  has  pow- 
ers for  the  task.  It  has  strength  of 
muscle  to  work,  strength  of  mind  to  act, 
strength  of  heart  to  endure.  And  the 
innocence  of  childhood  is  well  exchanged 
for  manhood's  strength,  for  its  courage, 
its  manliness,  its  high  integrity  ;  for  that 
grand  equipoise  of  the  faculties  in  which 
it  holds  itself  erect  and  firm,  and  stands 
before  the  world  with  foot  and  hand,  and 
heart  and  mind,  ready  for  its  work  ;  ready 
to  do  business,  to  cope  with  difficulties, 
to  subdue  obstacles,  to  speak  and  act  in 
the  affairs  of  men  and  nations. 

But  the  toil  and  strife  at  length  are 
over  ;  the  bustle  and  turmoil  of  life  have 
passed  away ;  age  lays  its  chastening 
hand  upon  the  vigorous  frame  and  the 
fevered  passions  ;  sager  and  more  sacred 
thoughts  take  possession  of  the  mind  ; 
the  race  is  run,  the  battle  is  fought,  the 
world  is  changed  ;  and  when  that  winter 
day  of  life  is  come,  and  the  blossoms  of 
hope  and  the  fruits  of  ripened  friendship 
are  all  scattered  in  the  dust,  the  man  says, 
"  Let  me  depart,  it  is  good  for  me  to  die." 

And  age,  too,  like  every  other  period 
of  life,  is  not  without  its  own  special  fit- 
ness and  personal  vocation.  How  else, 
—  says  the  poet,  — 

"  How  else  coiildst  thou  retire  apart. 
With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart, 
And  gather  all,  to  the  very  least. 
Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast  — 
Let  fall,  through  eagerness  to  find 
The  coming  dainties  yet  behind  ? 
How  ponder  on  the  entire  past, 
Laid  together  thus  at  last; 
When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 
The  first  fresh,  with  the  faded  hues  ; 
And  the  outline  of  the  whole 
Grandly  frtnts,  for  once,  thy  soul." 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY, 


577 


And  now  I  say,  that  all  this  is  natu- 
rally a  proa^ress  in  virtue.  In  one  respect 
the  visible  is  not  an  emblem  of  the  spirit- 
ual life.  Age.  that  declines  in  vigor, 
naturally  grows  in  virtue.  Its  affections. 
I  think,  are  usually  as  vigorous  as  those 
of  youth  ;  its  wisdom  is,  of  course,  far 
"■reater.  I  do  not  forget  that  it  is,  in 
some  respects,  peculiarly  tried.  It  is 
hard  to  give  up  some  things  to  which  it 
has  been  accustomed,  —  tiie  activity,  the 
control  of  affairs,  the  indulgence  perhaps 
of  appetite.  This  last  point  I  have 
sometimes  seen  to  be  one  of  especial 
difticulty.  These,  however,  are  but  flaws 
upon  the  deep  and  quiet  stream. 

Still,  age  is  naturally  the  maturity  of 
virtue,  of  piety,  of  all  that  is  noblest 
in  the  mind.  Not  till  approaching  the 
grand  climacteric,  perhaps,  does  the  char- 
acter usually  arrive  at  its  highest  per- 
fection. Great  intellectual  power,  no 
doubt,  is  attained  earlier  ;  the  culminat- 
ing point  of  talent,  authorship,  states- 
manship, military  skill,  is  reached  sooner; 
but  not  till  a  later  day  does  humanity, 
even  when  thus  distinguished,  arrive  at 
its  highest  wisdom,  self-control,  and 
sanctity;  not  till  then,  perhaps,  are  the 
great  problems  of  the  inmost  life  solved, 
the  conflicting  tendencies  of  the  nature 
brought  into  harmony,  and  the  utmost 
aims  of  human  existence  achieved.  To 
me  the  grandest  form  of  humanity  is  the 
aged  form.  I  had  almost  said,  the  most 
attractive  beauty,  taking  into  account 
the  manners,  bearing,  and  expressions 
of  countenance.  Youth,  I  know,  carries 
off  the  palm,  with  most  persons,  —  the 
fair  complexion,  the  glossy  hair,  the 
smooth  brow  and  painted  cheek.  It  is 
a  sort  of  barbaric  taste,  I  am  tempted 
to  say;  but  it  is  so  prevalent,  that  I  am 
quite  sure  a  good-natured  indulgence 
will  be  extended  to  an  opposite  opinion, 
it  has  so  very  little  chance  of  prevailing. 
"  Ay," —  it  will  be  said,  —  "  criticise,  as 
much  as  you  please,  the  claims  of  youth 
to  all  beauty  and  outward  charms ;  they 
can  bear  it."  But,  in  truth,  the  form 
that  stands  erect  after  the  storms  of 
seventy  or  eighty  years  have  beaf  upon 


it ;  the  face  that  bears  on  it  the  marks 
of  all  human  triumph,  of  the  last  triumph 
that  over  itself  ;  the  calm  dignity  and 
gentle  courtesy  and  forbearance,  in 
man  or  woman,  that  come  from  long 
reflection  and  patient  culture  ;  the  holy 
serenity  and  assured  trust,  caught  from 
the  heaven  that  is  near,  and  shining 
through  the  parting  shadows  of  life,  — 
why,  nature,  I  say,  is  not  false  to  her- 
self ;  there  is  the  nobleness  of  humanity, 
and  there  are  some  of  its  noblest  ex- 
pressions. That  aged  form  —  how  often, 
in  fact,  does  it  draw  a  thoughtful  man, 
in  a  gay  company,  from  the  charms  of 
youth,  and  all  the  importunity  of  their 
attractions,  to  the  side  of  its  venerable- 
ness,  wisdom,  and  beauty  !  The  con- 
trary tendency  in  this  country  or  any 
other  country,  the  tendency  in  society  to 
separate  the  aged  and  the  young,  is  one 
that  is  to  be  looked  upon  with  the  great- 
est reprehension.  This  pushing  forward 
of  the  young  to  take  all  the  places  in 
society,  to  be  the  whole  of  society,  ought 
to  be  repressed  by  their  elders  with 
dignity  and  authority.  Depend  upon  it, 
that  all  such  breaking  away  from  the 
great  bonds  of  nature,  from  the  vener- 
able sanctities  of  lite,  is  essentially  de- 
grading even  to  the  taste  of  a  people; 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  it  is  a  vulgar 
tendency  of  society  that  leads  the  young 
to  wish,  in  their  chosen  happy  hours, 
to  separate  themselves  from  their  aged 
friends.  I  am  not  wandering  from  my 
proper  theme.  The  point  which  I  have 
ventured  thus  plainly  to  touch,  concerns 
not  only  good  manners,  but  good  culture. 
It  was  meant,  I  believe,  that  youth  and 
age  should  exert  upon  each  other  a  mu- 
tual influence  ;  that  the  aged  should  not 
want  the  cheering  presence  and  attention 
of  the  young,  nor  the  young,  the  wise 
and  tranquillizing  influence  of  the  aged; 
that  aged  life  should  not  lack  entertain- 
ment, just  when  perhaps  most  needing 
it,  and  that  young  life  should  not  rush 
into  it,  without  the  restraints  of  filial 
tenderness  and  respect. 

Montaigne  says,  quoting,  perhaps  un- 
consciously, almost  the  very  words  of 


37 


578 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY 


Cicero,  "  I  had  rather  be  old  not  so 
long,  than  to  be  old  before  the  time." 
But  we,  in  this  country,  think  ourselves 
old  before  we  are  so,  and  actually  grow 
old  before  we  need.  Society  forces  it 
upon  us.  "I  have  done  with  the 
world,"  says  one;  "  I  am  getting  to  be 
an  old  man."  And  so  he  sits  in  his 
solitary  room,  perhaps,  afraid  that  he 
shall  be  a  burden  upon  the  young  com- 
pany in  an  adjoining  apartment.  And 
suppose  he  is  an  old  man, — and  not 
fifty,  which  is  old  for  our  pushing  soci- 
ety, —  suppose  he  is  indeed  an  old  man, 
does  it  follow  that  he  has  done  with  the 
world  ?  Nay,  if  wisdom  and  experience 
and  perfected  character  mean  anything, 
he  has  now  to  exert  a  finer,  nobler,  and 
more  beautiful  influence  upon  the  world 
than  ever. 

From  the  progress  of  life  let  us  now 
turn  to  the  general  structure  of  societ}', 
as  another  sphere  in  which  the  double 
nature  of  man  plays  its  part. 

The  world,  it  is  said,  is  a  corruptor. 
Nature  has  wholesome  influences,  but 
the  world  none.  A  comparatively  safe 
abode  man  has,  amidst  the  hills  and 
waters  and  the  free  air ;  but  the  mo- 
ment he  comes  into  the  presence  of 
moral  natures  all  is  peril  and  evil. 
Hence  convents,  hermitages,  the  an- 
chorite's cell.  Hence  the  non-inter- 
course with  what  is  called  worldly  so- 
ciety and  its  worldly  ways,  enjoined  by 
many  churches  upon  their  members. 

But  can  that  be  altogether  so?  A 
sacred  watch  indeed  for  all  young 
minds,  nay,  for  all  minds,  over  the 
influence  that  others  exert  upon  them, 
—  this  is  well.  But  can  it  be  that  so- 
ciety, the  bosom  of  universal  nurture, 
bears  upon  it  nothing  but  peril,  but 
pollution  .?  Can  it  be  that  the  human 
generations  are  brought  forward  in  suc- 
cession, only  to  be  trained  by  selfishness, 
treachery,  injustice,  pride,  and  sensu- 
ality ?  Is  this  the  school  of  humanity  ? 
No,  no ;  we  do  not  and  cannot  think 
so.  Let  us  see  what  we  do  think,  and 
ought  to  think. 

Society,  then,  like  man,  is  liable  to 


err ;  so  and  no  otherwise.  Society  is 
but  collective  humanity,  the  aggregate 
of  individual  character  ;  and  whatever 
there  is  in  the  physical  and  moral  con- 
stitution of  man,  to  urge  him  to  the 
right  and  to  restrain  him  from  the  wrong, 
must  be  found  in  that  same  world  which 
we  dread  and  condemn.  Found  there  ; 
but  mark  one  difference,  —  found  some- 
times in  greater,  in  collective  strength. 
For,  after  all,  the  world  sometimes  is 
even  a  stronger  reprover  than  the  indi- 
vidual conscience  ;  and  a  man  is  all  the 
more  in  danger  for  being  alone,  —  for 
not  feeling  the  pressure  of  social  opin- 
ion. Some  dark  iniquity  is  perpetrated 
in  secret,  and  the  light  within  fails  to 
shine  upon  it  and  show  what  it  is  ;  and 
its  hideousness  is  not  seen  till  it  is 
revealed,  —  till  it  is  rejlected  in  the 
mirror  of  all-surrounding  conscience. 
But  let  us  look  at  the  great  social  min- 
istry, and  see  whether  it  is  for  good  or 
for  evil  ;  for  there  are  serious  questions 
about  it.  Selfish  interests,  inequalities, 
competitions,  solidarity,  and  the  general 
social  influence,  —  these  are  the  points 
to  be  studied. 

We  say  the  world  is  selfish.  Let  it 
be  ever  so  true,  —  I  shall  soon  have 
occasion  to  qualify  the  admission,  —  but 
let  it  be  ever  so  true  ;  yet  can  you  pass 
over  the  remarkable  fact  that  the  very 
selfishness  of  society  is  engaged  on  the 
side  of  honesty,  self-restraint,  visible 
virtue.''  Individual  ^tl^^thntss,  vna.y  7iot 
be ;  it  may  choose  to  steal,  defraud, 
indulge  itself  in  evil  ways,  in  any  way, 
it  cares  not  what,  nor  how  much  to  the 
hurt  of  others  ;  but  the  common  selfish- 
ness resists  all  that.  What  does  every 
man  want  of  his  fellow  in  conversation 
or  in  business  ;  what  is  it  the  interest 
of  all  to  demand,  but  truth,  honesty, 
honor,  virtue  ?  A  man  may  not  choose 
to  practise  them  himself,  but  he  wants 
them  to  be  practised  toward  him.  Mark 
it  well,  then ;  in  all  ages,  among  all  na- 
tions, amidst  all  other  fluctuations  and 
convulsions  of  opinion,  stand  fraud,  in- 
temperance, licentiousness,  branded  and 
blackened   with   universal    opprobrium. 


THE   PROLLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


579 


Selfish  interest,  mere  selfish  interest, 
writes  on  the  table  of  the  world  the 
laws  of  virtue.  Why  ?  Because  God 
has  ordained  them  to  be  the  laws  of 
t!ie  common  welfare.  There  they  stand  ! 
Tliere  they  stand,  deep  and  high.  The 
mountains  on  their  everlasting  bases 
stand  not  so  firm  as  these  foundation 
laws  of  right,  in  the  common,  the  great 
Humanity. 

But,  it  may  be  said,  selfishness, 
though  it  protects  the  right,  is  a  bad 
thing  still.  Yes,  it  is  a  bad  thing  ;  but 
is  all  selfish  that  we  call  so  .''  Let  us 
not  mistake  here.  Let  us  not  cliampion 
general  virtue,  to  the  hurt  of  our  own, 

—  like  a  man  crying  "Famine!''  and 
starving  to  death  to  prove  it.  My  pur- 
suing my  own  interest,  cultivating  my 
own  farm,  conducting  my  own  business, 
is  not  selfishness.  I  may  till  my  field, 
and  be  heartily  and  none  the  less  glad 
that  my  neighbor's  is  yielding  him  a 
good  crop ;  and  that  surely  is  not  self- 
ishness. I  must  attend  to  my  own 
affairs;  I  have  no  business  to  meddle 
with  his.  This  may  be  called  the  iso- 
lated principle,  or  the  selfish  principle, 
or  by  whatever  hard  names  men  please  ; 
but  busybodies  in  other  men's  affairs, 

—  men  that  were  often  going  to  their 
neighbor's  fence,  and  raying  how  glad 
they  felt  at  his  prosperity,  and  offering 
excellent  advice  perchance,  would  be 
very  troublesome  people,  at  any  rate. 
There  is  doubtless  enough  selfishness 
in  the  world,  and  it  is  odious  enough  ; 
the  basely  ambitious,  the  miserly,  the 
inebriate,  and  the  debauched  live  in  the 
world  ;  but  there  is  a  great  deal  of  gen- 
erosity in  it  also  ;  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  sympathy  and  feeling  for  one  an- 
otlier;  and  the  common  indignation 
that  darkens  the  very  air  in  horror 
around  vice  and  crime  has  a  far  deeper 
source  than  selfish  and  politic  resist- 
ance to  a  common  foe. 

Let  us  pass  to  another  point.  One 
of  tlie  most  annoying  forms  of  selfish- 
ness is  competition  for  the  goods  or 
honors  of  the  world.  This,  it  may  be 
said,  is  not  simply  a  pursuing  of  one's 


own  interest,  but  an  infringement  upon 
others'  interests,  or  a  wish  at  least  to 
surpass  them, — .to  get  what  they  are 
seeking. 

Now  I  am  not  obliged  to  defend  any- 
thing beyond  the  degree  in  which  it 
actually  exists  ;  and  I  am  not  obliged 
to  defend  anything  which  Providence 
has  not  appointed ;  and,  finally,  I  am 
not  obliged  to  defend  anything  which, 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  could 
not  be  prevented.  I  say,  then,  in  the 
first  place,  that  in  the  general  industry 
of  life  there  is  little  or  no  actual  com- 
petition. The  bounties  of  nature  are 
not  so  stinted  that  I  must  starve,  or  my 
neighbor.  There  is  enough  for  us  aU. 
And  men  generally  culdvate  land,  build 
houses,  make  ploughs  and  scythes,  with 
little  thought  that  their  neighbor's  suc- 
cessfully doing  the  same  things  is  any 
disadvantage  to  them.  Competition  is 
usually  seen  in  trade,  in  the  profes- 
sions ;  and  then  only  or  chiefly  in  the 
crowded  centres  of  society.  But  I  say, 
in  the  next  place,  that  there  is  very 
commonly  committed  an  egregious 
blunder  here,  for  which  Providence  is 
not  responsible.  And  that  is  the  blun- 
der of  supposing  that  there  is  a  compe- 
tition of  interests  to  the  extent  commonly 
imagined  ;  that  anotlier's  success  is  pro- 
portionably  an  injury  to  us.  Individual 
success  adds  to  the  general  wealth  and 
prosperity  ;  it  builds  houses,  emplovs 
laborers,  rears  ships,  makes  beautiful 
gardens  and  grounds,  and  is  a  com- 
mon benefit.  Successful  manufacture 
increases  demand.  The  fame  of  a  law- 
yer, physician,  or  clergyman  adds  to 
the  dignity  and  honor  of  his  profession. 
But  suppose,  in  the  tliird  place,  that  we 
do  unavoidably  come  to  the  sharp  edge 
of  competition  ;  two  of  us  want,  and 
cannot  help  wanting,  the  same  thing,  — 
the  same  office,  honor,  emolument. 
Then,  I  say,  as  one  of  the  inevitable 
trials  of  virtue,  must  we  meet  it.  Then 
must  that  sharp  edge  carve  out  a  noble- 
ness for  us  above  all  that  the  ordi- 
nary contacts  of  life  can  do.  In  no 
relation,  perhaps,  can  men  be  so  noble 


58o 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTIN'Y. 


to  each  other  as  in  that  of  rivals  ;  and 
though  prejudice,  jealousy,  and  envy 
too  often  make  the  contest  odious  and 
the  men  odious,  yet  candor,  kindhness, 
and  generosity  might,  and  sometimes 
do,  clothe  them  with  brighter  honors 
than  any  they  seek  for. 

The  third  feature  in  the  social  condi- 
tion, presenting  difficulty  to  most  men's 
thougiits,  is  inequality  of  lot.  There 
is  nothing,  perhaps,  about  which  so 
many  minds  are  sore  and  vexed,  as  this. 
Reformers  have  considered  much  how 
they  could  remove  it.  Radicals  have  de- 
manded tliat  it  be  swept  away  entirely. 
"  That  all  men  are  born  equal "  is  taken 
literally  by  some,  and  held  to  be  a  good 
ground  for  keeping  tliem  so.  Nothing 
in  the  world  is  inveighed  against  with 
such  bitterness  as  wealth  and  rank. 

Now  hereditary  rank,  supported  by 
entailed  estates,  I  admit  to  be  a  great 
social  injustice.  But  passing  by  these 
human  arrangements,  and  coming  down 
to  the  general  fact,  to  the  providential 
order,  I  should  like  to  have  some  one 
tell  me  how  it  is  possible  to  prevent 
inequality,  ay,  and  great  inequality  of 
lot,  without  breaking  down  entirely  the 
free  will,  the  free  energy  by  which  the 
world  is  a  world,  and  not  a  mere  system 
of  machinery.  Make  all  men  equal  to- 
day ;  give  them  equal  property,  equal 
means,  equal  comforts.  Difference,  ay, 
the  hated  distinction,  begins  to-morrow, 
as  surely  as  they  are  left  to  act  freely. 

Let  us  accept,  then,  this  fact  of  ine- 
quality as  inevitable,  and  see  whether  it 
is  at  war  with  social  justice  or  improve- 
ment. Ts  it  at  war  with  social  justice  ? 
Certainly  the  very  opposite  is  the  truth. 
Perfect  and  perpetual  equality  of  lot 
would  be  the  most  manifest  ///justice. 
It  would  not  be  rewarding  men  accord- 
ding  to  their  deeds,  but  the  very  con- 
trary. Sluggards  and  knaves  might 
like  it,  but   nobody  else   could. 

And  then  with  regard  to  improvement ; 
if  all  men  stood  upon  an  exact  level, 
how  much  of  the  necessary  and  palpa- 
ble stimulus  to  exertion  would  be  taken 
away  .'     If  I  saw  no  man  above  me  in 


any  respect,  I  should  be  apt  to  be  con- 
tent with  what  I  am  ;  I  should  fail, 
perhaps,  to  be  reminded  that  there  is 
anything  higher  for  me  to  attain.  The 
child,  for  instance,  stands  to  his  parent 
in  the  relation  of  inequality  ;  but  sup- 
pose he  did  not ;  suppose  he  saw,  or 
thought,  his  parent  to  be  no  wiser  nor 
stronger  than  he  ;  he  would  be  in  a 
deplorable  condition  for  his  improve- 
ment. Indeed,  this  whole  strife  for  visi- 
ble pre-eminence  overrates  the  prize 
altogether,  —  undervalues  the  inward 
strength  and  nobleness,  of  which  it  is 
properly  nothing  but  the  symbol,  and 
ought  to  drive  men  upon  that  inward 
sufficiency  as  the  only  relief  from  envy, 
jealousy,  and  base  ambition. 

But  it  may  be  said,  there  is  some- 
thing more  trying  in  the  problem  of 
society  than  competition,  and  that'  is, 
this  terrible  solidarity  —  the  suffering 
caused  us  by  others  —  suffering  of  the 
innocent  for  the  guilty  ;  suffering,  pro- 
ce.eding  from  individuals,  but  spreading 
far  and  wide  ;  running  through  all  the 
fibres  of  social  existence.  The  answer 
is,  —  could  there  '  be  society  vi'ithout 
this  exposure  ?  Manifestly  not.  With- 
out sympathy,  there  could  be  no  society  ; 
with  it,  there  must  be  pain  for  others' 
afflictions  ;  ay,  and  suffering,  loss,  trou- 
ble, from  others'   errings. 

And  this  necessity,  like  every  other 
in  the  system,  is  turned  into  a  benefi- 
cent law.  The  care  for  one  another,  — 
that  most  anxious  and  watchful  care, 
that  others,  our  children,  our  relatives, 
our  friends,  should  do  well  ;  the  feeling, 
on  the  part  of  the  tempted  man,  that  a 
thousand  eyes  are  turned  toward  him, 
—  eyes  that  will  kindle  with  joy  at  his 
well-doing  and  that  would  weep  bitterly 
over  his  fall  ;  all  this  is  a  conservative 
force,  to  preserve  the  virtue  of  men, 
and  to  prevent  aberration,  —  a  force 
lent  by  the  union  of  all  the  bonds  of 
human  interest  and  all  the  ties  of  human 
sympathy  ;  and  without  which,  it  is 
manifest,  society  could  not  stand.  As 
in  the  system  of  nature,  it  is  said  that 
every  particle   of   matter,    though  it   be 


J 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


581 


upon  a  dunj^hill,  contributes  to  the 
universal  order  ;  so  in  the  system  of 
society,  the  poorest  creature  in  the 
world,  one  that  lies  upon  that  dung- 
hill, has  relations  to  the  welfare  of  all  ; 
all  power  and  wealth  and  well-being  are 
worse  off  for  him.  It  is  true  ;  it  is 
inevitable  ;  it  is  well  ;  and  well  were  it 
if  we  more  thoughtfully  laid  it  to  heart. 

Having  thus  attempted  to  meet  the 
leading  questions  that  arise  with  regard 
to  the  great  social  discipline  of  human- 
ity, let  us  now  turn  to  its  direct  and 
unquestionable  instrumentality. 

Society  is  the  great  educator.  More 
than  universities,  more  than  schools, 
more  than  books,  society  educates. 
Nature  is  the  schoolhouse,  and  many 
lessons  are  written  upon  its  walls  ;  but 
man  is  the  effective  teacher.  Parents, 
relatives,  friends,  associates;  social 
manners,  maxims,  morals,  worships,  the 
daily  example,  the  fireside  conversation, 
the  casual  interview,  the  spirit  that 
breathes  through  the  whole  atmosphere 
of  life, — these  are  the  powers  and  influ- 
ences that  train  the  mass  of  mankind. 
Even  books,  which  are  daily  assuming  a 
larger  place  in  human  training,  are  but 
the  influence  of  man  on  man. 

It  is  evident  that  one  of  the  leading 
and  ordained  means  by  which  men  are 
raised  in  the  scale  of  knowledge  and 
virtue,  is  the  conversation,  example,  in- 
fluence of  men  superior  to  themselves. 
It  seems,  if  one  may  say  so,  to  be  the 
purpose,  the  intent,  the  effort  of  nature, 
—  of  Providence,  to  bring  men  together, 
and  to  bring  them  together,  for  the  most 
part,  in  relations  of  discipleship  and 
teaching.  The  social  nature,  first,  draws 
them  to  intercourse.  Perpetual  solitari- 
ness is  intolerable.  But  then,  much  of 
their  intercourse  is  on  terms  of  inequal- 
ity. Equals  in  age,  people  in  society, 
seldom  meet,  but  one  is  able  to  teach  or 
tell  something,  and  the  other  is  desirous 
to  learn  it.  The  lower  are  strongly 
drawn  to  the  higher.  Children  are  not 
content  to  be  always  by  themselves; 
curiosity,  reverence,  filial  affection,  draw 
them  to  their  superiors.     In  the  whole 


business  of  life  —  tillage,  mechanism, 
manufacture,  merchandise — a  younger 
generation  is  connected  with  an  elder, 
to  be  taught  by  it.  Barbarous  tribes  go 
on  forever  in  their  barbarism,  till  they 
are  brought  into  the  presence  of  superior 
culture.  The  Chinese  exclusion  hns 
kept  that  people  stationary,  though  civili- 
zation has  been  knocking  at  their  gates 
for  more  than  three  centuries.*  And  it 
is  better  —  I  speak  of  mere  results,  not 
principles  —  that  the  way  for  light 
should  be  opened  into  that  country  by 
English  cannon-balls,  or  the  rending 
asunder  of  the  empire,  than  never  to  be 
opened.  But  such  a  fixed  barrier  to 
civilization  is  a  solitary  phenomenon  in 
history.  Nations,  the  barbarous  and 
civilized,  by  some  means  or  other,  in 
the  everlasting  ferment  of  human  inter- 
ests and  passions,  are  thrown  into  com- 
munication and  interfusion,  —  if  by  no 
better  means,  by  war,  by  subjugation, 
by  capture  ;  for  Providence,  if  one  may 
say  so,  will  have  them  come  together. 
Human  injustice  and  cruelty  are  not  to 
be  abetted  in  this  matter.  There  are 
better  ways  which  Christian  civilization 
ought  to  learn,  —  travel,  trade,  missions 
of  light  and  mercy  ;  but,  some  way,  the 
nations  must  mingle  together,  or  the  ig- 
norant will  never  be  enlightened,  the 
savage  never  civilized. 

Where  are  the  ruder  peasantry  of 
Europe  now  resorting,  for  work  and  for 
subsistence  ?  To  the  heart  of  England 
and  America.  Many  an  enlightened 
man,  building  a  railroad,  or  improving 
his  estate,  many  a  refined  woman  in  her 
household,  is  made  their  teacher,  —  little 
suspecting  the  office,  perhaps.  It  were 
fortunate,  I  think,  for  both  parties,  if 
they  did ;  it  might  make  the  relation 
more  kindly  and  holy  ;  but  any  way  the 
work  will  be  done. 

How  fine  and  delicate  and  penetrat- 
ing is  this  power  of  man  to  influence 
his  kind!  A  word,  a  tone,  a  look, — 
nothing  goes  to  the  depths  of  the  soul 
like  that.  The  dexterous  hands  and 
the  embracing  arms,   the  commanding 

*  Wi.liams's  "  Middle  Kingdom,"  cliap.  xxi. 


582 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


eye  and  the  persuasive  lips  and  the 
stately  presence  are  fitted  for  nothing 
more  remarkably  than  to  teach.  Travel- 
ling on  a  railroad,  one  day,  I  saw  a  little 
child  in  the  company  of  some  half  a 
dozen  affectionate  relatives.  From  hand 
to  hand  it  passed  —  to  be  amused,  to  be 
soothed,  to  be  taught  something  from 
moment  to  moment  —  to  receive  many 
lessons,  and  more  caresses,  all  the  day 
long.  "  Here,"  I  thought  with  myself, 
"  is  a  company  of  unpaid,  loving,  willing, 
unwearied  teachers.  Such  governesses 
could  scarce  be  hired  on  any  terms." 
Well,  it  was  not  a  nobleman's  child  ;  it 
was  not  a  rich  man's  child,  that  I  know  ; 
every  man's  child  has  such  training. 
The  same  thing,  substantially,  is  passing 
in  every  house  where  childhood  lives, 
every  day. 

How  sharp,  too,  and  jealous,  is  the 
guardianship  of  society  over  the  virtue 
of  its  members  !  How  preventive  and 
corrective  are  its  sorrow  and  indigna- 
tion at  their  failures  !  A  parent's  grief 
is  such  a  warning  and  retribution  as 
prisons  and  dungeons  could  not  bring 
upon  his  erring  child.  And  then  it  is 
to  be  observed  that  the  grosser  and 
more  ruinous  vices  are  such  as  soon 
betray  themselves,  and  cannot  be  long 
concealed.  The  police  of  society  is  very 
likely  to  find  them  out.  And  selfishness, 
covetousness,  vanity,  do  not  escape. 
The  repulsive  atmosphere  of  common 
feeling  about  the  selfish  man,  the  cold 
shadow  in  which  the  miser  walks, 'the 
stinging  criticisms  upon  the  vain  man, 
proclaim  that  society  is  not  an  idle  cen- 
sor. What  does  pubhc  opinion  brand, 
what  does  literature  satirize,  all  over  the 
world,  but  the  faults  and  foibles  of  men  ? 
Society  has  thrones  for  the  good  and 
noble,  and  purple  and  gold  are  but  rags 
and  dust  in  the  comparison.  Society 
has  prisons  and  penitentiaries  for  the 
base  and  bad,  and  stone  walls  and  silent 
cells  are  not  so  cold  and  death-like. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  a  third  subject 
presented  by  the  complex  nature  of  man, 
and  that  is,  the  relation  of  sex,  and  the 
consequent  order  of  the  family. 


This  great  bond  of  many  interwoven 
relations  —  home  —  is  deserving,  at  tht 
present  day,  of  some  special  attention 
and  study.  The  facility  and  extent  of 
modern  intercourse  tend  to  create  a 
kind  of  cosmopolite  feeling  in  the  world. 
Colonization,  too,  weakens  the  family 
ties.  Increasing  luxury,  the  expensive- 
ness  of  living  — one  of  the  worst  effects 
of  our  artificial  civilization  —  is  un- 
friendly to  marriage.  Engrossing  busi- 
ness, especially  in  cities,  is  drawing 
away  the  attention  of  many  from  home 
and  home  culture.  Withal,  some  of  the 
social  reforms  are  directly  proposing  to 
substitute  joint-stock  corporations  for 
separate  and  independent  households. 
Amidst  these  tendencies,  let  us  see  if 
we  can  find  what  is  the  order'of  nature, 
and  why  it  is  established. 

What,  then,  makes  the  family  ?  What 
is  it  that  carries  man  beyond  community, 
neighborhood,  society,  friendship,  to  this 
inner  circle  of  life  ?  What  makes  the 
family?  It  is  an  institution  so  estab- 
lished and  universal  that  few,  perhaps, 
have  ever  asked  themselves  the  ques- 
tion; and  yet  it  involves,  as  I  conceive, 
some  of  the  profoundest  views  of  the 
wisdom  of  Providence. 

In  the  human  relation  of  sex,  then,  is 
laid  the  foundation  for  home.  In  this, 
that  is  to  say,  is  laid  the  foundation  for 
a  peculiar  and  permanent  attachi/ietit, 
which  leads  the  subjects  of  it  to  wish  to 
dwell  together,  and  apart  from  others. 
Thus  the  great  Master  says,  that  God 
jnade  them  male  and  female,  that  they 
two  should  become  one ;  that  they 
should  be  united  in  an  interest  that  sep- 
arates them  from  others.  On  this  pur- 
pose and  intent  of  He.iven,  He  founded 
the  sanctity  of  marriage.  Suppose  the 
distinction  of  sex  not  to  exist,  and  that 
there  were  no  such  attachment  as  is 
now  founded  upon  it,  and  no  such  rela- 
tion of  two  persons  to  certain  other 
persons  who  are  their  children,  as  is 
now  established  ;  and  then  it  is  evident 
that  although  there  might  be  social  ties 
and  temporary  unions  of  friendship,  and 
even  a  common  residence,  there  could 


1 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


583 


be  no  family.  Men  might  be  gregarious, 
but  they  could  not  be  domestic.  They 
might  live  together,  but  they  could  not 
be  one,  in  that  almost  mysterious  tie  of 
affinity  and  kindred. 

Next,  to  strengthen   the  family  bond, 
another  provision   is  made.     Why  does 
not  the  infant  child,  like  the  young  of 
animals,  arrive  in  a  few  days  or  weeks 
at  its  maturity,  and  the  ability  to  take 
care  of  itself?     I  know  of  no  ultimate 
reason    for   this,    but    the    purpose    of 
Heaven  to  "set  the  solitary  in  families." 
Children    might   have   been  formed  as 
well  to  come  to  maturity  —  certainly  to 
physical  maturity  — in  twenty  weeks,  as 
in  twenty  years.     A  twenty  years''  care 
of  their  offspring  is  assigned  to  parents, 
in  order  to  establish  a  school  of  natural 
and  moral  influence.     The  schoolhouses 
of  a  nation  indicate  its  purpose  to  give 
its  children  a  certain  technical  educa- 
tion.   The  domestic  abodes  of  the  world 
manifest   a   purpose  of  the    overruling 
Providence   no  less  clear  and  explicit. 
Youthful   love   and    parental    affection, 
which  are  of   God's    creating   and  not 
ours,  lay  every  corner-stone   in    them, 
and  raise  every  protecting  wall.     In  idle 
unconsciousness  may  that  love  between 
the  sexes  grow  up;  the  theme  of  jesting 
comment  may  it  be,  to  those  around ; 
but  such  is   its  great  mission,  such   is 
the  solemn  bond  which  it  lays   upon  the 
world.     The  problem  of  parental  love 
and   filial   subjection    may  be    wrougiit 
out  with  weariness  and  sorrow,  or  with 
thoughtless,  or  with  reflecting  and  holy 
gladness  ;   but  such  is  the  momentous 
solution  of  th.Tt  problem. 

We  have  said  that  society  is  the  great 
educator.  The  family  is  the  primary 
school  of  that  education.  The  pupils 
are  children,  —  delicate  in  frame,  docile 
in  spirit,  susceptible  of  influence.  Nor 
IS  it  easy,  if  indeed  it  is  possible,  to 
conceive  how  the  object  could  have 
been  efTected  without  that  relation.  I 
have  said  in  a  former  lecture,  that  the 
only  conceivable  beginning  of  existence 
for  a  rational  being  is  infancy,  —  a  state, 
that  is  to  say,  of  ignorance  and  desti- 


tution ;  in    which    impressions,    knowl- 
edge,   virtue,    holiness,  are    to    be   ac- 
quired;   since     those     things    are    by 
definition    matters    of    experience   and 
volition,  and  incapable  of  creation.    Had 
man  been  full  formed  at  once,  then,  — 
i.  e.,  not  in  knowledge  and  virtue,  but 
in    mere   strength    of    body    and    mind, 
which  is  conceivable,  —  had  there  been 
thus  far  a  state  of  physical  and  mental 
equality,  the  rigid  fibre  would  have  found 
its    fellow,  in    the    obstinate    will,  and 
neither  would,  nor  could,  perhaps,  have 
yielded  to  the  voice  of  instruction  nor 
to  the  sway  of  discipline.     But  a  child's 
docility,  a  child's  meekness,  —  could  we 
understand  it,  —  is  something  Heaven- 
sent,   something,     I   had    almost    said, 
fearful    to    contemplate.     The   mingled 
veneration  and  love  with  which  it  looks 
up    to    a    good    parent  ;     the    mingled 
wonder   and   fear  with    which    it  looks 
up   to   a   bad   parent,  who  has  lost  in 
vice   or   rage   the   government   of  him- 
self, —  what  contrast  on  earth  could  be 
more  touching  !      Alas  !  in    how    many 
dwellings  stands  that  poor  stricken  child, 
gazing  with  awe   and  terror   upon  the 
frenzy  of  inebriety  or  the  furv  of  anger, 
and  parting  not  with   its  meekness  and 
subinissiveness,    amidst   all  its   agonies 
and   wrongs  !     It   is    God's    child,  not 
man's,  and  might  well  be  the  minister  of 
God  to  the  evil  man,  — nay,  and  is  so. 

Scarcely  less  remarkable  is  the  in- 
fluence of  the  family  state  upon  its 
elder  members.  Marriage  recalls  man 
from  what  would  be  otherwise  his  wild 
roving  through  the  world,  and  assigns 
to  him  a  home.  That  home  becomes 
the  natural  centre  of  his  affections, 
cares,  and  labors.  But  for  this  bond, 
life  would  be  nomadic,  and  its  ties 
transient  as  the  traveller's  footstep. 
This  gives  a  sphere,  a  locality  to  human 
pursuit,  makes  of  it  a  regular,  concen- 
trated industry,  makes  frugality,  fore- 
sight, care,  self-restraint  necessary, calls 
sympathy  to  the  bedside  of  sickness  and 
suffering,  and  turns  man's  dwelling  into 
a  sanctuary  of  sorrow,  a  memorial  of 
death,  and  threshold  of  eternity.     But  I 


584 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


need  not  dwell  longer  upon  so  familiar 
a  theme  as  the  good  influence  of  home. 

I  only  wish  you  distinctly  to  see  what 
is  the  origin  of  this  institution.  It  is 
divine  ;  and  because  it  is  divine,  it  is 
universal.  Amidst  the  wide  wandering 
of  men  upon  earth,  diversified  by  all 
the  varieties  of  condition  and  culture, 
there  is  one  tie,  drawing  evermore  to 
one  spot,  —  one  heart-drawing  evermore 
to  one  magnetic  centre  ;  and  if  1  were 
to  put  the  question  to  the  whole  human 
race  —  what  is  that  ?  —  the  answer  would 
be,  it  is  home.  Before  government,  be- 
fore society,  city,  community,  existed, 
there  was  a  home.  It  is  no  human,  no 
civil,  no  factitious  institution.  God  made 
it.  It  was  rooted  in  the  foundations  of 
the  world.  From  the  brooding  dark- 
ness of  primeval  time,  the  first  objects 
that  emerge  to  sight  are  homes,  —  not 
nations,  but  families.  It  was  a  home 
that  floated  upon  the  waters  of  the 
great  Deluge.  The  first  altar  built  on 
Ararat  was  the  home-altar.  It  was  the 
home-altar  that  lighted  the  steps  of  men 
and  generations  in  their  wide  dispersion 
over  the  earth.  It  was  "  the  pillar  of 
cloud  and  fire ; "  and  if  that  light  had 
gone  out,  the  human  race  would  have 
become  extinct. 

The  first  brand  of  misery  upon  the 
human  brow,  and  the  darkest  to-day,  is 
excision  from  home.  -  God  pity  such  an 
outcast  !  But  how  few  such  are  there  ! 
Outcast  from  every  other  tie  a  man  may 
be  ;  —  but  find  the  veriest  wretch  that 
roams  the  earth  or  the  sea,  and  one 
spot  there  is  to  which  he  clings  with  a 
saving  confidence,  if  there  be  any  sav- 
ing for  him  ;  he  knows,  —  he  knows 
that  there  is  one  place  on  earth  where 
the  memory  and  care  of  him  linger,  and 
live,  and  can  never  die. 

I  have  spoken  now  of  the  one  grand 
object  of  the  distinction  of  the  sexes. 
I  say  nothing  of  the  direct,  personal 
relation  considered  by  itself.  It  is  diflS- 
cult  to  speak  of  it,  —  a  difificulty  lying  in 
the  very  delicacy  and  depth  of  the  rela- 
tion. There  is,  perhaps,  a  mystery  in 
this  marriage  of  hearts  which  we  can- 


not understand.  It  is  a  union  beyond 
worldly  interest,  beyond  selfish  attach- 
ment, beyond  friendship  ;  it  is  the  union 
of  natures,  counterpart  to  one  another, 
of  which  the  two  make  one,  in  a  sense 
pertaining  to  no  other  human  relation. 
Certainly,  if  the  world  were  occupied  by 
men  or  by  women  alone,  it  would  be 
but  half  a  world.  The  grace  and  charm 
of  life  would  be  gone,  and  each  would 
roam  through  the  earth  in  comparatively 
sad  and  solitary  isolation.  And  who- 
ever would  blend  the  sexes,  blot  out  the 
distinction,  make  their  pursuits  and  call- 
ings the  same,  their  very  dress  the  same, 
would  be  guilty  of  treason,  not  to  man 
or  woman  only,  but  to  the  majesty  of 
Providence  itself. 

Finally,  there  is,  in  the  complex  na- 
ture of  man,  a  bond  and  a  balance  of 
its  powers  and  tendencies  most  worthy 
to  be  observed. 

The  union  of  the  mind  and  body,  com- 
monly called  a  mystery,  is  more  than 
that;  it.  is  a  wonder.  The  rushing  tide 
that  pours  through  the  heart,  swollen 
and  discharged  sixty  or  seventy  times  a 
minute,  for  eighty  years,  without  wear- 
ing away  its  channel,  —  this  is  a  com- 
monly cited  instance.  But  more  miracu- 
lous still,  perhaps,  is  the  human  head. 
That  the  mind  should  be  linked  with  a 
substance  so  frail  and  fragile  as  the 
brain,  seated  in  a  mesh  like  gossamer, 
not  on  a  marble  throne  ;  that  its  fiery 
thoughts  should  not  tear  it  in  pieces ;  that 
its  swelling  emotions  should  not  burst 
the  dehcate  integument;  that  it  should 
keep  sane  and  strong  when  one  thread 
diseased  deranges  all  ;  that  it  should  so 
long  keep  touch  and  time,  when  thrill- 
ing nerves  and  throbbing  ganglions  are 
its  ministers, — this  is  the  wondrous 
bond  and  balance  of  soul  and  body. 

Look  at  this  balance  of  the  faculties, 
mental,  moral,  and  jjhysical,  in  a  larger 
view.  See  how  all  those  tendencies 
and  impulses,  which  left  to  themselves 
would  go  to  destruction,  are  restrained 
by  one  another,  and  by  the  union  of  all. 
Bv  the  constitution  of  our  nature,  the 
raging  appetites,  the  wayward  passions 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


5S5 


themselves,  are  bonds.  Anger  is  ex- 
hausted by  its  own  violence,  and  sinks 
to  pity  at  the  wound  it  inflicts.  Natural 
affection,  in  its  rudest  state,  is  yet  a  tie 
to  sometliing.  Passion,  I  say,  is  itself 
restraint.  Bonds  are  woven  out  of  the 
free  and  wild  affections.  Man  must 
love.  Then  something  must  he  love,  — 
wife,  children,  home,  friend.  He  must 
sustain  relations,  —  to  cherished  child- 
liood,  or  to  beseeching  weakness  and 
tenderness.  All  his  passions,  then,  his 
loves,  hates,  hopes,  fears,  unite  to  put 
and  press  and  drive  him  into  some 
controlling  and  protecting  order.  The 
leading,  visible  form  of  that  order  is 
Government.  That  great  bond  that 
holds  a  nation  together  is  spun  and 
woven  out  of  the  texture  and  strife  of 
all  human  passions  and  interests.  Gov- 
ernment is  not  a  thing  of  chance  or  of 
will,  but  of  necessity,  of  God. 

Nor  only  so  ;  not  only  is  there  a  bond, 
but  there  is,  as  I  was  saying,  a  balance 
among  the  human  powers  that  tends  to 
control  and  keep  them  right,  — to  keep 
them,  at  any  rate,  from  the  uttermost 
wrong.  Man  is  a  kingdom  ;  and  no 
political  balance  of  powers  was  ever  so 
exquisite  and  admirable  as  the  equilib- 
rium of  forces  in  him.  There  are  the 
citizen  affections;  there  is  the  populace 
of  the  passions,  —  and  their  interests  are 
opposite,  their  control  mutual.  There 
is  the  mob  of  reckless  and  raging  de- 
sires ;  but  sobriety,  thoughtfulness,  or- 
der, come  to  meet  it.  Or  ambition 
arises,  and  would  sweep  to  its  end  over 
a  kingdom  in  ruins,  but  private  regards 
come  to  check  it ;  those  human  hearts 
that  it  would  tread  and  crush  beneath 
its  feet  put  forth  tendrils  and  snares 
that  entangle  and  fetter  its  reckless 
strides.  And  everywhere,  sobering  fact, 
sobering  labor,  tame  down  the  impulses 
of  imagination  and  appetite,  —  of  wild 
dreaming  or  wild  craving  of  fortunes, 
honors,  splendors,  gratifications.  Every- 
where the  rushing  tides  of  passion  are 
met  by  cross-currents,  and  are  met,  too, 
by  the  rugged  shores   of  circumstance 


and  necessity.  Ay,  necessity,  like  an 
iron  fate,  stands  in  the  way  ;  weakness, 
sickness,  pain,  death,  stand  in  the  way  ; 
and  heat  and  cold  and  storm  and  ocean 
waves,  and  rocky  heights,  and  the  cold, 
bare  mountains  of  limitation  and  diffi- 
culty, stand  as  barriers  against  the  wide- 
flowing  desolations  of  passion  and  vice 
and  violence. 

Thus  it  is  in  all  nature  and  life ;  for 
humanity,  in  this  balance  of  its  powers, 
is  both  influenced  and  imaged  by  the 
universe  around  it.  Any  one  of  the 
agencies  within  us  or  around  us,  left  to 
operate  alone,  would  destroy  alike  the 
order  of  nature  and  humanity.  This 
atmosphere,  you  know,  in  which  we 
move  so  easily  and  lightl}-,  sustains  us, 
as  it  were,  with  millions  of  elastic  and 
invisible  cords  ;  so  that  if  a  vacuum 
were  suddenly  produced  beneath  us 
or  by  our  side,  we  should  be  instantly 
crushed  to  the  earth,  as  by  the  weight 
of  a  mountain.  So  it  is  with  the  bal- 
ance of  our  intellectual  powers  ;  let  one 
faculty  be  struck  away,  and  everything 
falls  into  ruins. 

Thus  man  stands,  amidst  universal 
nature  and  life,  in  the  very  equilibrium 
of  contending  forces  ;  where  attraction 
balances  attraction,  and  power  checks 
power  ;  where  heat  and  cold,  winds  and 
waters,  swell  up  to  the  point  that  is 
necessary  to  sustain  him  ;  and  his  sport 
and  his  play  is  amidst  waves  of  infinite 
motion  and  heavings  of  boundless  might, 
—  on  the  very  verge  of  precipices  from 
which  he  never  falls,  and  amidst  the  vi- 
brations of  vast  elements  which  hold 
and  rock  him  as  a  child  in  their  protect- 
ing arms.  Thus  the  powers  of  nature, 
both  material  and  moral,  Hke  reined 
coursers,  are  held  beneath  some  mighty 
hand  :  and  man  is  borne  onward  in  the 
car  of  life,  amidst  all  but  bursting  thun- 
der and  whelming  earthquake ;  borne 
gently  and  smoothly,  his  repose  the 
product  of  infinite  conflict,  and  the 
very  music  of  his  joys  the  fiarmony 
of  that  which,  unrestrained,  would  be 
boundless  discordance  and  destruction. 


586 


THE  PROBLEM   OP    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


LECTURE     VII. 

ON  THE  SPECIAL  INFLUENCE  UPON  HUMAN  CULTURE  OF  THE  DISCI- 
PLINE OF  NATURE,  OF  THE  OCCUPATIONS  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  THE 
ARTS  OF  EXPRESSION;  OR,  THE  MENTAL  AND  MORAL  ACTIVITY 
ELICITED  BY  MAN'S  CONNECTION  WITH  NATURE  AND  LIFE. 


Thus  far  in  these  lectures  we  have 
done,  or  attempted  to  do,  two  things. 
First,  we  have  laid  down  the  founda- 
tion principles,  the  basis  in  theory,  of 
the  problem  of  human  destiny :  and 
that  we  found  in  the  necessary  charac- 
ter of  a  creation,  whether  material"  or 
moral ;  and  especially  in  the  natural  im- 
possibility of  conferring  unmixed,  and 
unconditioned  good  upon  rational  be- 
ings. Next,  we  have  shown  the  actual 
basis  of  the  problem  ;  the  basis  of  it,  so 
to  speak,  as  a  working  problem  ;  and 
this  we  found  in  the  frame  of  the  world; 
in  the  arrangements  of  material  and  ani- 
mal nature,  in  the  physical  organization 
of  man,  in  his  mental  and  moral  consti- 
tution, and  in  his  complex  nature. 

Now,  out  of  this  basis  spring  certain 
forms  of  human  activity.  These  are  to 
be  considered  in  this  lecture  ;  and  the 
conditions  of  that  activity,  the  helps  and 
the  hindrances,  in  the  next. 

I  am  about  to  lead  you,  my  friends, 
into  actual  life,  into  the  bosom  of  hu- 
man experience.  But  because  it  is  the 
actual,  common,  daily  scene  that  will  be 
before  our  eyes,  I  must  pray  you  not  to 
overlook  the  stupendous  moral,  the  sub- 
lime end,  to  which  it  points.  I  do  not 
propose  to  teach  you  a  transcendental 
philosophy,  but  a  philosophy  that  mixes 
itself  up  with  the  very  life  that  we  live, 
and  the  very  being  that  we  are. 

We  are  then  to  consider,  at  present, 
certain  forms  of  human  activity  that  are 
developed  from  nature  and  life.  With 
this  view  we  shall  consider  man  in  two 
points  of  light  —  first,  as  nature  takes 
him  in  hand  ;  and  next,  as  Providence 


apprentices  him  to  certain  life-tasks.  I 
say  he  is  apprenticed  to  them  ;  and  that, 
by  an  indenture  of  older  than  feudal  or 
Roman  date.  In  all  that  is  circumstan- 
tial, man  is  less  free  than  he  is  apt  to 
think.  Thus,  he  does  not  sow  nor  reap, 
does  not  fabricate  things  nor  trade  in 
them,  —  does  not  write  deeds  nor  pre- 
scriptions, nor  sermons  nor  poems,  — 
does  not  paint  nor  sing,  nor  make  stat- 
ues nor  buildings  nor  books,  simply  be- 
cause he  fancied  to  do  so,  but  because 
there  was  an  irresistible  necessity  or 
impulse  to  do  these  things.  The  ac- 
tivity, art,  occupation  of  life,  could  not 
have  taken  other  forms,  at  man's  pleas- 
ure ;  he  was  obliged  to  adopt  these.  He 
walks  in  the  leading-strings  of  a  Wis- 
dom higher  than  his  own  ;  and  one  of 
the  objects  of  this  lecture  is  to  show 
how  they  are  fitted  to  influence  him,  and 
to  affect  the  general  order  of  the  world. 

But,  in  tlie  first  place,  we  are  to  con- 
sider how  it  is  that  nature  takes  him  in 
hand,  —  to  move,  to  influence,  to  instruct 
him. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  nature's  in- 
fluence. I  have  spoken  of  its  fertility, 
order,  and  beauty,  as  ministering  both 
to  human  convenience  and  human  cul- 
ture. But  1  wish  to  press  the  con- 
sideration to  another  point, —  to  that 
development  and  specific  direction  of 
the  human  faculties  to  which  it  drives 
and  compels  us.  It  is  necessary  to  re- 
turn to  this  subject  of  nature's  influence 
again  and  again,  in  order  to  meet  the 
objections  that  arise  froin  this  quarter. 
Objections,  I  say;  for  it  is  a  problem 
that  I  am  dealing  with,  and  it  is  natural 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


58; 


that  my  discourse  should  often  be  col- 
ored by  this  aspect  of  the  matter  in 
hand. 

There  has  always  been  a  theory  in 
the  world  that  matter  is  essentially  an- 
tagonistic, hostile  to  mind.  And  a  very 
strange  theory  it  is,  certainly  ;  that  the 
very  spliere  for  man,  the  very  house  of 
life,  should  be  regarded,  not  as  built  for 
iiis  convenience,  comfort,  and  growth, 
but  as  thrown  down  in  his  path,  to  be 
an  obstruction  and  hindrance  to  him. 
But  such  has  been  a  very  prevalent  way 
of  thinking.  There  is  much  ancient 
philosophy  and  much  modern  poetry  to 
this  purpose,  whose  effect  needs  to  be 
examined.  One  of  the  old  Manicliaean 
writers  —  and  they  professed  to  be 
Christians,  too,  some  of  them  —  speaks 
of  the  "  bad  principle  "  in  the  world  as 
self-existent,  and  hostile  not  only  to 
man,  but  to  God.  Sometimes  he  calls 
this  bad  principle  nature  ;  sometimes 
matter  ;  sometimes  Satan,  and  devil.* 
Plato,  wisest  of  the  heathen,  makes 
Socrates  say,  in  the  Phaedo :  "  There 
is  another  pure  earth,  above  the  pure 
heavens,  where  the  stars  are,  which  is 
commonly  called  ether.  The  earth  we 
inhabit  is  properly  nothing  else  than 
the  sediment  of  the  other  :  upon  which 
we  are  scattered  like  so  many  ants 
dwelling  in  holes,  or  like  frogs  that  live 
in  some  marsh  near  the  sea.  We  are 
immersed  in  these  cells,  he  says,  — 
mewed  up  within  some  hole  of  the 
earth;"  and  he  maintains  that  it  is  the 
great  business  of  a  wise  man  to  prepare 
to  die,  and  to  escape  from  a  world  full 
of  fetters,  clogs,  and  obstructions. 

Let  us  see  if,  with  better  lights,  we 
cmnoi  better  understand  this  constitu- 
tion of  things,  — i.  e.,  of  nature  and  of 
liumanity  as  placed  in  the  midst  of  it. 
Nature,  it  is  true,  does  not  spread  for 
man  a  soft  couch  to  lull  him  to  repose ; 
nor  does  she  set  around  that  couch 
ai)undant  supplies,  which  it  requires 
only  the  stretching  out  of  his  hand 
to  obtain.  For  the  animal  races  she 
does  so  provide.  She  prepares  food 
•  Lardner's  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  189. 


and  clothing  for  the?n  with  little  care 
of  theirs.  She  spreads  their  table, 
for  wliich  no  cookery  is  needed  ;  she 
weaves  and  fits  their  garments  with- 
out loom  or  needle  ;  and  her  trees  and 
caves  and  rocks  are  their  habitations. 
Yet  man  is  said  to  be  her  favorite,  — 
and  so  he  is  ;  but  thus  does  she  deal 
with  her  favorite:  she  turns  him  out, 
naked,  cold,  and  shivering,  upon  the 
earth  ;  with  needs  that  admit  of  no  com- 
promise ;  with  a  delicate  frame  that  can- 
not lie  upon  the  bare  ground  an  hour, 
but  must  have  immediate  protection ; 
with  a  hunger  that  cannot  procrastinate 
the  needed  supply,  but  must  be  fed  to- 
day and  every  day.  And  now,  why  is 
all  this  ?  I  suppose,  if  man  could  have 
made  of  the  earth  a  bed,  and  if  an  apple 
or  a  chestnut  a  day  could  have  sufficed 
him  for  food,  he  would  have  goi  his  bar- 
rel of  apples  or  his  bushel  of  chestnuts, 
and  lain  down  upon  the  earth  and  done 
nothing  —  till  the  stock  was  gone.  But 
nature  will  not  permit  this,  —  I  say,  will 
ViOi  permit  it,  — for  hers  is  no  voluntary 
system.  She  has  taken  a  bond  of  man 
for  the  fulfilment  of  one  of  her  primary 
objects,  —  his  activity;  because,  if  he 
were  left  to  indolence,  all  were  lost. 
That  bond  is  as  strong  as  her  own 
ribbed  rocks,  and  close  pressing  upon 
man  as  the  very  flesh  in  which  it  is 
folded  and  sealed.  So  is  this  solid  and 
insensible  world  filled  with  meaning  to 
him.  The  blind  and  voiceless  elements 
seem  to  look  upon  him  and  speak  to 
him,  and  the  dark  clothing  of  flesh  and 
sense  which  is  wrapped  around  him  be- 
comes a  network  of  moral  tissues,  and 
everything  says,  "Arouse  thyself  !  up 
and  be  doing  !  for  nature  —  the  system 
of  things  —  will  not  have  thee  here  on 
any  other  terms." 

But  what,  again,  does  nature  demand 
of  this  activity  .''  The  answer  is,  dis- 
cretion. Immediately  and  inevitably  a 
principle  of  intelligence  is  infused  into 
this  activity.  Immediately  the  agent 
becomes  a  pupil.  Nature  all  around 
says  even  to  infancy,  —  what  all  hu- 
man speech  says  to  it,  —  "  Take  care  ! " 


588 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


I 


It  is,  all  over  the  world,  the  first  phrase 
of  the  parent's  teaching,  the  first  of 
the  child's  learning,  —  "  Take  care  !  " 
and  this  phrase  but  interprets  what  na- 
ture says  to  all  her  children.  Not  as 
an  all-indulgent  mother  does  she  re- 
ceive them  to  her  lap,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain matronly  sobriety,  ay,  and  "  the 
graver  countenance  of  love,"  saying, 
•'  Take  care,  —  smooth  paths  ■  are  not 
around  thee,  but  stones  and  stubs, 
thorns  and  briers  ;  soft  elements  alone 
do  not  embosom  thee,  but  drenching 
rains  will  visit  thee,  and  chilling  dews, 
and  winter's  blast,  and  summer's  heat ; 
harmless  things  are  not  these  around 
thee,  but  see  !  here  is  fire  that  may 
burn,  and  water  that  may  drown  ;  here 
are  unseen  damps  and  secret  poisons, 
the  rough  bark  of  trees  and  sharp  points 
of  contact.  Thou  must  learn,  or  thou 
must  suffer." 

Ay,  suffer  !  What  human  school  has 
a  discipline  like  nature's  ?  In  these 
schools  we  are  apt  to  think  that  pun- 
ishments are  cruel  and  degrading  ;  but 
nature  has  whips  and  stripes  for  the 
negligent.  Her  discipline  strikes  deep  ; 
it  stamps  itself  upon  the  human  frame, 
—  and  upon  what  a  frame  !  All  soft- 
ness, all  delicacy ;  not  clothed  wiih  the 
mail  of  leviathan  nor  endowed  with  in- 
terior organs  like  those  of  the  ostrich 
or  the  whale,  and  yet  a  frame  strong 
with  care,  while  weakest  of  all  things 
without  it.  What  a  wonderful  organ, 
in  this  view,  is  the  human  stomach!  — 
the  main  source  of  energy  to  the  sys- 
tem, strong  enough  to  digest  iron  and 
steel,  working  like  some  powerful  ma- 
chine ;  and  yet,  do  you  let  it  be  over- 
worked or  otherwise  injured,  and  it  is 
the  most  delicate  and  susceptible  of  all 
things,  —  trembling  like  an  aspen-leaf 
at  every  agitation,  and  sinking  and  faint- 
ing under  a  feather's  weight  of  food 
or  drink.  What  a  system,  in  this  view, 
is  that  of  the  nerves!  —  insensible  as 
leathern  thongs  in  their  health,  trem- 
bling cords  of  agony  in  their  disease  ! 

I  would  not  dwell  upon  these  matters 
as  abstract  facts.    I  would  have  my  dis- 


course teach  as  nature  teaches.  Do 
you  not  see  the  wonder  which  nature 
and  humanity  thus  present  to  us  .''  Do 
you  not  see  man  as  a  frail  and  delicate 
child,  cast  into  the  bosom  of  universal 
teaching  .''  Ay,  that  teaching  comes  out 
to  him  in  tongues  of  flame,  and  it  pene- 
trates his  hand  in  the  little,  seemingly 
useless  thorn,  and  it  assails  his  foot 
with  stones  of  stumbling,  and  it  flashes 
into  his  eyes  with  the  light  of  day,  and 
it  broods  over  his  path  with  the  dark- 
ness of  night,  and  it  sweeps  around  his 
head  with  the  wings  of  the  tempest,  and 
it  startles  him  to  awe  and  fear  with  the 
crash  of  thunder.  The  universe  is  not 
more  filled  with  light  and  air  and  solid 
matter  than  it  is  filled  and  crowded  with 
wisdom  and  instruction. 

But  more,  far  more,  than  this  does 
nature  teach,  —  not  activity  or  self-care 
a,lone,  but  a  larger  wisdom.  To  show 
this  fully,  we  should  be  obliged  to  en- 
ter the  vast  domain  of  modern  science. 
What  can  we  possibly  say,  in  the  few 
words  for  which  we  have  space  here, 
upon  a  theme  so  immense  and  mag- 
nificent ? 

But  in  what  I  shall  say  let  me  still 
speak  of  man  as  nature's  pupil.  It  is 
common,  I  know,  in  this  connection,  to 
celebrate  the  achievements  of  man  ;  to 
say  "how  much  has  he  discovered  and 
learned !  "  But  the  true  philosopher  is 
disposed  rather  to  say,  how  much  does 
nature  -teacli,  and  how  much  have  I  yet 
to  learn  !  The  dying  words  of  the  great 
La  Place,  when  he  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  those  depths  of  heaven  which  he 
had  so  profoundly  studied,  —  his  last 
words  were  :  "  That  which  I  know,  is 
limited  ;  that  which  I  do  not  know,  is 
infinite."  What  noble  devotees  indeed 
have  been  found  at  the  shrine  of  na- 
ture !  Anaxagoras,  and  Aristotle,  and 
Copernicus,  and  Kepler,  and  Galileo, 
and  Newton,  and  the  Herschels,  and 
Boyle,  and  Davy,  and  Cuvier,  and 
Ehrenberg,  and  Blumenbach,  and  Ber- 
zelius,  and  many  who  bear  up  the  hon- 
ors of  those  great  names  at  the  present 
day,  besides  a  multitude  of  a  kindred 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


589 


spirit,  though  of  less  fame,  who,  morn- 
ing and  evening,  at  noonday  and  at  mid- 
nio-ht,  are  watching  by  all  the  avenues 
and  at  all  the  gates  of  this  sublime  tem- 
ple. Secrets  unimaginable  are  yet  to 
be  detected,  wonders  upon  wonders  are 
yet  to  be  unfolded  ;  and  that  the  wise 
well  know. 

But  let  us  glance  a  moment  at  some 
of  its  actual  revelations. 

Liglit  passes  at  the  rate  of  twelve 
millions  of  miles  in  a  minute.*  Sir 
Willi.im  Herschel  was  of  opinion  that 
by  the  aid  of  his  forty-feet  reflector  his 
eye  descried  nebulae  (now  mostly  re- 
solved into  stars)  from  which  it  would 
take  the  light  nearly  two  millions  of 
years  to  reach  us.f  Professor  Nichol 
says  that  Lord  Rosse's  telescope  cer- 
tainly penetrates  a  depth  from  which 
the  liglit  would  require  si.xty  thousand 
years  to  come  to  us.  Struck  with  these 
statements,  and  feeling  as  if  there  must 
be  some  e.xtravagance  or  vagueness 
about  them,  1  turned  to  Sir  John  Her- 
schel's  Elementary  Treatise  on  Astron- 
omy, and  there  I  find  it  stated  that  the 
period  cannot  be  less  than  a  thousand 
years  ;  how  much  more  is  unknown. 
Subsequent  calculations  have  proved,  I 
believe,  that  it  cannot  be  less  than  ten 
thousand. 

Let  it  be  observed  that  I  am  now 
speaking  of  our  own  system ;  not,  in- 
deed, the  solar  system,  but  that  vast 
bed  of  stars  called  the  Galaxy,  which, 
in  the  line  of  its  extension,  gathers  so 
many  stars  to  the  sight  as  to  present 
that  whitish  appearance  which  we  call 
the  Milky  Way.  And  yet  this  is  now 
discovered  to  be  but  one  of  many  uni- 
verses. Rosse"s  telescope  has  dis- 
solved into  systems  of  countless  stars 
the  nebuls  that  had  been  descried  in 
the    far-lying   regions   of    space.     And 

•  It  is  not  material  to  the  statement  whether  light 
is  regarded  as  a  substance,  or  whether,  according  to 
the  later  theory,  the  effect  of  light  is  pioduced  by  the 
vibrations  of  some  substance,  some  infinitely  diffused 
ether.  In  this  case  the  vibrations  pass  with  equal 
rapidity,  —  a  fact  more  wonderful  still. 

t  Philosophical  Transactions  for  1802,  p.  498.  See 
note  in  Humboldt's  Cosmos,  vol.  i.  p.  154,  Am.  Ed. 


i  of  these  systems,  —  these  universes, — 
vast  perhaps  as  our  own,  more  than  two 
thousand  have  been  seen  and  numbered. 
Well  may  ows  be  called  a  uttiverse, 
—  whether  we  consider  its  vastness  or  its 
order.  We  have  said  that  from  some  of 
its  bodies  a  ray  of  light  takes  ten  thou- 
sand, and  it  may  be  fifty  thousand,  years 
to  reach  us.  It  scarcely  matters,  to  any 
conception  we  can  form,  which  estimate 
we  adopt.  But  think  of  it  !  Before  the 
time  of  Sesostris,  before  the  earliest 
date  of  recorded  time,  it  may  be,  that 
ray  of  light  left  its  home,  and  through 
distances  awful  and  inconceivable  it 
has  come,  traversing  twelve  millions 
of  miles  in  a  minute,  and  reporting  of 
unnumbered  millions  of  resplendent 
suns,  scattered  like  star-dust  through 
that  illimitable  infinitude  of  space. 

But  again,  all  these  millions  of  spheres 
which  compose  our  universe  are  revolv- 
ing around  one  central  point,  —  the  star 
Alcyone,  in  the  constellation  Pleiades,  — 
at  the  rate  of  about  four  hundred  thou- 
sand miles  each  day.  And  all  these  uni- 
verses, it  may  be,  are  revolving  around 
another  centre,  —  the  throne  of  the  In- 
finite Might. 

And  yet,  when  we  turn  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme,  scarce  less  a  wonder  meets 
us.  Millions  of  creatures,  organized, 
active,  sportive,  live  in  a  drop  of  water. 
The  galionella,  an  extinct  species  of 
animalcule,  was  an  organized  being,  and 
had  a  kind  of  integument  like  a  shell. 
And  Ehrenberg  tells  us  that  in  a  single 
cubic  inch  of  the  polishing  slate  of  Bilin 
are  forty  thousand  millions  of  the  sili- 
cious   frames  of   the  galionella.* 

In  this,  awful  universe,  we  need  not 
say,  is  stupendous  power.  It  is  in  the 
roll  and  sweep  of  infinite  systems  ;  but 
it  is  also,  and  long  was  unsuspected,  in 
the  very  bosom  of  the  air  around  us. 
Take  four  cubic  feet  of  the  vapor  that 
softly  steals  from  the  river's  bosom, 
and  it  is  seemingly  nothing  ;  you  wave 
your  hand  in  it  as  if  it  were  nothing  ; 
and  yet  in  the  expansion  and  contrac- 
tion of  those  four  cubic  feet  of  vapor 
*  See  Humboldt's  Cosmos,  vol.  i.  p.  150,  Am.  Ed. 


590 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


I 


is  power  enough  to  move  long  trains 
of  lieavy-laden  cars  through  our  fields, 
as  swiftly  almost  as  the  bird  flies.  For 
myself,  I  must  confess  that  I  can  never 
cease  to  look  with  wonder  at  this  marvel 
that  is  daily  before  my  eyes.  And  for 
the  swiftness  of  nature's  messengers,  — 
what  are  these  that  are  darting  on 
telegraphic  lines  over  our  heads,  and 
bearing  living  thoughts,  hundreds  of 
miles  in  an  instant.''  The  time  may 
soon  come,  when  a  man  shall  send  his 
fireside  talk  in  a  moment,  from  the 
tropic  to  the  pole,  and  tell  of  marriage 
or  birth,  of  sickness  or  death,  even  while 
it  is  passing,  to  his  friend  half  across  the 
globe.  The  time  may  come  when  the 
earth  shall  be  a  vast  whispering-gallery, 
and  thoughts  shall  circulate  around  it 
as  freely  as  sunbeams. 

Why  do  we  not  tremble  with  fear 
amidst  the  swiftness  and  power  of  these 
tremendous  agents  in  nature  ?  It  is, 
because  we  believe  in  an  infinite  Order, 
—  an  infinite  Goodness.  It  is  a  mar- 
vellous confidence.  It  is  a  solemn 
thing  to  live  as  we  do,  —  to  live  thus 
as  children  of  faith.  We  recline  upon 
tlie  bosom  of  this  tremendous  Nature, 
where  there  is  power  enough  within  the 
wave  of  our  hand  to  tear  us  ten  thou- 
sand times  in  pieces,  as  confidingly  as 
in  the  lap  of  a  parent.  Our  knowl- 
edge of  things  around  us  is  small,  but 
our  faith  boundless.  To  the  little  child, 
nature  is  a  stranger,  and  has  some 
rough  points  about  her:  but  how  soon 
does  he  come  to  look  upon  her  as  a 
mother!  See  him  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine, bathing  in  the  water,  running  in 
the  fields,  with  his  bright  locks  float- 
ing in  the  wind  :  everywhere  he  feels 
as  if  kind  arms  were  around  him.  He 
confides  in  the  uniform  beneficence  of 
nature.  If  he  had  studied  her  millions 
of  years,  he  could  not  be  more  sure. 
How  knoweth  he  this  so  surely.-'  It  is 
because  not  you  nor  I,  but  God,  hath 
taught  that  weak  and  innocent  child. 
"  And  thus,"  says  Chalmers,  with  equal 
justness  and  beauty,  "  a  truth,  the  uni- 
formity of  nature,  which  would  seem  to 


require  Omniscience  for  its  grasp,  as 
co-extensive  with  all  nature  and  all  his- 
tory, is  deposited  by  the  hand  of  God 
in  the  little  cell  of  a  nursling's  cogi- 
tations." * 

From  this  survey  of  nature,  not  merely 
as  the  theatre  of  human  training,  whose 
general  structure  is  fitted  for  that  end,  — 
which  was  the  subject  of  a  former  lec- 
ture, —  but  of  nature  as  effectually  en- 
forcing and  impressively  teaching  certain 
things  —  activity,  self-care,  and  a  wider 
and  diviner  intelligence,  let  us  now  turn 
to  the  specific  tasks  that  are  set  for  man 
in  the  field  of  life.  These  are  the  oc- 
cupations of  life  ;  embracing  in  their 
range  all  its  laborious  pursuits,  its  prac- 
tical arts  and  learned  professions.  And 
I  wish  to  make  it  appear,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  that  these  are  all  a  part  of  the 
system  of  things,  in  which  we  are  placed. 
Some  of  these  occupations  are  looked 
upon  as  degrading,  some  as  hard  and 
almost  cruel.  In  some,  —  and  this  is 
sometimes  particularly  felt  in  the  learned 
professions,  —  many  persons  so  little  dis- 
tinguish themselves,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing to  gratify  thei-r  ambition,  and  they 
become  discouraged  and  disheartened  in 
their  callings.  Now  in  all  these  pursuits 
and  professions  it  ought  to  be  felt  that 
there  is  a  duty  imposed  by  the  Great 
Taskmaster,  which  it  is  well  and  right 
anfl  honorable  to  discharge.  I  have 
been  struck  with  observing  how  much  in 
the  popular  literature  of  England,  in  the 
ballads  and  songs,  for  instance,  this 
sense  of  duty  is  urged,  and  especially 
upon  one  particular  class.  I  mean  mili- 
tary men.  In  the  songs  of  Dibdin,  for 
instance,  this  is  very  striking.  The  com- 
mon sailor  is  taught  to  feel  that  he  is  to 
stand  in  his  lot,  however  humble,  because 
it  is  his  duty.  And  equally  true  is  it  that 
this  is  to  be  every  man's  strength  and 
stay  in  his  daily  tasks,  —  duty.  We  can- 
not get  along  without  it. 

Let  us,  in  the  first  place,  cast  a  glance 
at  these  tasks,  to  see  how  they  spring 
from  the  necessity  of  things,  and  are  the 
ordained  vocations  of  men. 

*  Chalmers's  Biidgewater  Treatise,  p.  203,  Am.  Ed. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


591 


The  feudal  system  and  its  predecessor, 
the  slave  system,  never  wrought  a  great- 
er or  more  pernicious  falsehood  into  the 
history  of  human  life  than  this,  —  that 
labor  is  degrading,  a  thing  to  be  depre- 
cated and  shunned  ;  and  that  idleness 
—  doing  nothing  —  is  the  honored  and 
happy  condition.  The  great  visible  fact 
of  the  world  is  work,  and,  first  of  all, 
work  upon  the  world  itself;  that  is  to 
say,  tilling  the  soil.  The  entire  human 
race  draws  subsistence  from  the  earth 
upon  this  condition,  —  work,  —  as  truly 
as  all  plants  and  trees  derive  their  life 
through  the  roots  that  connect  them 
with  the  ground.  Instead  of  roots,  hu- 
man hands  are  stretched  out  to  draw 
supplies  from  the  earth  and  from  the 
sea.  Not  that  every  man  is  a  farmer  or 
a  fisherman  ;  but  every  man  —  artisan, 
merchant,  or  professional  man  —  does 
something  that  connects  him  with  that 
supply.  Next,  manufacture,  —  the  cook- 
ing of  food,  the  weaving  of  wool  and  cot- 
ton into  clothing,  the  fashioning  of  stone 
and  wood  and  the  metals  into  houses 
and  furniture,  and  a  thousand  conven- 
iences,—  it  is  an  ordinance.  Then, 
again,  trade,  —  the  merchant's  vocation, 
the  exxhange  of  the  productions  of  dif- 
ferent countries  and  climates,  —  it  is 
an  ordinance.  How  idle  to  say,  by  way 
of  objection,  that  it  produces  nothing! 
Exchange  is  as  necessary  to  human 
comfort  and  civilization,  as  production. 
Are  the  learned  professions  any  less 
ordinances,  —  functions  ordained  in  the 
very  nature  and  necessity  of  tilings?  All 
men  cannot  study  the  laws  of  the  human 
constitution,  the  symptoms  of  disease 
and  the  methods  of  cure  ;  therefore 
there  must  be  physicians.  Men  gener- 
ally cannot  devote  themselves  to  the 
education  of  their  children  ;  tlierefore 
there  must  be  teacliers  of  reading,  writ- 
ing, numbers,  —  of  sciences,  languages, 
music,  painting,  &c.  Numerous  rela- 
tions necessarily  spring  up  between 
persons,  estates,  lands,  chattels.  The 
rights  of  men  to  property  and  personal 
security  ;  the  ascertaining  and  defining 
of  those  rights  by  able  treatises  and  care- 


fully drawn  statutes  ;  the  necessity,  to 
prevent  infinite  confusion  and  injustice, 
of  general  principles,  and  of  instruments, 
covenants,  testaments  drawn  in  accord- 
ance with  them,  —  all  tliis  is  the  subject 
of  a  complicated  and  profound  science. 
There  must  be  men  to  understand  it ; 
there  must  be  lawyers.  Worship  is  a 
duty,  religious  instruction  a  need  of  hu- 
manity; therefore  there  must  be  pastors, 
preachers,  divines.  Some  persons  do 
not  see  the  need  of  this  profession,  and 
propose  to  abolish  it;  but  the  world  has 
judged  otherwise.  There  must  be  some- 
body, at  least,  to  preside  over  the  rites 
of  public  worship.  Finally,  statesman- 
ship, the  guidance  of  the  affairs  of  na- 
tions, is  an  indispensable  vocation  in 
the  order  of  all  civilized  society.  And 
all  these  vocations,  I  still  say,  are  natu- 
ral ordinances  of  life,  necessary  results 
of  the  human  nature  and  condition,  bound 
up  with  the  constitution  of  the  world  ; 
without  which  the  world  cannot  exist, 
civilized   society  cannot  exist. 

Let  us  now  look  at  these  pursuits 
and  employments  of  men,  in  the  next 
place,  as  the  means  of  development  and 
culture. 

The  world,  we  say,  is  a  school ;  the 
object  is  culture.  Let  us  look  at  it  in 
this  light.  Do  we  imagine  that  some- 
thing better  than  the  present  plan  might 
have  been  devised  to  answer  the  end  ? 
Let  us  see.  Suppose  that  to  learn  and 
to  teach  had  been  the  sole  and  immedi- 
ate business  of  human  life.  Suppose 
that  the  generations  of  men,  housed, 
fed,  clothed,  provided  for  without  any 
care  of  their  own,  had  been  placed,  as 
it  were,  on  school  forms,  rank  behind 
rank  :  and  that  a  few,  the  aged  and  the 
wise,  had  stood  before  them  to  give 
instruction.  Would  that  seem  to  us 
better  than  this  incessant,  varied,  volun- 
tary activity?  That  is  to  say,  instead 
of  finding  his  education  in  this  activity, 
would  he  have  found  a  more  abstract 
system  better  ? 

I  would  not  make  any  unfair  repre- 
sentation, or  draw  a  picture  that  does 
injustice  to  the  supposition  in  question. 


592 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


1 


Suppose  that  in  any  way  —  in  families, 
or  under  the  most  attractive  circum- 
stances—  direct  teacliing  and  learning 
were  the  sole  business  of  life.  And  I 
say  again,  does  it  seem  to  us  that  this 
would  be  better  ?  Assuming  that  de- 
velopment, culture,  is  the  end  of  life, 
does  it  seem  to  us  that  having  nothing 
to  do  but  to  study  the  works  of  God 
would  have  been  the  better  plan  ?  Does 
it  seem  to  us  a  great  waste  of  time  to 
dig  and  delve,  to  plough  and  sow  and 
reap,  to  manufacture  and  buy  and 
sell ;  or  to  cook  and  wash  and  keep 
the  house  ?  Should  we  account  it  a 
blessed  fortune,  if  we  had  jiothing  to 
do  but  to  read  and  study  and  medi- 
tate ? 

Abstractly,  perhaps,  it  may  appear  to 
be  so,  and  in  some  other  state  of  being 
this  may  be  the  method  of  culture. 
But  we  have  now  to  look  at  this  state  ; 
and  we  have  a  large  range  of  considera- 
tions to  take  into  the  account.  There 
may  be  individuals  far  advanced  on 
the  path  of  improvement,  to  whom  a  life 
of  study  may  be  better  suited  than 
to  others  ;  and  yet  the  scholastic  life, 
compared  with  the  active,  is  question- 
able. But  we  have  to  consider  the 
race,  and  the  race  as  beginning  in  in- 
fancy, and  as  travelling  up  slowly  on 
the  path  of  progress,  and  little  qualified 
even  now,  in  the  mass,  for  a  life  of 
study.  Men  in  general  would  find  it 
very  dull  to  spend  their  time  in  the 
contemplation  of  facts  or  theories. 
They  must  obtain  their  development  in 
some  other  way.  Nature  can  hardly 
be  a  laboratory  to  them  yet  ;  still  less  a 
library :  it  must  be  a  workshop.  The 
life  of  every  child  before  us  is  a  picture 
of  the  general  life.  We  do  not  begin 
with  giving  it  books  or  lessons.  For 
four  or  five  years  it  is  left  very  much 
to  its  own  activity,  —  a  period  during 
which,  nevertheless,  it  has  been  said  by 
a  celebrated  statesman,*  that  we  prob- 
ably acquire  more  ideas,  —  not  mere 
knowledge,  which  comes  partly  from 
reasoning  on   ideas,  —  but  more  ideas, 

*  Lord  Brougham. 


more  of  the  elements  of  reasoning,  than 
we  acquire  during  our  whole  life  after. 

But  let  us  look  next  at  the  whole 
course  of  life  and  of  generations,  — 
at  the  discipline  for  all  men.  Would 
study,  as  the  sole  business,  be  better 
than  action  ? 

It  must  be  a  very  strong  being  that 
can  afford  to  think  all  the  time,  and 
do  nothing  but  think.  Colleges  would 
become  madhouses,  were  it  not  for 
vacations.  Schools  of  abstract  specu- 
lation' have  often  proved  themselves  to 
be  wild  enough,  even  when  composed 
of  the  most  learned  men.  The  extrava- 
gances of  the  old  schoolmen  is  proof 
enough  of  this. 

Perpetual  thinking,  at  any  rate,  is 
more  than  anybody  can  bear.  We 
should  be  cast,  and  flung  helpless  down 
in  the  toils  of  thought,  if  the  line  were 
never  broken  ;  and  it  is  well  that  event, 
action,  circumstance,  comes  to_ break  it. 
The  question,  indeed,  is  not  between 
thought  and  action,  but  whether  it  is 
best  that  they  should  be  blended ;  and 
of  this  I  have  no  doubt. 

For  it  is  further  .to  be  considered  that 
this  mingling  of  action  with  thought 
introduces  into  life  an  element  of 
individual  experience,  of  untaught, 
self-taught  knowledge,  of  personal  ex- 
perimenting, which  is  of  immense  im- 
portance to  the  character.  It  brings 
truth  to  the  test  of  fact,  and  makes  it 
more  vital.  It  makes  every  attainment 
more  thorough,  and  fixes  it  more  deeply 
in  the  mind.  Other  things  being  equal, 
he  will  best  understand  the  law  who 
practises  it;  or  the  physical  constitu- 
tion of  man,  who  studies  it  with  a  view 
to  healing;  or  theology,  who  puts  in 
order  his  thoughts  to  state  them  to 
others,  i.  e.,  to  preach  them. 

And,  finally,  I  do  not  see  how  he  can 
be  said  to  understand  virtue  at  all  who 
does  not  put  it  in  practice.  All  the 
moral,  i.  e.,  the  highest,  ends  of  life 
seem  absolutely  to  require  action  in 
order  to  their  accomplishment.  The 
mere  contemplation  of  virtue  or  of  truth, 
however   divine,    is   apt   to   degenerate 


THE   PRObLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


593 


into  sickly  sentiment.  It  is  liable  to 
become  dreamy,  inefficient,  and  super- 
ficial. And  there  are  too  many  exam- 
ples to  prove  that  in  the  upper  surface 
of  the  character  many  noble,  ay,  and 
religious  thoughts  may  have  their  place, 
while  in  the  layers  and  depths  beneath 
all  may  be  bad  and  wrong.  It  requires 
action  to  develop  the  true  moral  energy. 
It  requires  that  the  very  deeps  of 
character  and  life  be  stirred  up.  It 
requires  contact  and  conflict  with  toil, 
trial,  difficulty,  with  sickness,  sorrow, 
and  pain,  with  all  that  makes  the  moral 
discipline  of  life. 

On  the  whole,  then,  I  am  persuaded 
that  this  discipline,  which  is  found  in 
the  ordained  occupations  of  life,  is  a 
good  training, — is  the  best  conceiva- 
ble. I  do  not  accept  as  at  all  reason- 
able the  common  complaint  that  these 
occupations  are  mere  drudgery  to  the 
spirit,  mere  waste  time  to  the  soul, 
mere  toiling  and  moiling,  mere  buying 
and  selling,  mere  writing  deeds  or  pre- 
scriptions,—  with  no  end  but  to  get 
bread.  They  do  a  great  deal  for  man 
beyond  this,  in  his  own  despite  ;  and 
they  would  do  a  great  deal  more  if  he 
saw  what  they  were  meant  to  do,  —  if 
he  but  had  the  reflection  and  wisdom 
distinctly  to  say  with  himself,  ''There 
was  no  need  in  the  nature  of  things  that 
I  should  be  a  worker  ;  God  could  have 
provided  for  me  without  that,  as  he  has 
for  the  birds  of  the  air  ;  but  I  am  made 
a  worker  for  the  development  of  ener- 
gies, for  the  culture  of  virtues.  I  am 
made  a  worker  that  I  may  be  something 
higher,  stronger,  nobler,  than  a  mere 
enjoyer,  or  a  mere  idler,  or  a  mere 
learner." 

But  observe  now  the  actual  process. 
See  a  man  who  cultivates  his  farm. 
He  must  work.  But  that  is  not  all  he 
has  to  do.  He  has  to  think,  and  to 
think  a  good  deal,  in  order  to  do  the 
work  well.  Therp  are  various  soils 
on  his  farm,  suited  to  various  uses  ; 
there  are  different  products  to  be 
reared  ;  there  are  successive  seasons, 
demanding    attention     and     foresight ; 


there  must  be  a  general  plan,  and  the 
details  must  be  wrought  out  with  care 
and  judgment.  So  much  is  indispensa- 
ble, and  much  more  might  be  easily 
added,  —  a  knowledge  of  agricultural 
chemistry,  a  scientific  cultivation  of  the 
land.  And  with  this  connects  itself  the 
whole  circle  of  family  duties  and  affec- 
tions ;  the  home  stands  in  the  midst,  — 
the  visible  guardian  and  presiding  gen- 
ius of  the  scene,  —  the  holy  altar,  the 
sacred  hearthstone,  that  shed  light  and 
warmth  like  the  sun  upon  all  around. 
Such  the  centre  and  such  the  circum- 
ference of  rural  life,  —  the  best  bond  to 
virtue,  and  sphere  of  healthiest  activity  ; 
the  great  page  of  nature  spread  around 
and  within,  some  thoughtful  inquiry  and 
some  reading  to  understand  it,  —  what 
better  school,  what  holier  sanctuary, 
could  there  be  for  man  than  this  ? 

Go  now  to  the  manufactory  and  the 
workshop.  Here  the  materials  which 
nature  provides  are  to  be  wrought  into 
a  thousand  forms,  for  human  conven- 
ience and  comfort.  Intellect,  invention, 
skill,  dexterity,  are  here  brouglit  into 
the  most  adroit  and  brilliant  activity  ; 
revolving  wheels,  the  swift-flying  shuttle, 
the  sharpened  instrument,  best  image 
the  mechanic  intellect  of  a  people.  No 
man  can  pass  through  our  workshops 
and  factories  without  being  astonished 
at  what  is  there  achieved.  This  is  not 
a  dull  school.  When  Heaven  ordained 
that  man  should  be  an  artisan,  a  manu- 
facturer, it  did  not  appoint  the  tnsk  to 
benumb  his  faculties,  but  to  quicken  and 
sharpen  them  to  the  keenest  exercise. 

And  again,  I  ask  with  regard  to  tlie 
merchant's  calling,  does  Heaven  frown 
upon  that,  —  as  some  of  the  satirists 
and  reformers  do  ?  Beneficent  ex- 
changer of  the  products  of  all  climes 
and  countries  ;  bringer  of  comforts  to  all 
firesides  tliroughout  the  world ;  promoter 
of  peaceful  intercourse  ;  civilizer  of  the 
nations  ;  whose  sails  whiten  every  sea  ; 
in  the  bright  track  of  whose  empires 
are  Phoenicia  and  Carthage,  and  old 
Spain  and  Greece,  and  Holland  and 
England  and  America,  —  is  this  to  be 


38 


594 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


rated  as  a  barren  and  unproductive  call- 
ing ?  Is  it  the  misfortune  of  the  world 
that  it  must  have  this  instrumentality  ? 
"  But  it  corrupts  the  inuividual^''  —  will 
some  one  say  ?  Only  as  everything 
corrupts  him  who  will.  Some  of  the  no- 
blest virtues,  —  some  of  the  noblest  men 
in  the  world,  are  reared  in  this  field. 

Turn,  in  fine,  to  the  learned  profes- 
sions. These,  too,  take  their  place  in 
the  order  of  Providence.  Let  us  see 
what  place  ;  and  what  functions  they 
may  be  for  those  who  discharge  them. 

In  this  distrustful,  this  all-doubting 
age,  it  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  the  medi- 
cal profession,  I  think,  to  be  brought 
into  question  more  than  any  other.  The 
reason  is,  that  the  field  of  its  investi- 
gation lies  in  the  dark  ;  so  that  the  pro- 
cesses of  cure  and  the  principles  of 
evidence  are  more  obscure ;  and  the 
generality  of  men  are  more  incompetent 
to  judge  here  than  anywhere  else.  Dr. 
Abercrombie,  in  his  "  Intellectual  Phi- 
losophy," mentions  the  case  of  a  physi- 
cian, who  retired  in  disgust  from  his 
profession,  saying,  that  "  the  practice  of 
medicine  was  like  a  man  striking  with  a 
club  in  the  dark  ;  if  he  hit  the  disease, 
he  killed  the  disease  ;  if  he  hit  the 
patient,  he  killed  the  patient  "  Now  I 
think  that  this  man  was  himself  striking 
in  the  dark,  when  he  said  that ;  and  not 
only  so,  but  leaving  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  the  dark.  The  darker  the  mat- 
ter is,  the  more  need  to  seek  for  light. 
The  science  of  healing,  however  imper- 
fect, the  study  of  coiistant  cause  and 
effect  for  thousands  of  years,  must  have 
.■^ome  value  ;  it  is  a  good  study  ;  and 
for  the  practice  of  what  is  thus  learned, 
I  know  not  what  can  call  out  finer  sym- 
pathies than  this  ministration  of  relief 
to  sickness  and  pain,  nor  any  that  wins 
for  itself  a  more  enviable  place  in  the 
confidence  and  affection  of  society. 

The  legal  profession,  again,  has  no 
small  amount  of  prejudice  to  contend 
with.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  it  is 
necessary  ;  somebody  must  understand 
and  administer  the  laws  ;  and  to  do  this 
requires  a  life  devoted  to  it.     But  still, 


this  enlistment  in  the  cause  of  bad 
passions,  this  espousal  and  defence  of 
the  wrong  side,  is  thought  by  many  to 
be  unprincipled.  I  have  long  wondered 
that  some  member  of  this  profession 
does  not  take  up  and  thoroughly  discuss 
the  moral  questions  which  thus  press 
upon  it.  It  really  very  much  concerns, 
not  only  the  honor  of  the  profession, 
but  the  healthiness  of  the  pubhc  con- 
science, that  this  should  be  done.  In 
brief,  the  principles  are  these  :  In  every 
legal  question  there  are  two  parties  ;  in 
the  minds  of  judge  and  jury  there  are 
two  sides,  which  have  a  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered and  weighed  ;  counsel  represent 
these  parties,  espouse  these  sides.  The 
original  party  has  a  right  to  state  his 
case  ;  then  surely  another,  better  quali- 
fied, may  do  it  for  him.  And  in  all  ordi- 
nary cases  the  lawyer  does  not  and 
cannot  know  which  side  is  wrong,  till 
the  evidence  is  all  given  in  and  the 
case  fully  argued.  This  is  the  theoretic 
ground  for  legal  practice  :  and  certainly 
there  is  nothing  in  it  that  is  at  war  with 
the  great  ends  of  Providence, —  nothing 
that  forbids  a  high  moral  culture  ;  ever}-- 
thing,  on  ihe  contrary,  that  requires  it. 
It  is,  rightly  viewed,  a  high  and  noble 
vocation.  It  is  the  sphere  of  justice, 
the  forum  of  eloquence,  the  school  of  J 
statesmanship.  ■fll 

Of  the  clerical  profession,  in  the  pres-  ^" 
ent  connection,  I  need  say  nothing  but 
this  :  it  is  the  ultimate  and  culminating 
ministration  to  the  highest  hfe  of  tlie 
world  ;  and  of  the  teachers  of  youth  — 
that  fourth  profession  —  that  they  must 
learn  before  tliey  teach  ;  that  the  very 
condition  of  their  function  is  intelli- 
gence, and  its  end,  instruction  ;  that 
they,  more  than  any  other  distinct  class 
of  men,  lay  the  very  foundations  of  all 
human  culture. 

Let  us  now  come  to  consider,  in  fine, 
as  forms  of  human  activity,  the  arts  of 
expression.  Nature  teaches  and  en- 
forces many  things  for  human  develop- 
ment and  instruction  ;  the  ordinary  oc- 
cupations of  life  assist  the  same  design  ; 
but  this  is  not  all.     Men  are  possessed 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


595 


of  great  and  divine  ideas  and  senti- 
ments ;  and  to  paint  them,  sculpture 
them,  build  them  in  architecture,  sing 
them  in  music,  utter  them  in  eloquent 
speech,  write  them  in  books,  in  essays, 
sermons,  poems,  dramas,  fictions,  phi- 
losophies, histories,—  this  is  an  irresisti- 
ble propensity  of  human  nature. 

Art,  inspiration,  power,  in  these  forms 
naturally  places  itself  at  the  head  of 
the  human  influences  by  which  the 
world  is  cultivated  and  carried  forward. 
The  greatest  thing  in  the  world  doubt- 
less is  a  sacred  life  ;  the  greatest  power, 
a  pure  example ;  but  this  is  the  end  of 
all,  and  we  do  not  here  contemplate  it 
as  a  means.  As  means,  art  is  greatest. 
A  beautiful  thought,  a  great  idea,  made 
to  quicken  the  intellect,  to  touch  the 
heart,  to  penetrate  the  hfe,  —  this  is  the 
grandest  office  that  can  be  committed 
to  human  hands.  Every  faithful  artist 
of  every  grade  belongs  to  this  inagnifi- 
cent  institute  for  the  instruction  of  the 
world. 

Criticism  in  literature  within  the  last 
forty  years  has  passed  through  a  very 
remarkable  change.  Any  one  may  trace 
it  in  the  leading  journals,  of  that  stand- 
ing; as  for  instance,  in  the  "  Edinburgh 
Review."  Formerly  literary  criticism 
was  very  much  occupied  with  form  and 
details  in  art,  and  had  very  little  refer- 
ence to  the  true  design.  Now  it  has 
come  to  be  received  as  an  unquestioned 
canon  of  criticism,  that  there  can  be  no 
high  art  without  inoral  elements  ;  that 
irreverence  and  atheism  would  kill  all 
high  artistic  excellence,  as  surely  as 
they  would  kill  all  high  moral  excel- 
lence ;  that  the  most  sublime  and 
beautiful  things,  whether  in  nature  or 
humanity,  are  imprints  and  signatures 
of  the  Divine  hand  ;  and  that  to  expre.';s 
these  things  the  soul  of  art  must  com- 
mune with  what  is  divine, — must  be 
breathed  upon  by  the  sanctity  of  re- 
ligion. It  is  not  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  Voltaire  and  Helvetius  and  D'Hol- 
back,  and  Hume  and  Gibbon  ;  now  it  is 
understood  that  no  man  can  be  ^  great 
writer,  a  great  poet,  novelist,  or  phi-  | 


losopher,  who  does  not  recognize  and 
feel  what  is  greatest  in  man,  —  the  spirit 
of  humanity  and  the  sense  of  what  is 
above  it.  I  hardly  know  of  any  more 
significant  mark  upon  the  world,  indica- 
tive of  the  world's  progress,  than  this. 

There  is  one  grand  mistake  often 
made  in  the  appreciation  of  art,  aris- 
ing from  the  honor  and  fame  that  at- 
tend it.  I  suspect  that  it  is  quite  a 
common  notion  that  men  study,  write, 
speak,  paint,  build,  for  fame.  Totally 
and  infinitely  otherwise  is  the  fact  with 
all  true  men.  They  live  for  an  idea,  — 
live  to  develop,  embody,  express  it ;  and 
all  extraneous  considerations  only  hin- 
der and  hurt  their  work.  But  this  is 
often  misunderstood.  I  have,  many 
times,  had  observations  made  to  myself, 
implying  that  the  stimulants  to  my  own 
professional  effort  must  be  small  in  re- 
tired country  places,  and  came  to  their 
culminating  point  only  in  the  great  cen- 
tres of  society.  The  implication  always 
pains,  and,  if  I  must  say  the  truth,  some- 
what angers  me.  It  is  a  total  misconcep- 
tion, to  say  the  least.  A  true  man  will 
preach  as  well  in  the  Isle  of  Shoals  as  in 
Boston  or  New  York  ;  nay,  better.,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  ;  for  he  will  not  have 
there  the  miserable  envelopment  of  city 
criticism  or  dclat  to  disturb  him.  This 
is  tlie  reason  why  men  seldom  speak 
so  well  on  extraordinaiy  occasiojis  as 
when  left,  undisturbed,  to  the  free  and 
natural  force  of  their  minds  and  flow 
of  their  feelings,  in  their  ordinary  pro- 
fessional walk.  If  I  were  to  offer  an 
artist  a  million  of  dollars  to  paint  me  a 
picture,  unless  his  were  one  of  the 
greatest  and  deepest  minds,  which  noth- 
ing con\d  divert  from  its  idea,  I  should 
not  expect  as  good  a  picture  from  him 
as  I  should  if  he  painted  it  for  nothing. 

No,  believe  me,  the  effluence  of  genius 
can  no  more  be  bought  or  sold,  than  the 
light  that  streams  from  the  fountain  of 
day.  It  is  the  light  of  the  world  ;  and 
it  is  not  man's  purchase,  but  God's  gift; 
it  is  God's  light  shining  through  the 
soul.  Raphael  or  Michael  Angelo  may 
be   employed  by  Pope  Julius  or  Pope 


596 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


Sixtus,  —  patronized  by  them,  as  the 
phrase  is  ;  Shakspeare  may  be  honored 
by  (2ueen  Elizabeth,  or  Dante  protected 
by  the  Lord  of  Ravenna;  but  all  that 
pontiff,  monarch,  or  lord  can  do  for 
genius  is,  to  let  it  alone,  simply  to  give 
it  an  opportunity  to  work  ;  all  their  lar- 
gesses can  do  no  more  than  that.  No, 
tiie  light  shines  from  a  higher  sphere 
than  this  world.  It  shines  into  the  ar- 
tist's studio  and  philosopher's  laiiora- 
tory ;  it  falls  upon  the  still  places  of 
deep  meditation  ;  the  pen  that  writes 
immortal  song,  immortal  thought  in  any 
form,  is  a  rod  that  conveys  the  lightning 
from  heaven  to  earth  ;  and  the  breath  of 
eloquent  speech  is  an  afflatus  that  comes 
from  far  above  windy  currents  of  human 
applause. 

It  concerns  my  purpose  in  this  lecture, 
to  insist  on  this  mission  of  all  true  intel- 
lectual labor,  and  to  remind  every  worker 
in  this  field,  however  high  or  however 
humble,  of  his  real  vocation.  "  I  am 
not  distinguished,"  one  may  say  ;  "  the 
world,  Europe,  England,  does  not  know 
me,  —  will  never  know  me."  What  then  ? 
Do  what  thou  canst.  Somebody  will 
know  it.  No  true  word  or  work  is  ever 
lost.  Stand  thou  in  thy  lot ;  do  thy  work  ; 
for  the  great  Being  that  framed  the  world 
assuredly  meant' that  somebody  should 
do  it,  —  tiiat  men  and  women  of  various 
gifts  should  do  it,  as  they  are  able.  Or 
one  may  say,  "  My  part  in  this  good  voca- 
tion is  not  held  by  the  world  in  due  ap- 
preciation and  honor;  I  sing  the  music, 
or  speak  the  dramas,  that  others  have 
written  ;  and  my  calling  is  profaned  in 
the  common  parlance  of  the  day  ;  the 
church  anathematizes  it,  and  society  en- 
joys without  respecting  it."  I  admit 
the  injustice  ;  and  for  this  special  rea- 
son, that  these  callings  are  naturally 
good,  and  for  the  evil  in  them,  society 
and  the  church  are  much  to  blame. 
Naturally  good,  I  say  ;  for  the  world 
would  not  know  or  feel  what  Beethoven 
and  Handel  have  composed,  or  Shak- 
speare or  Calderon  have  written,  if  there 
had  not  been  those  who  studied  them, 
and,  inspired  by  kindred  genius,  learned 


to  breathe   out  their   thouirhts   in  sone 
and  dramatic  speech. 

Why  can  we  not  look  at  the  goodly 
band  of  human  occupations  and  arts  as 
it  is ;  and  depreciate  no  trade  that  is  ne- 
cessary, no  art  that  is  useful,  no  minis- 
tration that  springs  from  the  bosom  of 
nature,  and  is  thus  clearly  ordained  of 
Heaven?  If  there  be  abuses  of  such 
ministration,  let  them  be  remedied  ;  but 
rejection  and  scorn  of  any  one  thing  that 
God  has  made  to  be  or  to  be  done,  is 
not  lawful,  nor  reverent  to  Heaven.* 

Let  this  whole  system  of  nature  and 
life  appear  as  it  is  ;  as  it  stands  in  the 
great  order  and  design  of  Providence. 
Let  nature,  let  the  solid  world,  be  more 
than  a  material  world,  —  even  the  area 
on  which  a  grand  moral  structure  is  to 
be  built  up,  itself  helping  the  ultimate 
design  in  many  ways.  Let  the  works  of 
man  take  their  proper  place,  —  the  place 
assigned  them  in  the  plan  of  Heaven. 
Let  agriculture  lay  the  basis  of  ttie 
world-building.  Let  mechanism  and 
manufacture  rear  and  adorn  the  vast 
abode  of  life.  Let  trade  and  commerce 
replenish  it  with  their  treasures.  Let 
the  liberal  and  learned  professions  stand 
as  stately  pillars  in  the  edifice  of  society. 
But  when  all  this  is  done,  still  there 
are  wants  to  be  supplied.  There  is  a 
thought  in  the  bosom  of  humanity  that 
longs  to  be  uttered.  The  heart  of  the 
world  would  break,  if  there  were  no 
voice  to  give  it  relief,  — to  give  it  utter- 
ance. There  is,  too,  a  slumber  upon 
the  world  which  needs  that  voice.  There 
are  dim  corners  and  dark  caverns,  that 

*  I  have  always  thought,  however,  that  this  fair 
and  reasonable  appreciation  of  all  the  lawful  and  ne- 
cessary vocations  in  society  could  never  be  the  result 
but  of  the  highest  and  most  reflective  civilization.  It 
was  with  surprise,  therefore,  that  I  read  the  following 
passage  in  Bossuet  upon  the  Egyptian  system  of  so- 
ciety:  "  11  falloit  qu'il  y  eut  des  emplois  et  des  per- 
sonnes  pi  us  considerables,  comme  il  faut  qu'il  y  ait  des 
yeux  dans  le  corps.  Leur  ^clat  ne  fait  pas  mepriser 
les  pieds  ni  les  parties  les  plus  basses.  Ainsi,  parmi 
les  Egyptiens,  les  pretres  et  les  soldats  avaient  des 
marques  d'honneur  particuli^res ;  mais  tous  les  me- 
tiers, jusqu'aux  moindres,  ^taient  en  estime;  et  on  ne 
croyoit  pas  pouvoir  sans  crime  mepriser  les  citoyens 
dont  les  travaux,  quels  qu'ils  fussent,  contribuoient 
au  bien  public."  —  L'fiisloire  UniverselU,  troisiime 
partie,  chapitre  premier. 


I 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


597 


want  light.  There  is  weariness  to  be 
cheered,  and  pain  to  be  soothed,  and 
the  dull  routine  of  toil  to  be  relieved,  and 
the  dry  dead  matter  of  fact  to  be  invest- 
ed with  hues  of  imagination,  and  the 
mystery  of  life  to  be  cleared  up,  and  a 
great,  dread,  blank  destitution  that  needs 
resource  and  refreshment,  —  needs  in- 
spiring beauty  and  melody  to  breathe 
life  into  it. 

Then  let  the  artist  men  come  and  do 
their  work.  Let  statues  stand  in  many 
a  niche  and  recess,  and  pictures  hang 
upon  the  wall,  that  shall  fill  the  surround- 
ing air  with  their  sublimity  and  loveli- 
ness. Let  essays  and  histories,  let  writ- 
ten speech  and  printed  books,  be  ranged 
in  unending  alcoves  to  pour  instruction 
upon  the  world.  Let  poetry  and  fiction 
lift  up  the  heavy  curtains  of  sense  and 
materialism,  and  unfold  visions  of  beauty, 
like  the  flushes  of  morning,  or  of  part- 
ing day  behind  the  dark  mountains.  Let 
music  wave  its  wings  of  light  and  air 
through  the  world,  and  sweep  the  chords 
that  are  strung  in  the  human  heart  with 
its  entrancing  melodies.  Let  lofty  and 
commanding  eloquence  thunder  in  the 
ears  of  men  the  words  of  truth  and 
justice, 

"  Or,  in  strains  as  sweet 
.\s  angels  use,  .  .  .  whisper  peace." 

Let  majestic  philosophy  touch  the  dark 
secret  of  life,  and  turn  its  bright  side  as 
a  living  light  upon  the  paths  of  men. 

Come,  other  Platos  and  Bacons  !  — do 
we  not  exclaim  ?  come,  other  Newtons 
and  La  Places  !  —  other  Beethovens  and 
Handels  !  —  come,  other  Homers  and 
Dantes,  Miltons  and  Shakspeares  !  — 
other  Demostheneses  and  Ciceros,  and 
Massillons  !  — and  fill  the  long  track  of 
future  ages  with  your  glorious  train,  and 
lead  on  the  world  through  ever-bright- 
ening ages  to  knowledge,  to  virtue,  and 
to  immortal  life  ! 

Under  such  auspices,  my  friends,  vis- 
ions of  better  days  to  come  rise  before 
me.  I  look  upon  a  company  of  people, 
a  plantation,  a  district,  or  a  township 
among  us ;  and,  compared  with  a  Hot- 
tentot   village  or   the   tents  of    Al.iric, 


there  is  great   progress    now,  —  order, 
comfort,  and  a  certain  amount  of  culture. 
But,  alas  !  there  is  destitution,  ignorance, 
crime,  weariness,  heart-heaviness  enou<di 
still.     Cold  and  chill  is  the  day  of  life  to 
many  within  the  protected  pale  of  our 
modern  civilization  ;  and  the  bright  sky 
is  of  a  leaden   hue   to    them  ;  and   the 
eyes  are  dim,  and   the  spirit  is  sad  and 
heavy,  that  should  sympathize  with  the 
fair    and    lovely   picture    of    the    world 
around  them.     God  be  thanked  that  it 
is  no   worse, —  that  ours /j  a  protected 
civilization,  protected  from  the  tortures 
of  old  superstition  and  from  the  blows 
of  feudal  oppression  ;  ay,  that  it  is  free  ; 
that  no  baron's  arm  here  can  strike  and 
scatter  youth  and  innocence  into  street 
dust  for  him  to  travel  on  to  his  accursed 
ends,  nor  cast  down  the  noblest  hearts 
to  sigh  in  his  dungeons.     But  there  is 
uncivilized  misery  enough  among  us  still ; 
misery  that  comes  from  want  of  knowl- 
edge, refinement,  culture,  and  the  gra- 
cious influence  of  the  beautiful  arts  and 
virtues.     There  are  blows  of  domestic 
tyranny.     There  are  cruel  words  spoken, 
fit  only  for  barbarians.     There  is  hard 
and  bitter  and  grinding  toil  for  many. 
There  is  the  life-long  struggle  for  cul- 
ture and  comfort;  struggle  with  painful 
conditions  of  need,  and  uncongenial  and 
ill-requited  taskwork  ;  struggle  in  school- 
rooms and  factories  and  perhaps  homes  ; 
struggle  in  all  the  callings  and  all  the 
liberal  professions  of  life,  —  for  I  hear 
voices  of  complaint  from  them  all.     Sad 
isolation,  secret  and  untold  griefs,  dis- 
appointed hopes,  aims,  and  affections, 
wearying  mental   strifes    and    question- 
ings, brood  far  and  wide  upon  the  heart 
of  modern  society. 

But  I  believe  in  a  better  day  that  is 
coming.  Improved  agriculture,  manu- 
facture, and  mechanism,  less  labor  and 
more  result,  more  leisure,  better  culture, 
high  philosophy,  beautiful  art,  inspiring 
music,  resources  that  will  not  need  the 
base  appliances  of  sense,  will  come  ;  and 
with  them  truth,  purity,  and  virtue  ;  rev- 
erent piety  building  its  altar  in  all  human 
abodes  ;  and  the  worship  that  is  gentle- 


598 


THE   PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY 


ness  and  disinterestedness,  and  holy 
love,  hallowing  all  the  scene  ;  and  human 
life  will  go  forth,  amidst  the  beautiful 
earth  and  beneath  the  blessed  heavens, 


in  harmony  with  their  spirit,  in  fulfilment 
of  their  high  teaching  and  intent,  and 
in  communion  with  the  all-surrounding 
li":ht  and  loveliness. 


LECTURE     VIII. 


AGAINST  DESPONDENCY.  —  HELPS  AND  HINDRANCES,  OR  A  CONSID- 
ERATION OF  THE  MORAL  TRIALS  OR  EMERGENCIES  THAT  ATTEND 
THE   WORKING   OUT   OF   OUR   HUMAN   PROBLEM. 


We  are  now  penetrating  deeper  into 
the  world-problem,  —  the  great  problem 
of  our  humanity  ;  and  we  are  to  consider 
this  evening  some  of  the  interior,  the 
mental  and  moral  conditions  on  which 
it   is  to  be  wrought  out. 

I  have  been  sensible  at  every  step  that 
the  subject  upon  which  I  am  engaged  in 
these  lectures  requires  a  far  larger  dis- 
cussion than  I  am  able  here  to  give  it. 
It  is  indeed  a  subject  for  a  great  work, 
rather   than  for  a  few   lectures  ;    1  am 
tempted  to  say,  for  the  greatest  work  in 
the    domain    of    philosophy;  and   for  a 
work,  too,  that  is  yet  to  be  written.     My 
conviction  is,  so  far  as   my  reading  has 
extended,    that   only   a  few    fragments 
worthy  of  a  place  in  it  have  yet  appeared 
in  the  literature  of  the  world.     And  it  is 
a  work  which,  when  it  is  accomplished 
by  the  united  powers  of  genius,  learning, 
and  piety  exhausted  upon  a  life  of  study, 
and  concentrated  in  a  book  of  wisdom, 
will  be  of  only  less  value  than  the  Bible 
itself.    Happy  and  crowned  with  bless- 
ings shall  he  be  who  can  achieve  it.      I 
can  but  express  my  sense  of  the  value 
and  grandeur  of  the  undertaking.     1  but 
see  in  future  time,  when  thought  shall  be 
more   cosmopolitan   and   comprehensive 
than  it  is   now,  —  I    can    but   prophesy 
that  then  some  gifted  nature  shall  ap- 
pear, which,  imbued  and  informed  with 
the  German  lore,  penetration,  and  spirit- 
uality,  with   the   French   clearness   and" 
vivacity,  and  the  solid  English  sense  and 


feeling,  shall  so  unfold  the  problem  of 
human  destiny,  as  to  become  a  second 
Plato  —  and  a  greater  —  the  greatest 
uninspired  teacher  of  men. 

Let  us,  however,  pursue  our  task  as 
we  can,  in  these  lectures,  and  consider 
this  evening  some  of  the  interior  con- 
ditions, trials,  and  emergencies  which 
attend  the  working  out  of  our  human 
problem,  the  helps  and  hindrances  to  it 
as  a  practical  work,  and  the  courage 
and  cheerfulness  wliich  ought  to  attend 
it,  instead  of  the  depression  and  de- 
spondency which  too  commonly  darken 
the  way  ;  for,  in  particular,  I  wish  it 
to  be  considered  whether  there  is  any- 
thing arbitrary  or  unnecessarily  dis- 
tressing, or  whether  there  is,  to  the  ex- 
tent usually  supposed,  anything  peculiar 
or  strange  in  the  conditions  of  hitman 
attainment. 

We  are  apt  to  imagine  that  there  is 
something  very  peculiar  in  man's  case. 
Probation,  for  instance,  is  thought  to 
be  peculiar  to  him.  The  problem  of 
the  Origin  of  Evil  is  commonly  re- 
garded as  pertaining  to  humanity  alone, 
as  darkening  no  world  but  this.  The 
very  constitution,  as  well  as  physical 
condition,  of  human  nature  is  supposed 
to  stand  in  direct  contrast  with  that  ot 
other  beings  in  other  worlds.  It  is  very 
easy  to  see  how  this  idea  arose.  For 
ages,  the  only  beings  beside  men  who 
were  imagined  to  exist  in  the  universe 
were  angels,  seraphs,  —  superhuman  na- 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


599 


tures,  dwellers  in  the  empyrean  heaven. 
It  was  not  suspected  that  the  surround- 
ing worlds  were  inhabited  ;  and  when 
that  conception  arose,  it  very  naturally 
peopled  those  worlds  with  the  same  be- 
ings, i.  e.,  with  angels.  All  other  beings 
than  men,  before  supposed  to  exist, 
were  angels  ;  therefore  these  were  an- 
gels. The  very  contrary  might  have 
been  more  justly  inferred,  since  those 
worlds  are  of  the  same  nature,  order, 
and  company  with  our  own.  But  the 
nT)re  irrational  notion  very  naturally 
prevailed  for  a  time,  though  I  think  it 
is  now  beginning  to  give  way  to  the 
reasonable  idea  that  those  dwellers  on 
high  —  dwellers  on  high  to  7cs,  but  no 
more  than  we  are  to  thefu  —  are  indeed 
our  brethren.* 

But  let  us  now  proceed  to  that  fur- 
tiier  consideration  of  the  interior  and 
trying  conditions  of  human  culture, 
which  I  have  proposed  as  the  design 
of  this  lecture. 

The  fundamental  condition  I  have  al- 
ready discussed,  —  that  is  to  say,  free- 
dom, free  will,  and  the  consequent  lia- 
bility to  error  and  to  evil.  This  fact 
of  freedom  I  took  for  granted  ;  the 
necessity  of  it  to  virtue  I  took  for 
granted.  I  started  from  these  points 
as  the  very  intuitions  of  experience. 
I  know  that,  under  the  limitations  of 
course  imposed  by  a  finite  and  moral 
nature,  I  am  free,  and  that  I  cannot 
be  virtuous  unless  I  am  so.  I  know, 
that  is  to  say,  that  I  possess  a  rational 
and  modified  freedom  ;  that  I  am  free, 
not  indeed  to  do  everything  possible, 
but  to  do  and  to  be  all  that  is  involved 
in  virtue  and  a  virtuous  happiness.  I 
am  not  free  to  disregard  motives  ;  but 
I  am  free  to  yield  to  good  or  bad  ones 
at  my  pleasure  ;  free  to  cherish  the 
good  and  to  resist  the  bad  ;  free,  at  any 
rate,  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  which  I 
will,  and  thus  to  give  them  weight  and 
power.  I  am  not  free  to  be  indifferent 
to  happiness  ;  but  I  am  free  to  deter- 
mine what  kind  of  happiness  I  will  seek 

*  Oersted's  "  Soul  in  Nature  "  has  some  interest- 
ing discussions  upon  this  point. 


for.  And  tliis  freedom,  it  is  plain,  is, 
in  its  very  nature,  a  restless  and  peril- 
ous element.  A  mechanical  or  irrational 
creation  might  have  perfect  security  and 
undisturbed  enjoyment ;  a  free  creation, 
a  virtuous,  improving,  advancing  crea- 
tion, must  be  liable  to  sin  and  pain  and 
trouble. 

But  there  are  other  conditions,  —  im- 
perfection, effort,  and  struggle  ;  peni- 
tence or  regret  for  failure  ;  illusion, 
fluctuation,  indefiniteness  in  the  pro- 
cess ;  and  the  clogs  and  the  obstruc- 
tions which  flesh  is  heir  to.  Let  us 
examine  them.  The  question  naturally 
arises,  Is  not  this  an  unattractive  way? 
Is  not  imperfection  undesirable,  and 
effort  toilsome,  and  penitence  sad  ?  and 
are  not  illusion,  fluctuation,  indefinite- 
ness, obstruction,  undesirable  .''  and  is 
not  the  path  to  good,  therefore,  an  over- 
shadowed and  mournful  path  ? 

Grant  that  it  is  so  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent ;  yet  surely  it  would  be  a  sufficient 
vindication  to  show  that  it  is  the  only 
possible  path.  This  vindication  I  offer  ; 
but  I  think  that  in  thus  considering  the 
condidons  of  progress,  we  shall  come 
to  be  convinced  that  they  are  not  alto- 
gether dark  nor  repulsive. 

I.  First,  imperfection  is  to  be  con- 
sidered. I  should  hardly  touch  upon 
this  point  with  a  view  to  explain  or  de- 
fend it,  so  clearly  inevitable  is  it  ;  but 
I  wish  to  expand  this  element  of  the 
problem  into  its  due  place  and  propor- 
tions. I  say  imperfection.  In  all  the 
ranks  and  orders  of  being  —  in  the 
seraph  as  in  the  child  —  there  must  be 
imperfection.  The  grades  may  be  dif- 
ferent, but  the  thing  is  the  same  ;  and 
whatever  objection  lies  against  our  de- 
gree of  imperfection,  in  principle  lies 
against  every  other.  The  tliinsj,  I  say, 
is  alike  inevitable  and  unobjectionable. 
Our  grade  is  human  ;  others  may  be 
superhuman,  angelic,  we  know  not  what. 
—  thrones,  princedoms,  principalities  of 
heaven.  Nay,  what  if  it  were  true  that 
they  had  started  from  infancy,  as  we 
do  ?  What  supposition,  indeed,  so  rea- 
sonable ?     Is  it  not,  in  fact,  inevitable, 


6oo 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


in  some  sense  of  the  word  infancy  ? 
We  speak  of  imperfection  ;  we  say  titat 
is  inevitable.  Must  not  the  first  steps 
of  imperfection  be  infancy,  —  if  not  of 
the  body,  yet  of  the  mind  ?  If  every 
created  existence  had  a  beginning,  — 
if  it  had  nothing  of  experience  at  the 
first,  —  if  all  its  knowledge  and  virtue 
were  to  be  acquired,  —  if  the  highest 
dweller  among  the  stars  of  light  must 
remember  the  time  when  he  began  to 
be,  began  to  learn,  began  to  choose  the 
right  and  to  adore  the  infinite  perfec- 
tion, and  if  his  whole  being  has  been 
a  progress,  —  must  not  his  beginning 
have  been  an  infancy  ? 

And  is  it  not  reasonable,  nay,  is  it 
not  inevitable,  to  suppose  that  the  first 
steps  were  attended  with  more  or  less 
of  mistake,  of  erring  ?  What  is  imper- 
fection ?  It  is  limited  capacity,  knowl- 
edge, virtue.  It  implies  that  there  are 
truths  not  yet  seen,  propositions  not 
yet  solved,  points  of  light,  heights  of 
attainment,  not  yet  reached.  It  is  so 
with  us  ;  must  it  not  be  so  with  the 
highest  finite  natures  ?  They  may  have 
gone  far  beyond  all  voluntary  erring  ; 
they  may  be  in  this  sense  sinless  ;  but 
in  the  vast  breadth  of  their  activity 
there  must  be  things  for  them  to  try, 
questions  for  them  to  solve,  as  truly 
as  in  our  humble  daily  walk  there  are 
for  us.  It  must  be  so  ;  if  not,  then 
they  have  learned  all,  and  have  stopped 
in  the  career  of  progress.  A  gloomy 
pause  !  For  if  there  is  no  progress, 
there  can  be  no  activity  ;  if  no  activity, 
no  happiness. 

II.  This  brings  us  to  the  second  point, 
—  effort ;  and  in  general,  I  say,  is  it  not 
a  good  condition  ?  Is  it  not  a  favored, 
a  fortunate  condition  ?  All  experience 
testifies  that  the  highest  happiness  is 
found 'in  action,  bodily,  mental,  moral. 
Any  of  them,  all  of  them,  are  good. 
So  persuaded  am  I  of  this,  that  no 
prospect  for  a  month  or  a  year  seems 
to  me  so  attractive  as  a  plemim,  a 
crowded  fulness,  of  healthful  and  wise 
activity  ;  and  one  of  the  highest  bene- 
factions of  which  I  c.\n  conceive,  in  the 


better  world  which  we  hope  for,  would 
be  the  privilege,  the  power  of  inces- 
sant, never-wearying,  glorious  activity  ; 
no  more  dulness,  no  more  sleep ;  no 
stupor  of  disease  nor  sluggishness  of 
the  overwrought  brain  ;  no  heavy  head 
nor  fainting  heart  ;  but  action,  travel, 
growth,  increasing  knowledge,  expand- 
ing visions  of  God,  amidst  the  bright 
and  boundless  spheres  that  roll  around 
us.  No  soft,  bland  region  do  I  see 
above,  lulled  to  repose,  curtained  with 
moveless  clouds,  and  basking  beneath 
a  tranquil  sky;  that  heaven  of  the  Hin- 
doo, of  the  Turk,  ay,  and  of  our  Chris- 
tian childhood,  too,  is  giving  place  to 
manlier  and  maturer  thoughts  of  ever- 
unfolding  life  and  joy. 

But  now  if  I  substitute  for  effort  the 
word  struggle,  immediately  the  prob- 
lem assumes  a  darker  aspect.  "  I  am 
weary,"  says  one  ;  "  I  would  rest.  Why 
must  I  still  fight  this  battle  ?  Why 
could  I  not  win  the  prize  on  easier 
terms  ?"  I  answer,  IV/iat  prize  .''  En- 
joyment, pleasure,  outward  abundance  ? 
That  you  might  have  had  on  easier 
terms.  Mountains  might  have  been 
coined  into  gold  for  you,  and  the  riv- 
ers have  flowed  with  milk  and  honey, 
and  the  trees  have  dropped  manna  and 
distilled  wine,  —  and  all  this  you  might 
have  had  as  cheap  as  the  grass  which 
the  innocent  sheep  crops  in  the  sum- 
mer field  ;  but  the  heights  of  virtue, 
the  sweep  of  expanding  knowledge,  the 
pathway  of  immortal  joy,  —  with  other 
thoughts,  on  other  terms,  are  these 
things  to  be  achieved.  Is  it  hard  to 
achieve  them  ?  Nay,  what  if  you  were 
to  learn  that  they  are  never  to  be 
achieved  as  things  laid  up,  like  gold, 
in  a  secure  coffer  ;  that  they  are  never 
to  be  achieved  or  kept,  but  as  they  are 
held  in  the  free  and  immortal  grasp  of 
beings  who  prize  them  above  the  uni-^ 
verse  beside  ?  Such,  1  believe,  is  the 
everlasting  tenure  by  which  wisdom  anc 
virtue  are  held. 

III.  But  this  is  not  all.  With  waver-^ 
ing  and  wayward  steps,  stumbling  anC 
sometimes  falling,  we   press   on   to  \\\i 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


6oi 


great  end  of  our  being,  true  virtue,  true 
blessedness.  Repenting,  regret  for  fail- 
ure, is  an  essential  condition  of  all  true 
moral  life. 

The  keenness  of  this  regret  is  really 
a  remarkable  tiling  in  our  moral  consti- 
tution ;  and  nothing  indeed  can  account 
for  its  sharpness  but  its  high  mission  ; 
which  is,  to  cut  the  bonds  of  evil.  Even 
in  his  sports  a  man  cannot  shoot  and 
miss  the  mark,  cannot  strike  the  ball 
and  lose  the  game,  without  a  gesture  of 
disappointment  and  vexation.  But  in 
the  game  of  life,  how  often  and  how 
seriously  do  we  miss  and  fail  !  Passion 
crosses  the  track  and  sways  us  from 
the  mark.  The  lawful  senses,  the  inno- 
cent affections,  often  go  too  far;  and 
their  erring  is  discovered  only  through 
experiment  and  by  the  result.  And  so 
it  is  in  our  social  relations.  How  often 
does  a  man  say,  after  having  tried,  and, 
it  may  be,  honestly  tried  a  thing,  two  or 
three  times,  —  some  measure  with  his 
child,  some  interference  with  the  affec- 
tions of  others,  or  some  principle  with 
the  public,  —  "I  shall  never  do  that 
again  I "  The  whole  history  of  the 
world,  of  government,  of  society,  of 
philanthropy,  of  charity  to  the  poor  and 
suffering,  is  but  a  history  of  experiment- 
ing ;  of  errors  corrected  by  their  conse- 
quences, of  truths  shaken  and  sifted 
from  the  chaff  of  falsehood,  amidst  the 
mighty  winnowings  of  social  and  na- 
tional convulsion. 

But,  not  to  be  led  away  from  the 
individual  reference,  —  this  private  re- 
gret, this  sorrow  for  erring  and  wrong- 
doing,—  what  just  mind  will  complain  of 
it  as  a  grievance  and  hardship?  '■'■Let 
me  repent,''  such  an  one  would  say,  — 
"  1st  me  sorrow  for  my  faults  and  follies ; 
it  is  balm  to  my  wound  ;  God  in  pity 
has  made  it,  not  a  scathing  fire,  but  as 
the  gentle  dew  of  mercy  to  my  nature." 
This  emotion  occupies  so  large  a  place 
in  the  actual  working  out  of  our  prob- 
lem, that  I  must  dwell  upon  it  a  moment 
longer;  not  indeed  with  a  view  to  the 
duty,  —  whicli  should  be  urged  in  another 
place,  —  but  to   the  philosophy  of   the 


matter.  A  man  thinks,  for  instance, 
that  wealth  will  satisfy  him,  that  sensi- 
tive pleasure  will  satisfy  him,  or  that 
knowledge  will  fill  the  measure  of  his 
capacity.  He  does  not  accurately  dis- 
tinguish, at  first,  between  the  boundaries 
of  right  and  wrong;  his  reason,  perhaps, 
is  not  clear  in  its  discriminations,  but 
his  passions,  alas  !  are  clear  in  their  de- 
mand ;  he  knows  what  he  wants,  but  he 
does  not  know  what  is  best  for  him ;  he 
wants  this,  and  he  wants  that.  Well, 
he  gets  it  —  the  knowledge,  the  wealth, 
the  pleasure,  the  dclat  —  he  gets  it ;  he 
tries  it,  and  he  finds  that  it  will  not  do. 
With  Solomon,  and  with  many  another 
seeker,  he  says,  it  is  all  vanity.  Dis- 
appointed, grieved,  sorrowful,  he  turns 
back  ;  and  whither  must  he  turn  ?  To 
deeper,  purer,  more  spiritual  resources. 
He  finds,  if  he  finds  anything  true,  that 
nothing  but  virtue,  sanctity,  God,  will 
satisfy  him.  He  wonders  that  he  did 
not  see  this  before  ;  he  reproaches  him- 
self;  he  repents.  The  sense  of  his  folly 
is  keen  and  bitter ;  but  it  is  salutary. 
He  has  learned  now,  by  experience,  the 
hatefulness  of  evil  and  the  preciousness 
of  good  ;  and  only  by  such  experience, 
perhaps,  could  he  learn.  This  inward 
conflict  has  made  the  only  true  theory 
of  welfare  a  thousand  times  more  true 
to  him.  NoiiJ  he  knows  what  is  best  for 
him,  and  nothing  can  tear  from  him  that 
conviction.  To  all  allurements  he  can 
say,  "  Ah  !  I  know  you  ;  I  know  where 
ye  lead  ;  I  know  your  false,  accursed, 
blighting  charms."  Thus  his  repentings 
have  been  the  steps  of  progress.  Thus 
his  errors  have  taught  him  to  cease  from 
the  way  that  causeth  to  err.  And  I 
cannot  but  think  that  a  more  humble 
and  tender,  a  nobler  and  more  beautiful 
virtue  may  come  out  of  erring,  than 
would  have  ever  been  otherwise  at- 
tained. 

But  besides  imperfection,  struggle 
and  sorrow  in  the  practical  working  out 
of  the  human  problem,  there  are  other 
things  to  be  considered  ;  things  which 
at  first  sight  seem  to  be  hindrances  in 
the  moral  course,  but  which,  I  think,  as 


602 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


I 


man  is  constituted,  will  be  found,  on 
examination,  to  be  helps  and  not  hin- 
drances. How  talk  you,  it  may  be  said, 
of  a  sublime  destiny  for  man,  when  we 
see  him  baffled  by  illusions,  subject  to 
perpetual  fluctuations,  bewildered  by  a 
painful  indefiniteness  in  all  his  moral 
relations,  and  chained  to  physical  con- 
ditions full  of  difficulty  and  obstruction, 
rather  than  furnished  with  wings  to  try 
the  courses  of  a  heavenly  virtue  .' 

IV.  Illusion,  then,  —  the  fourth  point 
to  be  considered. 

We  cannot  see  things  as  they  are. 
We  mistake  form  for  substance.  We 
mistake  semblances  for  realities.  All 
things  are  veiled  and  muffled  to  us,  as 
if  to  keep  us  from  the  sharpest  contact. 
We  live  in  a  universe  of  symbols,  and 
but  slowly  grasp  the  sense.  It  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  at  the 
very  truth,  —  at  the  inmost  reality  ;  and 
nothing,  perhaps,  more  distinctly  marks 
the  progress  of  a  mind,  than  the  gradual 
disenchantment  by  which  the  shows  of 
life  dissolve,  —  not  into  nothing,  as  they 
do  with  the  idle  and  worldly,  —  but  dis- 
solve away  into  the  truths  that  lie  within 
or  behind  them.  But  illusion  ;  is  it,  as 
is  commonly  supposed,  the  antagonist 
of  truth  ?  Rather  it  is  often  the  envel- 
opment ;  the  husk  that  protects  the 
corn ;  the  flower  that  is  preparing  for 
fruit. 

Such  a  flower  is  youthful  enthusiasm. 
The  experienced  eye  looks  gravely  upon 
it ;  wisdom  sits  aloft  and  sees  clearly  its 
mistakes.  But  wisdom  would  not  crush 
that  flower.  It  hath  the  beauty  of  its 
time,  and  will  produce  fruit.  It  is  like 
the  flowery  style  of  a  youthful  and  im- 
aginative writer.  "  Too  much  efflo- 
rescence," we  say;  but  there  is  promise 
in  it. 

Illusion  is  often  a  glare  that  dazzles 
and  bewilders  ;  but  it  also  draws  and 
fixes  the  eye  that  will  yet  penetrate 
through  it.  Is  it  not  childish  and  fool- 
ish in  barbarous  tribes,  to  be  attracted 
as  they  are  by  the  mere  gewgaws  and 
trinkets  of  civilization,  without  looking 
at  its  actual  superiority?     But  they  can- 


not at  once  see  that ;  and  in  the  mean 
time  the  glitter  and  show  draw  them  to 
intercourse,  —  the  only  means  of  im- 
provement. 

In  a  manner  not  very  unlike  this,  it 
seems  necessary  that  the  whole  youthful 
world  should  look  with  admiration  upon 
the  splendor  and  glare  of  life,  for  they 
cannot  at  once  attain  to  sage  and  pro- 
found spirituality.  They  must  be  inter- 
ested in  something,  that  their  faculties 
may  be  kept  awake  and  active.  They 
must  have  rattles  in  childhood  ;  they 
must  have  dresses  and  gayeties  in 
youth  ;  they  must  have  exclusive  friend- 
ships and  passionate  regards;  they  must 
marry  and  be  given  in  marriage,  though 
they  are  hereafter  to  be,  in  expansive 
affection,  as  the  angels  of  heaven.  And 
when  this  childhood  of  life  seems,  as  it 
does  with  many,  to  run  into  their  matu- 
rity, and  they  live  upon  the  outside  of 
things  and  do  not  know  what  the  things 
mean  ;  still,  I  say,  better  to  live  so,  than 
not  at  all ;  better  this  action,  than  death  : 
it  may  nurture  strength  and  faculty  for 
something  higher.  Better  the  school  of 
worldliness  than  no  school.  That  a  man 
should  not  see  the  deep  foundations  of 
his  strength  and  sufficiency;  that  he 
should  not  feel  a  possession  in  all  things, 
higher  than  ownership,  and  enjoy  a  use 
more  sacred  than  mere  property,  is  a 
sad  thing  ;  but  the  Master  of  life  hath 
patience  with  it,  and  will  perhaps  con- 
duct it  to  something  better. 

This  whole  tremendous  illusion  about 
wealth,  —  I  say  not  about  the  means  of 
livelihood,  for  that  is  a  reasonable  care, 
—  but  about  accumulation,  mere  accu- 
mulation, and  the  means  of  outward 
splendor,  with  no  care  for  the  treasure 
or  the  hght  within;  we  complain  of  it 
much  at  this  day,  and  with  good  reason. 
But  I  have  seen  a  man  who  was  educated  i 
by  the  splendid  things  that  his  wealth 
brought  around  him  ;  educated  by  his  i 
pictures,  by  his  furniture,  by  his  rich  j 
mansion.  He  was  not,  to  be  sure,  so 
much  the  master  of  his  house,  as  his 
house  was  master  of  him  ;  and  it  taught 
him  some  things.    The  elegances  around 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


603 


Iiim  did  something  to  cultivate,  polish, 
and  refine  his  manners  and  thoughts. 
He  felt  that  he  must  do  something  to 
raise  himself  up  to  such  a  style  of  living. 
A  certain  consistency  demanded  it  of 
him  ;  demanded,  at  any  rate,  that  his 
children  should  be  educated  for  such  a 
splendid  lot. 

No  error,  no  mistake,  perhaps,  is  a 
dead  mass  of  obstruction  in  the  mind; 
it  is  often  the  very  scaffolding  of  truth, 
or  tlie  shore  that  props  up  a  weaker 
part  till  a  firm  buttress  can  be  placed 
beneath.  Thus,  to  many  minds,  there 
is  hardly  any  greater  stumbling-block 
than  the  differences  of  faith.  "So  niariy 
creeds,  so  many  religions,"  it  is  said  ; 
"  they  cannot  all  be  true."  No,  nor  any 
of  them  altogether  true,  perhaps,  i.  e., 
as  men  modify  them.  Bufwhat  is  not 
true  may  be  a  temporary  outwork  to  the 
true.  And  every  honest  builder  may 
have  unconsciously  constructed  such  as 
he  needed.  Ages  build  so;  and,  I  think, 
individual  men.  It  is  very  plain  to  me 
that  rude  and  dark  ages  could  not  have 
done  without  their  superstition  ;  and 
every  mind  may  be  a  reduced  picture  of 
those  ages.  But  what,  now,  if  I  were 
to  say,  in  view  of  the  differences  of 
faith,  that  I  would  not  believe  in  any- 
thing? It  would  be  a  startling  declara- 
tion. And  yet  if  it  were  even  so  with 
me,  —  yet  the  error  of  such  absurd  and 
universal  scepticism  might  be  a  tempo- 
rary shield  against  the  edge  of  particular 
errors;  infidelity  might  not  harm  me  so 
much  as  some  creeds  would  ;  atheism 
itself  might  shield  me  for  a  time  from 
some  Moloch  worship  ;  and  thus  I 
might  be  led  by  a  way  that  I  knew  not, 
to  an  end  that  I  did  not  think  of. 

In  fine,  we  complain  of  illusion;  we 
ask  for  reality ;  but  it  may  be  that  we 
ask  for  more  than  can  be  wisely  given. 
Who  knows  whether  he  be  able  yet  to 
grapple  with  the  naked  spirituality  of 
truth  ?  Let  reality  be  fully  unveiled, 
—  all  semblances  dissipated,  all  interpos- 
ing clouds  swept  away,  —  and  I  know 
not  but  the  world  would  go  mad.  We 
talk  about  the  absolute  in  truth,  —  seek 


for  it.  Very  likely  success  would  be 
fatal.  Very  possibly  the  human  mind 
could  not  bear  it.  Here  is  this  solemn 
vesture  of  mystery  upon  us  and  upon  all 
about  us.  Perhaps  it  is  only  so,  that 
we  "sit,  clothed  and  in  our  right  mind." 
Give  us  the  piercing  "microscopic  eye," 
and  nature,  we  are  told,  disrobed  of  its 
soft  veil  of  beauty,  would  appear  like  a 
ghastly  skeleton.  And  so  it  might  be 
widi  life,  if  our  wish  could  be  indulged 
to  pierce  all  its  secrets  and  mysteries. 
And  so,  to  see  the  future  life  —  that 
which  we  so  long  for  —  might  be  more 
than  we  could  bear. 

V.  The  thing  to  be  next  considered,  is 
fluctiiatio7i.  Is  it  an  evil  .-•  Life  miglit 
be  stagnant  without  it,  as  the  sea  with- 
out its  waves. 

In  the  whole  system  of  things,  no  law 
seems  to  be  more  universahthan  fluctua- 
tion. I  have  often  thought  that  if,  after 
the  manner  of  the  most  ancient  philoso- 
phers, I  were  to  form  any  generalizing 
theory  concerning  the  constitution  or 
the  primordial  element  of  things,  it 
would  not  be  water  with  Thales,  nor 
numbers  with  Pythagoras  ;  it  would  not 
be  the  atomic  nor  the  dynamic  theory 
that  I  should  adopt,  —  not  the  theory  of 
changing  atoms  nor  of  permanent  forces, 
not  the  theory  that  makes  all  loose  or 
all  fast,  —  but  the  theory  of  eternal 
swaying  to  and  fro,  the  theory  of  eter- 
nal fluctuation.  Of  the  original  nature, 
the  essence  of  things,  we  know  nothing ; 
but  we  know  that  all  things  are  in  a 
state  of  change,  of  conflict,  of  balancing 
to  and  fro.  We  see  it  in  winds  and 
tides,  in  times  and  seasons,  in  action 
and  reaction,  growth  and  decay,  day 
and  night,  and  the  going  and  coming  of 
the  heavenly  spheres.  Nay,  light  itself 
is  now  found  to  be  but  a  vibration. 
And  when,  as  the  sun  images  its  great 
daily  revolution  in  my  apartment,  by  the 
light  that  steals  along  the  wall,  I  have 
observed  how  the  line  of  light  sways 
slightly,  almost  imperceptibly,  to  and 
fro  as  it  advances,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
a  silent  type  of  the  infinite  mutation. 

Now  that  which  seems  to  appertain  to 


6o4 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


everything  else  belongs  also  to  the  mo- 
tions and  moods  of  the  human  mind, — 
constant  fluctuation  Especially  where 
the  mind's  experience  is  very  strong, 
definite,  and  marked,  is  this  observable. 
As  the  wailings  over  the  dead  in  Ori- 
ental countries  rise  from  time  to  time, 
so  in  all  affliction  does  wave  succeed 
to  wave.  And  in  states  of  mental  anxi- 
ety and  distress,  I  have  often  remarked 
it,  and  have  been  able  to  anticipate  with 
great  confidence  in  what  state  I  should 
find  such  a  mind,  on  any  approaching 
interview. 

Now  all  this  may  be  thought  to  be 
very  discouraging,  —  this  swaying  back- 
ward and  forward,  this  gaining  and  los- 
ing ;  but  how  would  you  have  it  ?  One 
perpetual  strain  upon  the  faculties,  —  we 
could  not  bear  it.  One  unshadowed 
vision,  —  it  would  make  life  monotonous. 
One  unvarying  state  of  mind, — how 
much  that  is  of  priceless  worth  would  it 
cut  off  from  our  experience?  After  toil, 
how  sweet  is  rest  !  After  pain  and  dan- 
ger, ease  is  elysium,  and  safety  a  blessed 
thanksgiving.  Besides,  in  darkness  and 
need  lessons  are  learned  that  never 
would  be  learned  in  light  and  gladness  ; 
lessons  of  humility,  of  conscious  weak- 
ness, of  self-despairing.  Heaven-trusting 
prayer.  That  feeling  which,  from  time 
to  time,  comes  over  us,  that  we  are  noth- 
ing and  know  nothing,  how  powerful  a 
stimulus  is  it !  Even  in  languor  the  mind 
is  nursing  up  the  strength  that  will  soon 
be  put  forth  in  new  efforts.  But  moral 
depression  is  often  very  different  from 
languor,  —  is  the  very  reverse  of  lan- 
guor. It  is  when  most  discouraged  and 
cast  down  that  the  mind  is  often  mak- 
ing the  most  rapid  progress.  When  the 
waves  are  highest,  a}-,  and  the  storm  is 
darkest,  is  the  ship  often  sailing  fastest; 
and  the  bold  voyager  says,  "  Give  me 
that,  rather  than  everlasting  calm  and 
sunshine."  We  are  cradled  on  an  ocean 
whose  tides  are  sweeping  on  to  eternity: 
not  on  the  bosom  of  a  summer  lake  can 
we  be  borne  to  that  far,  unseen,  and 
shadowy  land. 

In  short,  the  jrreat  trouble  is  that  we 


are  moral  beings  at  all.  If  we  were 
machines,  we  might  be  put  on  a  smooth 
and  even  course.  If  we  were  animals, 
we  might  have  walked  in  the  way  of 
unerring  instinct.  But  we  are  moral 
beings,  and  imperfection,  effort,  regret, 
illusion,  fluctuation,  are  our  disciphne., 
We  are  moral  beings,  and  are  to  work 
out  our  own  problem,  under  an  adminis 
tration  of  reasonable  motives,  induce- 
ments, fears,  and  hopes. 

And  that  we  may  do  so,  a  certain 
indefiniteness  in  our  moral  relations  is 
necessary.  I  have  touched  upon  this 
topic  in  a  former  lecture  ;  but  there  are 
so  many  persons  who  halt  at  this  point ; 
who  do  not  feel  as  if  there  were  any 
clear,  strong,  controlling  moral  order  in 
this  world  ;  who  misunderstand  this  con- 
dition of  progress  which  we  call  moral  in- 
definiteness,—  that  I  wish  to  say  a  word 
or  two  further  upon  the  subject.  If, — 
such  is  their  feeling, — if  penalty  more 
^directly  and  clearly  followed  transgres- 
sion ;  if  the  bad  intent  never  succeeded,  if 
deceit,  lying,  knavery,  never  prospered ; 
if  remorse  immediately  followed  wrong  ; 
or  if  disease,  for  instance,  struck  the 
first  excess  with  an  instant  blow,  or  the 
all-powerful  hand  hurled  its  swift  thun- 
derbolt upon  injustice,  —  a  moral  provi- 
dence would  be  more  manifest.  And 
then,  too,  if  our  good  endeavors  were 
more  immediately  rewarded  by  success, 
the  system  would  seem  to  be  more  en- 
couraging. 

But,  in  the  first  place,  let  not  this  in- 
definiteness be  overrated.  The  results 
do  follow  both  good  and  evil  conduct 
very  soon  ;  and  the  consequences  are 
often  more  certain  than  manifest.  The 
bad  man  may  seem  to  get  along  very 
comfortably  ;  he  is  guilty  of  atrocious 
deeds,  but  he  has  no  conscience,  you 
say,  no  remorse ;  he  seems  very  happy 
for  the  time.  But  he  is  not,  even  for 
the  time.  There  is  a  secret,  dull  pain, 
and  a  pitiable  impoverishment  in  the 
soul,  of  which  he  is  himself,  perhaps, 
but  half  conscious.  And  then  the  good 
man  is  not  so  happy  or  so  successful 
as  he  might  be,  because  he  is  but  half 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY 


Cos 


good.  It  is  the  misery  of  our  better 
purposes,  that  they  are  not  so  thorough 
and  decided  as  they  ought  to  be.  We 
do  not  know  what  we  migiit  be  if 
we  threw  away  all  reserves  and  gave 
ourselves  up  wholly  to  rectitude  and 
purity. 

But,  in  the  next  place,  let  us  observe 
how  the  moral  indeliniteness  complained 
of,  such  as  it  is,  conduces  to  the  train- 
ing of  man.  If  Providence  were  to 
follow  every  dereliction  with  an  instant 
blow,  the  mind  might  be  overwhelmed 
by  that  close-pursuing  retribution.  It 
would  have  no  liberty  or  leisure  to  work 
out  its  solemn  moral  problem.  Startled 
by  the  impending  peril,  it  would  leap 
from  side  to  side,  or  rush  through  life 
as  from  an  executioner.  Or  it  would 
hold  itself  in  one  cowering  endeavor 
to  preserve  a  negative  rectitude,  rather 
than  tempt  the  heights  of  lofty  and 
perilous  virtue.  Something,  we  see,  is 
left  to  man's  sagacity,  to  his  reflection, 
to  his  reasonings  from  experience.  A 
tield  is  opened  on  earth  for  his  generos- 
ity, his  fearlessness  and  freedom.  Un- 
der a  system  as  rigid  and  exact  as  the 
objector  seems  to  demand,  I  do  not 
see  much  place  or  chance  for  self- 
moved,  noble,  and  disinterested  virtue. 

VI.  But,  "  No,"  it  may  be  said,  "no, 
the  great  trouble  is  no^  that  we  are 
moral  beings  at  all,  but  that  the  moral 
is  so  darkened,  obstructed,  burdened 
by  the  physical  nature."  The  soul, 
says  one,  is  a  noble  thing  in  itself; 
it  has  high  aspirations,  and  seems  at 
times  to  have  the  wings  of  an  angel ; 
but  how  fearfully  is  it  chained  to  sense, 
to  sensual  passion,  and  to  sensual  in- 
firmity I  How  many  a  man,  who  is 
striving  to  be  virtuous,  is  thrown  almost 
into  despair  at  times,  under  the  awful 
relapses  of  his  mind  into  sense,  —  which 
lays  hold  upon  him  like  a  lion  in  its 
strength  !  And  then,  when  he  would 
tight  on  through  lite,  how  does  the 
darkness  of  sleep  come  over  him,  and 
bury  him  in  its  shadow!  When  he 
should  be  doing  his  great  work,  and  is 
doing  it,  that  leaden  sceptre  is  stretched 


over  him,  and  he  is  vanquished ;  nay, 
perhaps  "  wicked  dreams  abuse  the  cur- 
tained sleep,"  and  he  awakes  feeling  as 
if  he  were  a  dishonored  being. 

But  if  you  will  carefully  examine  all 
these  matters,  you  will  find,  in  the  first 
place,  that  there  is  not  one  of  the  forms 
of  sensation  but  is  essential  to  human 
virtue  or  to  human  existence.  I  have 
not  time  to  go  into  detail  here,  and 
indeed  have  discussed  the  subject  be- 
fore ;  but  if  you  will  examine  the  appe- 
tites and  passions  of  a  man,  one  by  one, 
and  survey  them  in  all  their  relations, 
you  will  find  that  there  is  not  one  that 
can  be  spared  from  that  complex  moral 
constitution  of  human  life,  from  that 
whole  sum  of  influences,  by  which  hu- 
manity is  trained  to  industry,  to  domes- 
tic affection,  to  social  order,  and  spiritual 
sanctity. 

And,  in  the  next  place,  how  do  physi- 
cal need  and  infirmity  contribute  to  the 
same  end?  I  have  said  in  a  former 
lecture,  '•  If  I  could  see  that  eating  and 
drinking,  and  sleeping  and  waking,  are 
ordinances,"  it  would  clear  up  one  large 
part  of  the  picture  of  human  life.  Well, 
I  do  see  it.  I  see  that  physical  wants 
are  the  first  great  bonds  to  labor, 
care,  foresight,  prudence.  I  see,  too, 
that  physical  infirmities  —  weariness  and 
sleep  —  have  their  moral  uses.  Sleep, 
for  instance.  For  a  being  that  often 
errs  and  fails,  it  is  wtW  that  he  should 
often  begin  anew ;  that  the  chain  of  evil 
associations  should  be  broken  ;  that  he 
should  begin  a  new  day  and  turn  over  a 
new  leaf ;  that  the  pure  morning  influ- 
ences, and  his  freshly  wakened  powers, 
should  incline  and  enable  him  to  start 
anew  in  his  moral  career.  I  confess 
that  I  am  glad  to  be  sometimes  de- 
livered from  myself,  —  from  my  own 
thoughts,  from  their  weariness  and  per- 
plexity. I  am  not  always  good  com- 
pany enough  to  wish  to  be  always  with 
myself.  Let  me  sleep ;  let  me  escape  : 
as  one  says  to  an  importunate  creditor 
hard  to  account  with,  "  I  will  see  you 
to-morrow." 

And  then  again,  to  evil  at  large,  what 


6o6 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


a  direct,  peremptory,  and  powerful  check 
is  sleep  !  What  would  become  of  the 
world  if  wickedness  never  slept ;  if  re- 
venge, if  intrigue,  if  guilty  revelling, 
never  slept  ;  if  tyranny,  scorn,  and  hate 
never  slept  ?  Thus  is  the  activity  of 
man  for  evil  bounded  by  the  mighty 
barriers  of  in-walling  darkness  and  iron 
slumber.  The  oppressor's  busy  brain, 
teeming  with  mischief,  loses  its  fearful 
energy,  and  for  a  while  can  devise  no 
more  mischief  ;  the  tyrant's  arm  sinks 
nerveless  by  his  side,  and  is  as  harm- 
less as  an  infant's  ;  brutal  intemperance, 
which  otherwise  would  destroy  the  man, 
ends  in  stupor  and  insensibility,  —  the 
man  sleeps,  and  awakes  sober,  —  sober, 
which,  but  for  God's  interposition,  he 
might  never  have  been ;  wickedness 
sleeps  its  awful  sleep,  which,  however 
awful,  is  less  so  than  the  dread  energy 
of  its  waking  life.  Meanwhile  the  vic- 
tims of  oppression  and  wrong  sleep,  and 
forget  for  a  while  the  blows  and  burdens 
that  are  laid  upon  them. 

Nor  is  this  all.  It  is  a  blessing  that 
misery,  from  whatever  cause,  finds  that 
temporary  refuge.  What  should  we  do 
if  sorrow  never  slept ;  if  the  broken 
heart  were  never  lulled  to  rest  by  its  own 
meanings  ?  Well  for  us  that  sleep  comes 
to  our  rescue,  — 

"  Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath. 
Balm   of    hurt    minds,   great    nature's    second 
course; "  — 

well  for  us  that  it  comes  and  lays  its 
hand  upon  the  burdened  heart  and  ach- 
ing brow.  God  "  giveth  his  beloved 
sleep." 

But  while  I  have  been  thus  discours- 
ing on  these  trials  of  the  human  lot  and 
heart,  I  can  fancy  some  one  saying  to 
me,  "  Ah  !  smoothly  you  discourse  upon 
these  matters,  sir  !  easily  j'ou  seem  to 
settle  the  points  one  after  another ;  but 
here  am  I,  after  all,  weak,  struggling, 
sorrowful :  here  am  I,  bewildered,  tossed 
to  and  fro,  and  fighting  a  hard  battle  • 
here  am  I,"  perhaps  one  may  say,  "  poor, 
ay,  poor  in  natural  ability,  poor  in  for- 
tune, poor  in  the  respect  of  society  ;  nay. 


more,  impoverished  by  my  honesty,  a 
martyr  to  conscience,  with  jio  fair  chance  ; 
depressed,  forsaken,  and  forlorn  :  and 
yet  you  tell  me  that  the  laws  of  my  being 
are  wise,  that  Providence  is  kind,  that 
all  is  well.  Well? — God  forgive  my 
thought! — how  is  it  well,  when  I  am 
such  an  one,  and  so  hard  bested  ?  Oh  ! 
why  could  I  not  have  been  perfectly  in- 
nocent and  perfectly  happy  ?  Fair  do- 
main of  life  and  light  and  joy!  —  it  is 
not  mine  !  Why,  in  the  realm  of  infinite 
power,  could  not  such  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  me .'' " 

I  do  not  cast  reproach  upon  the  sol- 
emn and  painful  question.  I  do  not 
blame  the  cry  of  human  sorrow  that  asks 
for  light :  it  is  my  own.  I  do  not  believe 
that  it  is  displeasing  to  the  great  Being 
who  made  us,  that  we  should  humbly 
ask  why  His  goodness  has  dealt  thus 
with  us.  I  cannot  but  believe  that 
just  as  a  good  father  on  earth  would  be 
pleased  with  that  fearless  but  modest 
question  from  his  sensitive  child,  so  the 
Infinite  Parent  is  better  pleased  with 
such  question  than  with  the  usual  stolid 
or  cowering  acquiescence  ;  and  that 
the  time  will  come  when  filial  piety  will 
understand  this  freedom. 

And  I  freely  say,  that  if  any  needless 
but  fatal  and  crushing  weight  were  laid 
upon  the  world  ;  if  any  law  like  that  of 
Malthus  on  population,  now  sufficiently 
refuted,  —  if  any  such  law  were  to  be  dis- 
covered, proving  that  population  must 
increase  much  faster  than  food,  and 
therefore  that  famine,  or  war,  or  some 
other  catastrophe  is  the  irreversible 
doom  of  human  society  —  if  any  such 
crack,  or  flaw,  or  jar  were  found  in  the 
frame  of  the  world,  which  was  destined 
to  split  or  break  it  in  pieces,  that  then  I 
should  be  dumb,  and  have  nothing  to 
answer.  But  I  see  none  such  ;  I  see 
nothing  in  the  constitution  of  the  world 
that  is  designed  to  ruin  it ;  nothing  that 
is  destined,  in  the  long  run,  to  be  preju- 
dicial to  the  cause  of  human  virtue  and 
happiness. 

It  may  be  thought  that  in  the  com- 
plaint just  now  stated,  there  is  ojte  diffi- 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


607 


culty  alluded  to  which  requires  attention  ; 
that  is  to  say,  that  an  ascendency  is 
o-iven  to  intellect  which  is  not  fair  to  vir- 
tue and  conscience  ;  that  in  the  affairs 
of  life,  in  the  necessary  business  of  life, 
honesty  is  not  a  match  for  cleverness 
and  cunning.  It  is  even  maintained  by 
some,  that  trade,  and  also  that  legal 
praclice,  cannot  be  carried  on  with  a 
good  conscience, — that,  at  any  rate,  an 
honest  man  cannot  succeed  in  them,  un- 
less it  be  by  some  immense  ascendency 
of  talent.  This  I  do  not  believe.  If  it 
be  true,  what  means  the  maxim  univer- 
sally received,  that  "honesty  is  the 
best  policy  "  ?  Still,  I  admit  that,  in  the 
action  of  life,  a  rather  startling  ascen- 
dency is  given  to  intellect.  Doubtless 
it  is  hard  for  one  to  feel  that  he  lacks 
talent,  wit,  capability.  But  the  feeling, 
however,  does  not  prove  the  fact.  I 
have  often  observed  that  such  complain- 
ant ill  makes  out  his  case.  Modesty 
certainly  is  no  proof  of  inferiority.  I 
am  inclined  to  think,  if  you  begin  with 
idiocy  and  go  up  to  the  highest  genius, 
that  self-complacency  will  be  found  to 
be  in  an  inverse  ratio.  Still,  as  I  said 
before,  I  admit,  of  course,  that  there  is 
actual  inferiority,  whether  a  man  knows 
it  or  not,  and  that  it  tells  very  seriously 
upon  the  fortunes  of  life.  What  then  ? 
Would  you  have  all  men  made  and  kept 
equal  ?  Surely  not.  Would  you  have 
keener  wits  precluded  from  gaining  any, 
even  any  temporary  advantage  ?  I  think 
that,  on  reflection,  you  would  say,  no. 
I  think,  indeed,  that  in  a  free  system  it 
would  be  impossible. 

If,  indeed,  there  were  created  a  class 
of  beings  on  earth,  of  such  superiority 
that,  by  mere  dint  of  talent  or  cunning, 
they  swept  the  board  clean  of  all  life'^s 
prizes,  then  a  staggering  problem  would 
be  presented.  But  it  is  not  so.  Still 
you  say,  "The  case  is  very  hard.  Con- 
science is  a  hindrance  to  success."  I 
insist  that  you  mistake  here,  on  the 
whole.  I  say,  you  are  mistaken.  But 
so  far  as  you  are  not.  this  I  say  :  life 
was  given  not  to  gain  fortunes  and  hon- 
ors, but  to  gain  a  fortune  within^  and 


an  honor  within,  of  an  infinitely  nobler 
kind. 

VII.  In  short,  the  discipline  of  this  life 
involves  trial  and  difiiculty.  Must  it 
not,  —  I  come  now  to  this  point  last,  — 
must  it  not  be  essentially  the  discipline 
of  all  moral  life  .'  Lift  your  eyes  to  the 
stars.  Can  it  be  essentially  otherwise 
there?  I  draw  no  unwarranted  analo- 
gies. I  say  nothing  about  circumstances. 
But  must  not  the  constituent  elements 
of  which  we  have  spoken  —  freedom,  im- 
perfection, mistake,  learning,  progress  — 
enter  into  all  moral  life  ?  Does  the  Bible 
oppose  this  analogy  ?  Certainly  not ; 
because  it  says  nothing  about  the  inhab- 
itants of  those  worlds  ;  nothing  of  their 
being  inhabited.  We  believe  that  they 
are  inhabited,  —  but  on  other  grounds. 
Millions  of  creatures  dwell  in  a  drop  of 
water ;  can  those  vast  spheres  be  void  ? 
We  cannot  believe  it.  But  we  are  taught 
absolutely  nothing  about  the  condition 
of  their  inhabitants.  We  are  left  to  rea- 
son about  it  as  wisely  as  we  can.  They 
may  be  higher  than  we  ;  they  may  be 
lower  ;  we  know  nothing  about  it.  But 
we  know  this ;  we  know  that  we  cannot 
conceive  of  a  free,  moral  nature,  as 
learning,  without  some  mistakes  and 
some  regrets.  Possibly,  ours  may  not 
be  the  lowest  rank  in  the  order  of  crea- 
tion. One  of  the  propositions  of  the 
celebrated  Erasmus,  that  was  brought 
into  question  before  the  university  of 
Paris,  was,  'that  he  was  not  sure  that 
an  angel  was  more  excellent  than  a 
man."  If  he  had  said  he  was  not  sure 
that  an  inhabitant  of  Mars  or  Saturn 
was  more  excellent,  i.  e.,  of  a  higher 
order,  than  man,  it  would  have  been  a 
pregnant  doubt ;  and  one  that  would 
receive  better  entertainment  in  this  age 
than  it  did  in  his. 

Now  it  is  very  obvious  that  the  gen- 
eral tendency  in  men's  minds,  to  dis- 
couragement and  despondency  in  all 
their  higher,  their  religious  contempla- 
tions, must  be  immensely  increased  by 
this  idea  that  they  are  placed  in  a  dark, 
dismal,  blighted  world,  —  cut  off  from  the 
great  fellowship  of  worlds.     Under  the 


6oS 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


I 


common  depreciation  of  this  world,  we 
do  not  see  the  significance,  the  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  its  discipline.  We  are 
impatient  with  many  things,  we  are  in- 
different to  more,  because  we  do  not  see 
that  our  life,  that  all  moral  life,  is  meant 
to  be  everywhere  and  in  every  act  a 
moral  experimenting ;  and  thus,  that 
nothing  is  mean,  nothing  is  low  in  its 
intent.  As  we  walk  through  the  dusty 
street  or  the  thronged  mart,  through  the 
busy  manufactory  or  the  ploughed  fur- 
row, or  amidst  the  homes  of  humble 
care  or  splendid  opulence,  we  are  apt  to 
think  of  nothing  but  the  present  and 
pressing  engagement.  We  do  not  see 
in  this  a  part  of  the  great  and  solemn 
training  of  the  worlds  to  wisdom  and 
virtue.  The  true  spiritual  philosophy 
would  dart  a  ray  into  this  dusty  cloud 
of  life  which  would  make  every  particle 
of  it  brighter  than  gold.  I  say  that 
there  is  not  a  care,  nor  a  toil,  nor  a  trial, 
—  not  an  act  of  business,  —  not  a  cry  of 
childhood,  nor  a  cut  finger,  nor  a  lost 
key,  nor  a  threaded  needle,  but  it  has 
its  place  in  this  training  of  imperfect 
creatures  to  prudence,  wisdom,  and 
sanctity. 

But  looking  at  this  world  alone,  as 
many  do  —  looking  upon  it  as  a  sad 
and  lonely  world  —  looking  upon  it  as 
invested  with  a  cloud  of  low  and  mean 
cares  and  trials,  there  is,  in  riot  a  few 
minds,  a  prevailing  dejection  every  way 
injurious  and  greatly  to  be  regretted. 
There  is  dejection  especially  in  their 
religion,  and  naturally  so.  Sad  and  low 
and  heavy  beat  the  pulses  of  spiritual 
life,  because  we  do  not  feel  that  they 
throb  with  the  great  moral  harmonies 
of  the  universe.  Sorrowful  is  our  cry 
for  help,  because  it  seems  to  us  to  be 
solitary   and  alone.      As   outcasts   and 


deserted,  we  feel  as  if  there  coxild  be  no 
sympathy  for  us  in  all  the  surrounding 
worlds.  If  we  saw  the  same  —  as  to  its 
principles  —  the  same  great  moral  disci- 
pline in  those  bright  spheres  as  in  our 
own,  and  saw  it  to  be  the  best  possi- 
ble, would  it  not  give  us  courage  and 
strength  ?  But  why  should  it  not  be  so  ? 
Is  not  the  supposition  favored  by  all  rea- 
sonable analogies  .'* 

For  me,  I  shall  venture  to  say,  the 
universe  is  not  parcelled  out  thus  : 
here,  a  dark  prison-house ;  there,  a 
city  of  sapphire  and  gold  ;  beneath,  a 
gulf  of  fire,  where  sink  the  groaning  na- 
tions ;  and  far  around,  heavenly  heights, 
on  whose  battlements  stand  the  shin- 
ing ones  ;  —  this  universe  of  Milton's 
poetry  is  not  the  universe  to  mej  but 
lo  !  through  worlds  unnumbered  and 
unbounded  rise  the  myriad  ranks  of 
being  ;  each  having  its  own  sphere  ; 
each  moral  creation  advancing  ;  and  all 
holding  on  their  subhme  career,  from 
knowledge  to  knowledge,  and  from 
glory  to  glory,  through  the  bright,  the 
everlasting  ages. 

Such  is  the  view  of  universal  life, — 
such,  I  mean,  as  I  have  given  it  at 
length  in  this  discourse,  is  the  view 
which  commends  itself  to  me  as  the 
most  just  and  reasonable,  as  most  ac- 
cordant with  the  infinite  wisdom  and 
goodness.  I  do  not  know  how  it  will 
appear  to  you,  my  friends,  but  to  me  it 
is  an  inexpressible  satisfaction.  Witli 
it  I  can  be  resolute,  I  can  be  cheerful, 
I  can  be  happy,  amidst  all  the  trials 
and  difficulties  of  this  tried  life.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  will  appear  to  you  ; 
but  if  I  have  lifted  one  unnecessary 
cloud  from  the  face  of  the  world,  I  shall 
not  have  spoken  in  vain. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


609 


LECTURE     IX. 

PROBLEMS    IN    MAn's    INDIVIDUAL    LIFE  !     PHYSICAL    PAIN  ; 
HEREDITARY    EVIL  ;     DEATH. 


I  Nt)W  wish  to  take  up  some  of  the 
vexed  questions  in  the  philosophy  of 
human  life  and  history  ;  some  of  those 
facts  in  the  human  condition  which  are 
usually  thought  to  be  the  most  myste- 
rious and  unaccountable,  the  most  irrec- 
oncilable with  creative  wisdom  and  good- 
ness ;  such  as  pain,  hereditary  evil,  death, 
—  such  as  polytheism  and  idolatry,  des- 
potism, war,  slavery,  and  the  prevalence 
of  error.  These  facts  naturally  divide 
themselves  into  two  classes  :  those  which 
come  home  to  man's  individual  life,  and 
those  which  spread  themselves  over  his 
social  life.  We  have  therefore  to  con- 
sider (so  to  speak)  private  problems  and 
social  or  historic  problems.  The  first  will 
occupy  our  attention  in  the  present  lec- 
ture ;  that  is  to  say,  pain,  hereditary  evil, 
and  death. 

Let  us  distinctly  keep  in  mind  the  end 
which  we  are  considering  throughout 
these  discussions.  The  end  is  human 
culture  ;  not  pleasure  merely,  not  im- 
mediate enjoyment,  but  joy  of  a  higher 
kind,  the  ultimate  strength  and  noble- 
ness of  the  human  character  5  not  an 
unconditional  happiness,  to  be  given  to 
man  as  it  may  be  given  to  an  animal, 
but  the  higher  happiness  which,  by  the 
very  nature  of  it,  he  is  obliged  to 
work  out  for  himself.  And  the  ques- 
tion is  :  Do  the  conditions  of  our  beino-. 
just  referred  to,  promote  the  great  end  ? 
It  is  true  that  this  is  not  the  only  ques- 
tion ;  for  we  are  bound  to  show  that 
these  conditions  are  either  inevitable 
in  the  constitution  of  things  or  neces- 
sary to  human  culture,  and  also  that  the 
severity  of  the  means  is  not  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  value  of  the  end. 

To  proceed,  then,  —  with  these  state- 
ments in    view,  —  here   is  this   terrible 


fact  of  pain.  And  I  mean  now  physi- 
cal pain.  That  which  is  mental  we 
have  considered  in  a  former  lecture, — 
under  the  head  of  imperfection,  strug- 
gle, penitence,  illusion,  fluctuation,  mor- 
al indefiniteness,  &c.  And  the  pain 
of  bereavement  will  naturally  come 
under  our  view  when  we  speak  of  death. 
The  point  now  before  us  is  physical 
pain.  And  a  sharp  point  it  is.  I  con- 
fess, for  myself,  an  exceeding  dread  of 
pain.  Montaigne  reckons  it  the  one 
comprehensive  calamity  of  our  being,  — 
le  pire  accident  de  noire  eire,  —  redu- 
cing all  others  to  that.  What  we  fear 
in  death,  he  says,  is  pain  ;  and  \n poverty, 
it  is  pain,  — i.  e.,  want,  anxiety,  hunger, 
thirst,  cold.  Be  this  as  it  may,  tiie 
evil,  no  doubt,  is  sufficiently  felt.  There 
is  no  need  to  dwell  upon  it,  in  the  aggre- 
gate or  in  the  detail.  It  is  the  detail,  in- 
deed, it  is  the  individual  suffering,  that 
presses  upon  us  as  a  problem  to  be  solved, 
rather  than  the  asfgfresfate.  The  asEfre- 
gate  affects  us,  it  is  true,  through  sy7n- 
pathy,  but  not  directly  as  pain.  The 
illness  of  thousands  does  not  make  me 
more  ill.  Pain  is  a  solitary  thing  It 
does  not  require,  like  the  misery  of  war, 
an  army  to  produce  it ;  nor  can  an  arm}-, 
though  vast  as  that  of  Xerxes,  fight  off 
from  its  commander,  for  one  minute, 
the  pang  of  a  toothache.  It  is  the  sharp 
puncture  of  pain  in  my  own  flesh  ;  it  is, 
yet  more,  the  suffering  of  years  or  of  a 
life,  tliat  moves  us  to  deep  questioning. 
'Y\\&  first  —  bare  pain — is  the  law 
which  we  are  to  explain  ;  the  last —  in 
its  unusual  degree  or  continuance  —  is 
an  exception  which,  it  may  be,  we  can- 
not explain  ;  unless,  indeed,  it  shall  be 
found  to  come  under  some  one  of  the 
categories  of  the  law. 


39 


6io 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


The  law  is  that  of  pain  ;  of  pain,  not 
usually  severe  nor  perpetual,  but  gen- 
eral, moderate,  occasional.  And  the 
main  question  is,  Is  it  useful  ? 

Now,  in  general,  we  find  no  difficulty 
in  answering  this  question  in  the  affirm- 
ative. Pain  is  a  sentinel  that  warns 
us  of  danger.  And  therefore  it  stands 
upon  the  outposts  of  this  citadel,  the 
body  ;  for  pain  is  keenest,  the  surgeon's 
knife  is  felt  keenest,  on  the  surface. 
Now,  be  it  granted  that  pain  does  us 
some  harm  ;  but  it  saves  us  from  worse 
harm.  If  fire  did  not  pain,  it  might 
burn  us  up.  If  cold  did  not  pain  us,  it 
might  freeze  us  to  death.  If  disease 
did  not  pain  us,  we  might  die  before  we 
knew  that  we  were  sick.  If  contacts,  of 
all  sorts,  with  surrounding  objects  — the 
woodman's  axe,  the  carpenter's  saw,  the 
farmer's  harrow  —  did  not  hurt  us,  they 
might  cut  and  tear  us  all  to  pieces. 
Think  of  it.  A  knife,  held  by  a  careless 
hand,  approaches  us ;  it  touches  'the 
skin.  We  start  back.  Why  ?  Because 
there  is  pain.  But  for  this,  it  might 
have  entered  the  body  and  cut  some 
vital  organ.  An  old  Greek  verse  says, 
"  The  gods  sell  us  the  blessings  they 
bestow."  These  are  the  best  terms  for 
us.  They  make  us  careful  and  prudent. 
Unconditional  giving  might  lead  to  reck- 
less squandering.  Pain,  then,  is  a 
teacher  of  prudence,  of  self-care.  Nay, 
and  if  happiness  alone  were  considered, 
it  might  be  argued  that  an  occasional 
bitter  drop  gives  a  zest  to  the  cup  of 
enjoyment  ;  as  hunger  does  to  the  feast, 
or  sharp  cold  to  the  winter's  fire.  But 
in  moral  relations  the  argument  is  still 
stronger.  Here  is  a  human  soul  clothed 
with  a  body,  to  be  trained  to  virtue,  to 
self-command,  to  spiritual  strength  and 
nobleness.  Would  perpetual  ease  and 
pleasure,  a  perpetual  lu.xury  of  sensation, 
best  do  that  ?  We  know  that  it  would 
not.  Every  wise  and  thoughtful  man,  at 
least,  knows  that  some  pain,  some  sick- 
ness, some  rebuke  of  the  senses,  is  good 
for  him.  Such  a  man  often  feels,  in 
long-continued  states  of  ease  and  com- 
fort, that  it  is  time  something  should 


come  to  try,  to  discipline,  to  inure,  and 
ennoble  his  nature.  He  is  afraid  of  un- 
interrupted enjoyment.  Pain,  patiently 
and  nobly  endured,  peculiarly  strengtli- 
ens  and  spiritualizes  the  soul.  Heinrich 
Heine  says,  "  Only  the  man  who  has 
known  bodily  sufferings  is  truly  a  »z«;/." 
The  loftiest  states  of  mind,  and,  com- 
pared with  mere  sensual  indulgence,  the 
happiest,  are  those  of  courageous  'endur- 
ance ;  and  the  martyr  is  often  happier 
than  the  voluptuary.  Cicero  says,  speak- 
ing of  the  sacrifice  of  Regulus,  and  after 
describing  his  happy  fortunes,  —  he  had 
carried  on  great  wars,  had  been  twice 
consul,  had  had  triumphal  honors  de- 
creed to  him,  —  "  nothing  was  so  great 
as  his  death  ;  "  when,  to  fulfil  his  word, 
he  went  back  to  Carthage  to  suffer  all 
that  could  be  inflicted  on  him.  "  To  us 
hearing  of  it,"  says  Cicero,  "it  is  sad  ; 
to  him  suffering  it,  it  was  a  joy,  it  was  a 
pleasure  ;  "  erat  iwliiptarius.  "  For," 
he  adds,  "not  the  light  and  gay  in  their 
jollity,  nor  their  wantonness,  nor  their 
laughter  or  jesting,  —  companion  of  dis- 
soluteness, —  but  the  serious  and  resolved 
in  their  endurance  and  constancy,  are 
happy."  *  This  is  tlie  general  statement 
to  be  made  with  regard  to  pain.  It  is 
general,  indeed,  and  does  not  propose 
to  cover  every  case. 

But  now,  it  may  be  asked,  could  not 
the  same  end  have  been  gained,  the 
same  nobleness,  the  same  constancy, 
have  been  achieved,  without  pain  'i 
Which  is,  I  think,  as  if  one  should  ask, 
whether  the  wood  could  not  have  been 
cut  into  shape  without  the  axe,  or  the 
marble  without  the  chisel,  or  the  gold 
purified  without  the  furnace.  But  let  us 
answer  ;  and  we  say,  not  in  any  way  that 
we  can  conceive  of.  First,  it  may  have 
been  absolutely  inevitable  in  the  nature 
of  things,  that  a  frame  sensitive  to  pleas- 
ure should  be  liable  to  pain.  This  may 
be  the  explanation  of  that  long-continued 
and  severe  pain  which  presents  the 
hardest  problem  in  our  physical  life. 
With  such  causes  foregoing,  such  a 
train   of   influences,    mental,   moral,  or 

*  De  Finibus,  ii.  20. 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


6ll 


physical,  as  produced  this  terrible  suf- 
fering, it  may  have  been  impossible, 
without  a  miracle,  to  prevent  it.  Ordi- 
narily, indeed,  such  pain  is  not  long 
continued.  It  destroys  life,  or  life  de- 
stroys it.  Si grar'is,  brevis  j  si  ioiigus, 
levis,  "if  severe,  brief;  if  long,  light," 
is  the  old  adage  ;  and  it  is  true.  But  if  it 
fail,  and  the  terrible  case  of  protracted 
anguish  is  before  us,  we  may  be  obliged 
to  leave  it  under  some  great  law  of  the 
human  constitution,  which  makes  pre- 
vention impossible.  I  may  be  told  that 
such  pain  does  no  good  ;  that  it  breaks 
down  mind  and  body  together ;  and 
therefore  that  it  cannot,  in  any  way,  be 
useful.  But  we  do  not  know  that.  In 
the  great  cycle  of  eternity  all  may  come 
right.  How  much  happier  the  sufferer 
may  be  forever,  for  this  present  pain,  we 
know  not.  AH  experience,  all  known 
analogies,  favor  the  idea  of  that  immense 
remuneration. 

The  word  remuneration  may  startle 
some  ;  and  they  may  ask,  if  the  sufferer 
does  not  deserve  all  this  pain  ;  not  in- 
deed, as  meaning  that  he  in  particular, 
but  that  all  men  deserve  as  much.  I  an- 
swer, that  it  is  very  easy  to  talk  about 
ill-deserving  in  the  general  and  in  the 
abstract.  Do  you  think  that  you  de- 
serve to  have  a  tooth  extracted  or  a  fin- 
ger chopped  off  every  day,  —  or  any 
pain  as  great  as  that,  every  day,  for  ten 
years  in  succession  ?  But  there  are  suf- 
ferers who  endure  far  more  than  that 
amount  of  pain  daily.  Some  pains  are 
doubtless  punitive  ;  such,  for  instance, 
as  follov/  sensual  excess  or  gross  negli- 
gence ;  that  is  very  plain.  Autliors  of 
a  certain  religious  school  —  like  McCosh 
on  the  Method  of  the  Divine  Govern- 
ment—  sometimes  write  as  if  they  had 
found  out  a  great  secret,  unknown  to 
philosophy,  when  they  discover  that 
pain  is  punitive  ;  that  the  world  is  wicked 
and  needs  and  deserves  chastisement. 
This,  however,  is  no  mystery,  nor  mat- 
ter of  doubt.  But  it  will  not  do  to 
bring  all  pain  under  this  category  ; 
to  resort,  with  Leibnitz,  to  the  "  evilof 
sin  "  as  the  sole  "  reason  for  the  evil  of 


pain."  Some  pain  in  a  sensitive  organi- 
zation, and  sometimes  great  pain,  may 
be  inevitable.  If  it  is  not,  let  some  one 
answer  me  this  question  :  why  do  ani- 
7)uils  suffer  ?     Tlicy  have  not  sinned. 

But,  secondly,  if  pain  be  not  abso- 
lutely inevitable,  it  is  relatively  inevita- 
ble ;  it  is  necessary,  that  is  to  say,  to 
the  intellectual  and  moral  training  of 
humanity. 

To  see  this,  it  is  necessary  to  observe 
two  things.  One  is,  that  every  physical 
organism,  as  it  befits  a  higher  nature,  is 
endowed  with  a  more  susceptible  nervous 
constitution.  We  see  this  gradation  in 
fishes,  bugs,  birds,  and  quadrupeds.  In 
man  the  highest  point  is  attained.  He 
is  clothed  all  over  with  a  network  of 
nervous  tissues.  These  minister  to  a 
higher  than  animal  culture.  Do  you 
wish  that  your  watch  was  a  stone,  that 
it  might  not  get  out  of  order.'  To 
escape  neuralgia,  would  you  be  a  fish 
or  an   ostrich  ? 

The  other  thing  to  be  noted  is,  that 
for  moral  purposes,  this  exposure  to 
pain  is  still  more  manifestly  inevitable. 
It  is  a  less  evil  preferred  to  a  greater, 
one  of  which  is  itnavoidable.  It  is  only 
necessary  to  state  the  case,  to  see  the 
conclusion.  Give  a  finite  and  free  na- 
ture ;  give  a  body  for  its  training  ;  fill 
that  body  with  perpetual  enjoyment;  let 
no  amount  of  negligence  or  recklessness 
hurt  it;  let  no  excess,  no  intemperance 
nor  debauchery,  no  indulgence,  bring 
retributive  and  disciphnary  suffering 
into  it ;  and  the  ruin  of  this  being  would 
be  as  certain  as  his  existence.  Is  there 
too  tmich  of  this  restraint  and  counter- 
action in  the  world  .''  We  know  there  is 
not.  I  may  struggle  against  this  con- 
clusion ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  get 
rid  of  it.  I  would  have  man  moral  and 
free,  and  I  cannot  have  him  infinite  ;  I 
would  have  him  win  the  prize  of  immor- 
tal virtue  ;  I  would  have  the  hostile  ten- 
dencies of  his  ignorance  and  wilfulness 
checked,  controlled  :  I  see  that  pain  is 
such  a  restraint ;  I  must  confess  it  to 
be  good. 

Nor  does  the  immortal  prize  cost  too 


6l2 


THE    PROBLEM   OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


dear.  We  are  in  an  unfair  situation  for 
the  argument  noiv.  We  are  in  tlie 
midst  of  the  disciphne,  and  have  not  yet 
experienced  the  full  result.  We  are  in 
the  battle,  and  have  not  won  the  day. 
But  if  ever  the  day  come  when  we  shall 
rise  to  the  height  of  the  immortal  victory, 
well  shall  we  know  that  it  is  worth  all 
that  it  costs  ;  ay,  and  infinitely  more. 
Nay,  many  feel  that  now,  and  bless  their 
adversity  as  a  greater  benefactor  to  them 
than  ever  was  their  prosperity. 

But  let  us  come  to  that  form  of  evil  — 
be  it  suffering,  sickness,  mental  disease, 
or  unhappy  temperament  —  that  is  he- 
reditary. This,  it  may  be  thought,  is  far 
harder  to  account  for.  It  may  be  said 
that  it  is  an  injustice  ;  "  the  fathers  have 
eaten  sour  grapes,  and  the  children's 
teeth  are  set  on  edge."  Is  not  that 
hard  ?  And  can  it  be  expected  to  be 
useful?  No;  not  if  all  pain  must 
be  regarded  as  punitive,  in  order  to  be 
profitable  ;  for  this  plainly  is  not.  But 
suppose  that  in  the  best  possible  system 
of  things,  the  best  for  all,  the  best  for 
the  sufferer,  this  pain,  this  thread  of  suf- 
fering in  the  great  and  useful  bond  of 
hereditary  transmission,  is  a  thing  that 
could  not  be  extricated,  without  tearing 
the  system  all  to  pieces  ;  would  not  that 
alter  the  case  ?  And  what,  after  all,  is 
there  that  is  so  peculiar  or  strange  in  the 
case  ?  An  incendiary  sets  fire  to  the 
citv,  and  my  house  is  burne'd.  A  flood 
pours  down  the  valley,  and  sweeps  away 
my  mill.  In  either  case,  I  am  an  inno- 
cent sufferer.  What  then?  Would  I 
destroy  the  quality  of  fire,  or  stop  the 
spring  freshet  ?  I  belong  to  a  general 
system.  If  everything  in  it  conspired 
for  my  benefit,  it  would  not  be  general. 
It  is  impossible  that  general  laws,  those, 
for  instance,  of  heat,  cold,  wind,  rain, 
should  work  no  inconvenience  nor  ill  to 
anybody.  I  want  rain  when  my  neigh- 
bor wants  the  sun.  I  want  a  wind  when 
he  wants  a  calm.  The  law  that  is  good 
for  all  must  expose  some  to  harm.  Why 
should  exemption  be  demanded  from 
the  law  of  hereditary  transmission  — 
provided  it  be  a  good  law  ?    What  harm 


or  wrong  does  it,  more  than  any  other 
general  law  ? 

But  now  consider,  that  it  is,  in  fact, 
a  law  of  immense  utility.  First,  it  lies, 
I  think,  at  the  foundation  of  national- 
ity. What  is  it  that  makes  the  French- 
man so  different  from  the  Italian  or 
German  or  Englishman  ?  It  is  not 
cliinate ;  it  is  not  situation  alone;  it  is 
not  the  train  of  historic  events.  Back 
and  beyond  all  these,  we  must  go  to 
something  in  the  blood,  in  the  tem- 
perament, that  makes  a  Frenchman  a 
Frenchman  ;  something  which  is  propa- 
gated from  age  to  age,  and  which  thus 
creates  those  separate  schools  of  cul- 
ture called  nations.  It  is  well  that 
they  are  separate  ;  that  they  have  sepa- 
rate governments,  institutions,  litera- 
ture ;  that  they  should  be  working  out 
experiments  by  themselves,  free  from 
foreign  influences,  sentiments,  vices,  — 
experiments  which  may  ultimately  inure 
to  the  benefit  of  the  whole.  This  may 
be  the  final  cause  of  the  difference  of 
languages,  —  to  keep  people  separate. 
I  am  sure  I  am  glad  that  the  French 
literature  cannot  pour  its  unobstructed 
tide  into  the  channels  of  common  read- 
ing in  this  country.  The  better  things, 
science,  philosophy,  do  come,  through 
the  investigations  of  learned  men  ;  the 
worse  things,  the  dregs  of  popular  liter- 
ature, are  mainly  kept  out. 

Next  to  the  bond  cf  nationality,  and 
stronger,  and  more  necessary  and  use- 
ful, is  the  family  bond ;  and  this,  I 
think,  is  created  by  the  law  of  heredi- 
tary transmission.  I  say,  not  the 
family,  but  the  family  bond,  —  that 
mysterious  affinity  which  is  involved  in 
the  relation  of  kindred.  I  shall  have 
occasion  in  another  connection  to  speak 
of  the  descent  of  property,  and  may 
fairly  add  the  weight  of  that  consider- 
ation to  what  I  am  now  saying;  but 
I  speak  now  of  the  descent  of  char- 
acter ;  of  that  congruity,  that  sympathy, 
that  union,  that  oneness,  which  is  made 
by  affinity.  It  is  a  bond,  not  only  of 
indescribable  interest,  but  of  incalcula- 
ble  utility ;    the   very  heart's    hold,    in 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


613 


this  world,  upon  unpurchased  affection, 
assured  confidence,  comfort,  and  happi- 
ness. The  words  parent,  child,  brother, 
sister,  —  there  are  no  words  like  these. 
And  even  if  the  word  friend  is  a  higher 
and  more  awful  word,  yet  to  how  few, 
in  its  highest  sense,  can  it  be  applied! 
There  doubtless  are  some  persons,  of 
singularly  attractive  and  attaching  na- 
tures, or  of  certain  cosmopolitan  habi- 
tudes, who  can  do  better  than  others 
without  the  family  bond.  But  how 
many,  amidst  the  coldness  and  indif- 
ference of  the  world,  would  wander 
through  life  in  sad  isolation,  feeling 
that  they  had  none  to  care  for  them,  if 
they  could  not  return  and  lean  upon  the 
bosom  of  domestic  affection  !  .  Amicist 
the  wide-flowing  fibres  of  human  feel- 
ing, amidst  the  wilfulness  and  reckless- 
ness of  men's  passions  and  regards,  are 
set  these  fast  knots,  these  ties  of  kin- 
dred, to  hold  the  social  world  together  ; 
nay,  and  they  link  together  family  after 
family  in  succession,  and  thus  become 
the  binding  ties  of  generation  to  gener- 
ation, and  of  age  to  age. 

Now  I  suppose  it  is  obvious,  that  if 
any  thing  is  hereditary;  if  influence, 
temperament,  character,  the  very  life- 
blood,  flows  down  from  sire  to  son  ;  if 
good  or  bad  name  descends,  then  some 
evil  must  pass  on  along  with  the  good. 
The  one  cannot  be  separated  from  the 
other.  Nay,  and  observe  that  the  gen- 
eral influence  of  all  this  must  be  good. 
The  very  thought  of  this  transmission 
must  be  salutary.  What  a  premium 
upon  good  conduct  is  it,  and  what  a  tre- 
mendous admonition  to  bad  conduct  I 
Many  a  tempted  man  has  been  startled 
and  struck  to  the  heart  with  tliat  thought, 
—  that  his  children  may  inherit  his  pas- 
sions, his  vices,  his  diseases.  Nature 
within  us  keeps  a  stricter  account  with 
us  than  we  think.  It  expects  us  to  do 
right ;  and  so  exquisitely  is  everything 
adjusted  within  us  and  around  us,  that 
we  can  never  do  wrong  with  impunity. 
In  all  these  awful  depths  of  humanity 
and  life  there  is  no  hiding-place  where 
evil  '"an  be  buried  forever.     It  may  he 


cloaked  in  secrecy  or  decency  all  our 
lives,  and  yet  break  out  in  misleading 
and  misery  to  our  children,  and  to  our 
children's  children  ;  ay,  ".unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation."' 

But  the  subject  to  which  I  intended 
to  devote  the  principal  part  of  this  lec- 
ture is  the  end  of  earthly  pains  and  of 
the  human  generations,  —  the  solemn 
departure  from  this  Hfe. 

Three  great  facts,  says  the  Italian 
Vico,  are  everywhere  found,  embedded 
in  the  foundations  of  human  society  : 
"  worship,  marriage,  and  burial."  Among 
all  nations,  in  all  ages,  exist  these  sol- 
emn usages  ;  and  without  them,  human 
society  could  not  exist.  They  are  not 
mere  facts,  and  universal  facts;  but 
their  signiticance  is  manifest ;  they  are 
essential  ministrations  to  the  moral  cul- 
ture of  the  human  race. 

The  rites  of  sepulture  are  as  peculiar 
to  man  as  those  of  worship  or  marriage. 
Man  is  the  only  being  on  earth  that 
buries  his  dead.  This  usage  is  the  ex- 
pression of  a  sentiment  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  animal  instinct.  It  is  not  mere 
convenience  that  suggests  the  practice. 
It  is  a  sentiment  :  it  is  a  sense  of 
fitness  ;  it  is  a  dictate  of  respect  for 
the  venerable  form  of  humanity  ;  it  is 
to  garner  up  its  sacred  dust  as  rever- 
ently as  if  it  were  laid  in  a  royal  mauso- 
leum, where, 

"  Nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  it  further." 

Man  marks  as  holy  the  spot  where  he 
lays  down  the  frame  of  the  spirit's  life 
to  its  "  dread  repose  ;"  and  over  those 
holy  remains  he  builds  the  sepulchre,  ihe 
tomb,  the  pyramid.  He  builds  them  as 
monuments  of  veneration  and  affection  ; 
as  testimonials  to  the  solemn  import  of 
death,  and  to  the  hope  of  immortality. 

It  is  in  this  light  that  I  am  now  to 
contemplate  death  ;  not  as  a  bare  fact, 
not  as  the  simple  ceasing  of  life,  —  for 
animals  too  die,  —  but  as  clothed  with 
moral  sentiments,  and  as  ministering  to 
the  moral  improvement  of  mankind. 

By    the    unreflecting    mass   of    men, 


6i4 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


death  is  regarded  simply  as  the  great- 
est of  evils.  They  survey  its  ravages 
with  dread  and  horror.  They  see  no 
beneficent  agencies  in  the  appointment; 
they  scarcely  see  it  as  an  appointment 
at  all.  They  behold  its  approach  to 
their  own  dwelling,  not  in  the  spirit 
of  calm  philosophy  or  resignation,  but 
si'Tioly  with  a  desire  to  resist  its  en- 
trance. To  "  deliver  those  who  all 
their  lifetime  are  in  bondage  through 
fear  of  death,"  was  one  express  design 
of  Christianity  ;  but  only  in  a  few  minds 
has  this  design  been  fulfilled.  Death 
is  still  regarded,  not  as  an  ordinance, 
but  as  a  catastrophe.  It  is  like  the 
earthquake  to  the  material  world  ;  that 
which  whelms  all.  It  is  the  one  calam- 
ity; that  which  strikes  a  deeper  shaft 
into  the  world  than  any  other.  It  is 
the  fixed  doom  which  makes  all  other 
calamity  light  and  phenomenal.  The 
world  trembles  at  it,  grows  pale  before 
it,  as  it  trembles  and  grows  pale  before 
nothing  else.  Nay,  and  with  reflecting 
persons,  I  think,  the  feeling  that  they 
7mist  die,  is  usually  the  feeling  as  of 
some  stern  necessity.  "  Now  let  me 
depart :  it  is  good  for  me  to  go  hence," 
is  a  language  sometimes  heard  ;  but  it 
is  rare.  That  dark  veil,  at  the  te-mi- 
nation  of  the  view,  there  forever  sus- 
pended, casts  a  shade  over  the  whole 
of  life. 

Can  it  have  been  meant,  is  it  reason- 
able, that  an  event  so  necessary,  so 
universal,  and  appointed  doubtless  in 
wisdom  and  goodness,  should  be  thus  re- 
garded .''  For  death,  it  is  evident,  in  fact, 
if  not  in  form,  is  a  part  of  the  original 
world-plan.  I  know  that  it  is  commonly 
looked  upon  as  the  consequence  of  sin, 
the  consequence  of  the  fall.  But  ob- 
serve the  language  in  which  this  doom, 
supposed  to  be  consequent  upon  the 
fall  of  man,  is  pronounced.  It  is  in  the 
third  chapter  of  Genesis.  It  is  a  doom, 
in  general,  of  toil  and  pain  and  sorrow ; 
and  when  death  is  mentioned,  it  is  in 
these  terms  :  "  In  the  sweat  of  tliy  face 
shalt  thou  eat  bread,  till  thou  return 
unto   the  ground  ;  for  out  of   it  wast 


thou  taken  ;  for  dust  tJioii  art,  and  unto 
dust  shalt  thou  return."  "  Till  thou  re- 
turn to  the  ground."  This,  then,  is  repre- 
sented as  a  part  of  the  already  appointed 
ordination  of  nature.  '■'■For  out  of  it 
wast  thou  taken."  The  reason  assigned 
has  no  reference  to  the  fall,  but  to  the 
constitution  of  human  nature.  "  For 
dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou 
return."  That  is,  thou  shalt  die,  for 
thou  art  naturally  mortal  ;  earth  has  part 
in  thee,  and  shall  reclaim  her  own. 

I  have  no  wish  to  strain  this  language 
to  the  support  of  any  theory  ;  and  per- 
haps it  does  imply  that  if  Adam  had 
stood  in  innocence,  the  doom,  or  rather 
the  present  form  of  that  doom,  might 
have  been  averted ;  but  then  it  certainly 
does  imply  also  that  it  was  the  natural 
consequence  of  the  human  conformation. 
Saint  Paul  indeed  says,  that  "  death 
came  into  the  world  by  sin :  "  but  he 
may  mean  death  figuratively,  i.  e.. 
misery  ;  as  where  he  says,  "  The  com- 
mandment which  was  ordained  to  life, 
I  found  to  be  to  death"  i.  e.,  to  misery,  to 
despair.  Some  able  commentators  have 
been  of  this  opinion.*  But  whether  it 
be  so  or  not,  is  not  material  to  the  view 
I  take  ;  which  is  this,  —  that  there  is  a 
wide  distinction  to  be  made  between 
death,  as  a  gloomy,  fearful,  distressful 
event,  and  simple  departure  from  this 
life.  "  That  death,"  says  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor, "which  God  threatened  to  Adam, 
and  which  passed  upon  his  posterity,  is 
not  the  going  out  of  this  world,  but  the 
manner  of  going."  Grant,  then,  that 
death  as  a  mode  of  departure  were  the 
consequence  of  sin,  yet  the  simple  exit 
from  this  life,  the  return  of  the  body  to 
the  dust,  is  evidently  a  part  of  the  origi- 
nal plan.  It  belongs  to  the  constitu- 
tion of  man  and  of  the  world. 

Dissolution,  death,  is  that  to  whicli 
the  human  body  tends  by  its  essential 
constitution.  It  is  as  much  'in  the 
natural  course  of  things  as  childhood, 
youth,  manhood,  age.  The  earth,  too, 
was  evidently  made  for  transition,  not 
for  permanent  abode  to  its  inhabitants. 

*  See  Koppe  on  Romans  v.  12. 


Li 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY 


615 


If  successive  generations  enter  it,  gener- 
ations in  succession  must  leave  it.  Its 
supplies  of  food  are  limited.  Its  ac- 
cumulating generations  could  not  even 
stand M^on  it.  One  therefore  must  give 
place  to  another.  If  not,  there  would 
have  been  no  place  for  tis,  at  any  rate  ; 
we  should  not  have  been  here  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter,  anyway- 

All  this  is  but  saying  that  each  gener- 
ation must  die.  In  this  sense,  therefore, 
death  was  a  part  of  the  original  plan  ; 
the  departure  from  this  world,  that  is  to 
.say.  was  a  part  of  it,  even  as  that  most 
ancient  Scripture  record  of  it  implies. 
But  still,  doubtless,  this  departure  may 
have  assumed  a  particular  character  in 
consequence  of  sin.  It  may  be,  I  re- 
peat, a  death,  dark  and  fearful,  —  dis- 
tressful both  to  body  and  mind.  Vice, 
for  instance,  brings  on  disease,  and 
disease  produces  death  ;  and  this  death, 
thus  premature  and  agonizing,  is  the 
fruit  of  sin.  And  doubtless  in  many 
wavs,  and  in  every  way,  departure  from 
this  world  must  be  a  more  afflictive 
event,  both  to  the  sufferer  and  to  sur- 
vivors, in  consequence  of  our  moral 
darkness,  wandering,  and  weakness. 

Nevertheless, —  for  I  must  insist  upon 
this  point,  —  the  departure,  in  some  way, 
is  inevitable.  The  over-crowded  dwell- 
ing must  dismiss  some  of  its  inmates  ; 
the  over-populous  nation  must  send  out 
colonies.  Thus  must  the  world,  so  to 
speak,  colonize  its  inhabitants,  translate 
them  to  another  country  ;  else  death 
would  come  amidst  horrors  now  un- 
known, amidst  the  agonies  of  famine 
and  the  suffocation  of  fulness. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  succeed  in 
the  attempt ;  but  I  wish  to  impress 
upon  your  minds  the  conviction,  that 
man's  life  on  earth  could  not  have  been 
meant  to  be  immortal :  that  death,  con- 
sidered as  a  simple  exit  from  this  world, 
must  have  been  as  certainly  a  part  of 
the  originj\l  plan,  as  birth  ;  that,  if  the 
system  of  the  world  is  capable  of  de- 
fence, this  inevitable  part  of  it  must  be  ; 
in  fine,  that  if  God  is  good,  this  ordi- 
nation must  be  a  good,  and  not  an  evil. 


For,  so  long  as  this  natural  and  wise  limi- 
tation of  the  period  of  life  is  looked 
upon  as  an  unnatural  and  dreadful 
catastrophe,  —  as  wreck  and  ruin  to  the 
genuine,  all-comprehending  order  of  na- 
ture, and  not  a  legitimate  and  beneficent 
part  of  it,  — it  is  in  vain  that  we  speak 
of  it,  and  urge  the  grounds  for  placing 
it  among  the  wise  and  good  ordinances 
of  our  being. 

Let  us  now  consider  this  event,  first, 
in  its  circumstances,  and  then,  in  its 
direct  ministration  to  the  great  ends 
of  our  being.  The  circumstances  to 
which  I  refer  are  the  isolation  that  at- 
tends it,  and  the  disease  and  suffering 
that  usually  conduct  to  it ;  and  the  ques- 
tion may  arise, — why  these  arrange- 
ments, so  full  of  pain  and  affliction  'i 

First,  the  event  is  isolated.  "Alas  !  " 
one  may  say,  "  earth  does  7wt  colonize 
its  inhabitants  ;  it  does  not  dismiss  them 
in  tribes  and  families  ;  then  were  we 
spared  the  sorrows  of  bereavement ;  one 
by  one  men  depart  for  the  spirit  land." 
But  let  us  see  how  important  this  ar- 
rangement is,  not  only  to  human  culture, 
but  to  the  general  intent  and  economy 
of  the  human  condition.  What  would 
become  of  the  cultivation  of  the  earth, 
where  would  be  the  transmitted  fruits 
of  experience,  and  in  what  state  would 
be  the  whole  training  of  the  human  race, 
if  men  departed  for  the  other  life  in 
companies,  in  families  ?  Take  away 
that  one  bond  from  the  world,  —  inheri- 
tance, inheritance  of  property  and  ex- 
perience,—  and  the  world  could  not  stand 
in  its  present  order;  it  would  fall  to 
pieces.  Houses,  estates,  would  decay,  if 
none,  neither  friends  nor  children,  none 
for  whom  we  had  any  regard,  were  to 
take  them  from  our  hands  ;  all  forecast, 
prudence,  industry,  would  die  out  of  the 
world  ;  like  the  animal  tribes,  each  gen- 
eration would  have  to  take  up  the  lesson 
anew.  It  is  only  upon  the  plan  of  single 
isolated  departures  from  the  world,  that 
its  instruction  can  be  kept  up,  or  its  pro- 
gress carried  forward.  If  nations,  gen- 
erations, died  off  at  once,  all  the  labors 
of  humanity  would  only  weave  its  wind- 


6i6 


THE   PROBLEM   OF    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


ing  sheet.  But  now,  throughout  the 
mighty  frame  of  society,  unnumbered 
hands  sinl:  from  the  loom  at  every 
moment,  and  unnumbered  new  ones 
rise,  to  ply  the  great  task  ;  and  thus 
is  woven  the  unbroken  web  of  ever-pro- 
gressive human  fortunes. 

Next,  let  us  consider  the  illness  that 
is  usually  the  precursor  of  death.  Why, 
it  may  be  said,  the  pains  of  mortal  dis- 
ease ?  Why  so  much  suffering  that  is 
apparently  useless,  i.  e.,  morally^  use- 
less .''  I  might  answer,  holding  to  the 
strict  coherence  and  continuity  of  the 
present  and  future  life,  that  it  is  no  more 
useless  than  any  disciplinary  pain.  But 
I  am  looking  now  only  at  the  general 
economy  of  the  human  condition  ;  the 
advantage  or  disadvantage  for  this  life. 
And  in  this  view,  it  may  be  assumed, 
without  regard  to  the  moral  issue,  that 
it  is  desirable,  almost  necessary,  that 
men  should  have  some  premonition  of 
their  departure  from  this  world ;  that 
they  should  not  drop  instantly  from  the 
scene.  They  wish  to  give  directions 
and  make  arrangements  for  the  future. 
Endless  difficulty  and  confusion  would 
arise  with  regard  to  property,  to  trusts, 
to  important  matters  involving  the  wel- 
fare and  comfort  of  survivors,  without 
this  final  disposition.  And  then  with  re- 
gard to  the  pain  of  a  last  illness,  simply 
considered  ;  suppose  the  premonition 
were  to  be  distinctly  given  in  some 
other  way,  and  long  enough  previous  to 
the  event ;  suppose  there  were  some- 
thing in  the  human  system  that  gave 
the  note  of  preparation,  like  the  clock 
liefore  it  strikes  the  hour  :  does  not  the 
illness  that  slowly  breaks  the  tie  to  life 
and  makes  the  sufferer  willing,  and  per- 
haps desirous  to  depart,  cause  \e^^ pain 
than  would  be  felt  in  one  week  passed 
in  health,  under  the  doom  of  that  fear- 
ful certainty  ?  For  one  in  the  midst  of 
health  and  enjoyment,  in  the  fresh  and 
vivid  sense  of  what  life  is,  and  of  all  its 
ties,  to  be  told  that  he  shall  die  next 
Monday  ;  what  a  dread  interval  would 
it  be, — at  least  to  most  men  !  I  can- 
not doubt  that  the  present  mode  of  our 


dismission  from  life  is  more  merciful 
than  that  would  be.  "  No  escape  !  " 
_  says  Egmont  in  Goethe's  drama —  (he 
was  doomed  to  the  scaffold  by  the  cruel 
Duke  of  Alva)  —  "  no  escape  !  Sweet 
life  !  beautiful,  kindly  wont  of  being  and 
action  !  —  from  thee  shall  I  part  —  so 
quietly  part  t  Not  in  the  tumult  of 
battle,  nor  amidst  the  noise  of  arms, 
dost  thou  give  thy  swift  farewell  ;  thou 
takest  no  hasty  leave  —  cuttest  not  short 
the  moment  of  parting.  I  shall  take 
thy  hand  —  look  yet  awhile  into  thine 
eyes  —  feel  all  lovingly  thy  beauty,  thy 
preciousness  —  then    tear    myself  away 

—  and  say,  farewell  !  "  More  merciful, 
I  repeat,  than  this,  is  God's  ordinance 
of  sickness  and  pain  as  the  pathway  to 
the  grave. 

I  will  venture  to  add  that  death  some- 
times brings  specific  relief,  —  from  evils 
for  which  there  is  no  other  remedy ; 
from  sickness  and  pain  which  nothing 
else  can  end ;  from  painful  relations, 
from  mental  difficulties,  from  embarrass- 
ing crises  in  life,  of  which  nothing  else 
can  break  the  knot,  the  bondage  and 
sorrow.  It  is  not  always  hard  to  die. 
There  are  those,  and  more  of  them  per- 
haps than  we  think,  who  desire  to  die. 
I  have  looked  upon  those,  in  sad  rela- 
tions to  one  another,  or  to  the  world,  of 
whom  I  have  said,  "Nothing  that  I  see 
but  death  can  help  you."  And  there 
are  persons  involved  in  such  moral 
emergencies  —  so  desperate  and  irreme- 
diable —  that  they  are  fain  to  say,  "  Let 
me  die  ;  let  death  deliver  me  ;  I  would 
begin  anew;  I  vfould  try  again  "  There 
may  be  more  of  them,  I  repeat,  than  we 
think. 

But  let  us  now  proceed  to  the  main! 
and  final  question  —  the  moral  question! 

—  to  be  examined:  whether  the  highest! 
culture,  the  safety  and  happiness  of  thisj 
life,  do  not  make  the  appointed  departurej 
from  it,  however  naturally  unwelcome, | 
actually  necessary,  and  even  desirable. 
In  this  view,  I  am  to  speak  of  death,! 
not  merely  as  the  end  of  this  life,  but  asj 
the  passage  to  anotlier. 

The   learned  Bishop  Warburton,  as- 


THE   PROBLEiVI   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY, 


617 


suming,  though,  as  I  think,  erroneously 
assuming,  that  the  Hebrews  had  no 
knowledge  of  a  future  hfe,  has  gone 
into  a  very  elaborate  argument  to  show 
that  Moses  must  have  had  a  divine 
Legation,  attested  by  miracles.  P^or  he 
maintained  that  without  the  expectation 
of  future  rewards  and  punishments, 
nothing  but  a  special  and  miraculous 
interposition  could  hold  a  people  in  the 
bonds  of  moral  order.  Doubtless  the 
argument  is  just,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  premises.  What  could 
keep  in  any  bounds  the  swellings  of  am- 
bition, pride,  cruelty,  luxury,  and  licen- 
tiousness, did  not  death  interpose  its 
dread  barrier?  It  is  commonly  called 
"the  king  of  terrors;"  as  if  in  that 
character  it  were  to  be  deprecated.  But 
its  terrors  are  for  those  who  most  need 
them.  And  well  is  it,  that  that  shadowy 
king  stands  in  the  path,  and  says  to 
self-indulgence,  "  Remember  !  "  and  to 
oppression,  "  Beware  !  "  —  else  were  not 
the  earth  habitable. 

But  I  wish  to  speak  of  this  event  in 
its  widest  relations  to  human  improve- 
ment ;  not  merely  as  a  terror,  but  as 
every  way  a  wisely  appointed  and  good 
discipline. 

Death  is  an  epoch  in  our  moral  course. 
A  youth  at  school  is  far  more  likely  to 
be  affected  by  the  prospect  of  an  ap- 
proaching examination,  than  by  his 
general  responsibility.  Then  he  is  to 
answer  for  himself.  Then  his  learning 
is  to  be  brought  to  the  test.  Theti  his 
fidelity  or  neglect  is  distinctly  to  appear. 
Such  is  the  coming  hour  of  death  to  the 
moral  learner.  It  brings  the  sense  of 
obligation  to  a  point  from  which  there 
is  no  escape.  It  brings  the  great  moral 
trial  of  life  to  a  solemn  issue.  Doubt- 
less there  is  a  higher  thought,  a  larger 
view,  for  the  manhood  of  reason  ;  but 
in  this  respect,  most  men  are  yet  chil- 
dren, and  need  the  discipline  of  children. 
Doubtless  the  moment  that  lies  in  the 
distance  of  a  thousand  years  is  to  an- 
swer for  the  moment  that  is  now  pass- 
ing ;  the  whole  vast  future  is  bound  to 
the   present   hour   by   the   indissoluble 


chain  of  cause  and  effect ;  but  for 
creatures  of  our  limited  capacity  that 
prospect  is  too  general,  and  it  seems 
expedient  that  there  should  be  distinct 
steps  in  our  progress ;  that  manhood, 
for  instance,  should  distinctly  answer 
for  youth,  and  age  for  manhood  ;  and,  in 
like  manner,  the  immediate  future  life 
for  the  life  that  now  is. 

Again,  the  nearness  of  the  event  has 
its  purpose.  If  any  one  should  ask  why 
the  allotted  term  of  man's  existence  on 
earth  should  be  so  brief,  I  still  answer, 
that  I  see  in  this  a  wise  ordination 
The  advancement  of  the  world  depends 
on  the  earlier  vigor  and  flexibility  of  life. 
I  say  not  upon  young  men  and  women, 
—  for  that  seems  to  me  one  of  the  follies 
of  our  time,  —  but  upon  the  age  between 
twenty-five  and  sixty-five.  After  that, 
opinions  usually  become  settled,  habits 
fixed  ;  and  the  world  may  not  look  for 
new  ideas,  innovating  enterprises,  nor 
the  enthusiasm  to  prosecute  them.  In- 
ventions, reforms,  are  seldom  to  be  seen 
in  old  age.  Age  has  indeed  its  part  to 
act ;  to  guide  the  zeal  and  restrain  the 
rashness  of  the  young.  Its  experience 
and  wisdom  are  to  be  respected  ;  far 
more,  I  think,  than  they  are  at  this 
day ;  but  old  men,  generally,  are  not  the 
working  men  of  the  world.  What,  then, 
is  the  ordinance  that  is  to  meet  this 
condition  of  humanity  ?  Tiie  scythe  of 
death  mows  down  the  generations,  that 
it  may  provide  for  a  more  vigorous 
growth.  The  axe  that  "is  laid  at  the 
root,"  cuts  away  the  aged  trees,  that 
younger  and  fairer  ones  may  shoot  up 
in  their  stead.  The  builder  removes 
fixtures  that  he  may  prepare  for  im- 
provements. Thus  the  world  is  con- 
tinually recruited  with  fresh  strength, 
and  is  pervaded  with  an  imaginative 
and  flexible  enterprise  ;  and  thus  its 
arts  are  advanced  ;  its  fields  are  culti- 
vated with  increasing  skill  ;  its  houses 
are  built  on  improved  plans;  its  science 
and  literature  are  constantly  rising;  and 
its  religious  systems  are  advancing  to 
higher  truths  and  wider  ranges  of  vision. 
Death,  then,  grim  and  fearful  as  it  is 


6i8 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY 


accounted,  is,  like  decay  in  nature,  the 
constant  improver,  enricher,  and  beauti- 
fier  of  the  world. 

Yet  further,  the  inevitableness  of  the 
coming  change  is  a  weighty  element  of 
its  moral  power.  The  certainty  of  it ; 
the  feeling  that  nothing  can  stay  the 
event ;  that  no  hoard  of  gold,  nor  crown 
of  honor,  nor  crowd  of  cares,  nor  press- 
ure of  engagements,  nor  thronging 
visions  of  coming  prosperity,  nor  mo- 
mentous crisis  in  affairs,  can  ward  off 
the  inevitable  hour,  —  how  does  that 
feeling  penetrate  through  the  whole  of 
life,  and  sober,  at  times,  the  wildest 
levity,  and  subdue  the  haughtiest  am- 
bition !  The  Grecian  Epaminondas, 
when  told  that  a  distinguished  general 
had  died  while  the  battle  was  raging, 
exclaimed,  "Ye  gods!  how  can  a  man 
find  time  to  die,  at  a  moment  like  this  !  " 
But  every  man  must  find  time  to  die  I 
Ay,  the  man  of  blood,  whose  ruthless 
sword  has  cut  down  its  thousands  and 
ten  thousands  ;  who  was  deaf  to  the 
groans  and  pleadings  of  human  misery ; 
who  has  crushed  ten  thousand  human 
hearts  beneath  his  blood-stained  car,  — 
Tamerlane  or  Alaric,  Cjesar  or  Napoleon, 
—  he  has,  in  God's  dread  forbearance, 
found  a  time  to  kill ;  but  he  has  also,  in 
God's  awful  justice,  found  a  time  to  die! 
And  the  private  man,  the  man  who  dwells 
in  the  deepest  seclusion;  who  lives  hid- 
den and  shrouded  from  the  public  eye  ; 
who  draws  the  veil  of  midnight  around 
Ills  deeds  ;  that  man  still  feels  that  an 
eye  is  upon  him  ;  he  is  obhged  to  con- 
front the  awful  image  of  death  ;  he  can- 
not escape.  "But  I  must  die!"  is  a 
thought  that  steals  upon  many  a  worldly 
dream  and  many  a  silent  rumination. 
He  feels  it,  though  no  solemn  message, 
as  in  the  Egyptian  feasts,  take  up  the 
admonition  and  say,  "Remember!  thou 
must  die  !  " 

Yet  not  with  terror  onl}',  but  with  ten- 
derness, does  death  touch  the  human 
heart,  —  touches  it  with  a  gracious  sym- 
pathy and  sorrow.  One  may  know  the 
house  where  death  has  set  his  mark, 
lono;  after  the  time.     Traces  are  left  in 


its  affections  that  are  never  worn  out. 
Traces  are  left  in  nieinoriam,  in  poetry, 
in  all  human  sentiment.  Death  is  not 
the  sundering,  but  the  consecration  of 
friendship.  It  strengthens  that  holy 
bond.  It  makes  the  departed  dearer. 
It  gives  new  power  and  sanctity  to  their 
example.  It  invests  their  virtues  with 
the  radiance  of  angel  beauty.  It  canon- 
izes them  as  patron  saints  and  guardian 
angels  of  the  household. 

Nor  could  it  fulfil  its  high  mission,  if 
men  departed  from  the  world  in  families, 
in  tribes,  in  generations.  Then,  indeed, 
were  we  spared  the  sorrows  of  bereave- 
ment, but  at  the  expense  of  much  that 
is  most  sacred  in  life.  If  families  were 
dismissed  from  life  together,  they  would 
inevitably  become  selfish,  contracting 
their  thoughts  and  affections  within 
those  domestic  spheres  in  which  all 
their  destinies  were  bound  up.  If  gen- 
erations were  mowed  down  at  once,  like 
the  ripened  harvests,  then  had  there 
been  no  history  of  public  deeds  nor 
record  of  private  worth.  The  invisible 
presence  of  virtue  that  now  pervades 
and  hallows  the  earth,  that  consecrates 
our  dwellings  and  makes  them  far  more 
than  the  abodes  of  life,  would  be  with- 
drawn from  the  fellowship  of  men  ;  and 
the  signal  lights  of  heroic  example  that 
are  now  shining  through  the  ages  would 
all  go  out  in  utter  darkness.  A  work- 
ing-day world,  a  utilitarian  world,  we 
should  have ;  shut  up  to  the  cares  and 
interests  of  the  generation  that  is  passing 
over  it ;  not  as  now  a  world  that  is  over- 
spread with  the  mounds  ot  departed  na- 
tions, with  the  dust  of  buried  empire, — 
the  theatre  of  majestic  history,  the  her- 
itage of  genius,  the  altar  of  holy  martyr- 
dom. The  earth  is  no  longer  the  mere 
material  globe  that  at  the  beginning 
rolled  round  its  parent  sun  :  it  is  the 
tomb  of  generations,  the  monument  of 
ages.  From  out  of  its  hollow  recesses 
and  echoing  caverns,  what  oracles  come  ! 
Upon  its  majestic  brow,  what  names 
are  written,  —  Assyria,  Egypt,  Phoenicia, 
Greece,  Rome  ;  the  Goth,  the  Gaul,  the 
Saxon,  the  Slavonic  race,  and  races  of 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


619 


the  old,  the  dateless,  American  time  ! 
The  very  dwellings,  the  cities  of  the 
world,  have  become  monumental.  AW 
present  convenience,  not  bustling  ac- 
tivity alone,  but  the  sanctity  of  death 
makes  them  what  they  are.  Their  walls 
have  echoed  to  joys  and  sorrows  that 
have  passed  away.  High,  heroic  hearts 
have  throbbed  within  them,  tliat  beat  no 
more;  pain  and  patience  have  built  altars 
in  them  to  lowly  resignation  and  prayer; 
the  last  sigh  has  ascended  from  them, 
and,  as  holy  incense,  consecrated  them 
forever.  Oh  !  not  the  present  alone  is 
here;  but  the  image  of  the  majestic  past 
stalks  through  the  world,  and  casts  its 
solemn  mantle  over  the  life  of  to-day  ! 
We  live  that  we  may  garner  up  the 
treasures  of  humanity,  and,  adding  to 
them  the  little  that  we  can,  transmit 
them  to  those  that  come  after.  We 
survive,  with  whatever  pain  to  our- 
selves, that  virtue  may  not  die.  We 
guard  the  holy  bequest.  See  we  to  it 
that  it  waste  not  nor  dwindle  in  our 
hands ! 

Nay,  in  another  respect,  the  grandeur 
of  death  imparts  a  reflected  dignity  to 
life.  God  puts  honor  on  the  being  to 
whom  He  says,  "Thou  shalt  die!"  — 
to  whom  He  does  not  veil  the  event, 
as  He  does  to  animal  natures,  but  un- 
folds the  clear  prospect.  He,  to  whom 
the  grandest  achievement  of  courage 
and  heroism  should  be  proposed,  could 
not  be  a  mean  creature.  But  every  man 
is  to  meet  the  grandeur  of  death.  In 
these  mortal  lists  he  stands,  —  ay,  the 
youth,  the  child,  the  frailest  spirit  that 
ever  was  clothed  with  the  habiliments 
of  mortality  ;  and  he  knows  that  he  is 
to  meet  a  crisis  more  sublime  and  mys- 


terious than  any  other  that  ever  chal- 
lenged mortal  courage.  The  meanest 
man  lives  with  that  prospect  before 
him.  More  than  that  which  makes 
heroism  sublime,  it  is  his  to  encounter. 
Yes,  and  in  the  bosom  of  death  are 
powers  greater  than  itself.  I  have  seeti 
them  ;  I  have  seen  them  triumph  when 
death  was  nearest  and  mightiest ;  and 
I  believe  in  them,  —  I  believe  in  those 
inborn  powers  of  life  and  immortality 
more  than  I  beheve  in  death.  They 
will  bear  me  up  more  than  death  will 
weigh  me  down.  I  hve  ;  and  this  liv- 
ing, conscious  being  which  I  am  to-day 
is  a  greater  wonder  to  me  than  it  is 
that  I  should  go  on  and  on.  How  I 
came  to  be,  astonishes  me  far  more 
than  how  I  should  continue  to  be. 
And  if  I  am  to  continue,  if  I  am  to  live 
forever,  I  must  have  a  realm  fitted  for 
such  life.  Eternity  of  being  must  have 
infinitude  of  space  for  its  range.  I 
would  visit  other  worlds  ;  and  espe- 
cially does  the  desire  grow  intenser,  as 
the  boundless  splendors  of  the  starry 
heavens  are  unfolded  wider  and  wider. 
But  I  cannot  go  to  them,  —  I  cannot 
skirt  the  coasts  of  Sirius  and  the  Plei- 
ades with  this  body.  Then,  —  some 
time,  —  in  God's  good  time, — let  it 
drop.  Let  my  spirit  wander  free.  Let 
this  body  drop  ;  as  when  one  leaves  the 
vehicle  that  had  borne  him  on  a  journey. 
—  to  ascend  some  lofty  mountain,  —  to 
lift  his  gaze  to  wider  heavens  and  a 
vaster  horizon.  So  let  my  spirit  wander 
free  —  and  far.  Let  it  wander  through 
the  realm  of  infinite  good  ;  its  range  as 
unconfined  as  its  nature  ;  its  faith,  the 
faith  of  Christ ;  its  hope,  a  hope  full  of 
immortality  ! 


620 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


LECTURE     X. 

HISTORIC  PROBLEMS  :    POLYTHEISM,  DESPOTISM,  WAR,  SLAVERY, 

THE    PREVALENCE    AND    MINISTRY    OF    ERROR    IN    THE    SYSTEM 
OF    THE    WORLD. 


I  MUST  now  take  up  the  great  social 
problems  to  which  I  referred  in  my 
last  lecture,  —  Polytheism,  Despotism, 
War,  Slavery,  and  that  problem  which 
embraces  them  all :  the  Prevalence  and 
Ministry  of  Error. 

"A  grim  and  fearful  host  of  ills,"  it 
may  be  said,  "  to  preside  over  the  des- 
tiny of  the  human  race ;  or  if  not  to 
preside,  to  prevail,  —  to  have  darkened 
the  world  with  fear,  to  have  bound  it 
in  chains,  to  have  torn  it  with  violence, 
from  the  beginning ;  to  have  led  the 
generations  of  men  in  mazes  of  darkness 
and  wandering  through  all  ages  !  How 
can  such  things  have  been  ordained  or 
permitted  ?  How  in  any  way  could 
such  things  have  been  the  agencies  of 
a  good  and  wise  Providence  ?  " 

Now,  in  dealing  with  these  questions, 
we  must  take  along  with  us  what  has 
been  already  said  upon  the  very  grounds 
and  principles  of  the  human  problem. 
Man,  as  a  moral  being,  must  of  necessity 
be  free  ;  as  a  created  being,  he  must  be 
imperfect  and  ignorant ;  as  a  being  whose 
destiny  it  is  to  improve,  he  must  dei;;ifi 
somewhere  ;  nay,  as  a  being,  all  whose 
knowledge  and  virtue  are  to  be  ac- 
quired, he  must  begin  at  a  point  where 
he  has  no  virtue  or  knowledge  ;  i.  e.,  he 
must  begin  in  infancy.  Look,  then,  at 
this  being,  and  consider  what  must  be 
the  inevitable  laws  of  his  development, 
and  what  the  probable  course  of  it. 
Do  not  ask  why  this  or  that  could  not 
have  been  hindered ;  but  see  that  the 
principle  of  hindrance  would  be  fatal 
to  the  system  ;  that  the  demand  for 
divine  interference  made  by  millions, 
irretrievably   complicates,    and,    if    lis- 


tened to,  ruins  all.  See  man,  then,  as 
he  is  and  must  be.  Imperfect,  igno- 
rant, infantile,  —  yet  endowed  with 
powerful  energies  and  impulses,  with- 
out which  he  would  be  nothing,  —  he 
is  placed  upon  the  earth  to  do  what  he 
pleases.  Deprive  him  of  the  liberty 
to  do  so,  and  you  unmake  the  man. 
Deprive  him  of  his  imperfection,  his 
ignorance,  his  exposure  to  error,  and 
you  make  him  God.  Or,  yet  once  more  : 
interfere  with  his  free  development  by 
incessant  miracles  to  ward  off  the  evils 
into  which  he  falls,  and  you  break  up 
the  whole  regular  training  on  which 
that  development  depends.  Take  the 
case  of  any  evil,  any  wrong,  any  misery 
that  ever  was  inflicted,  and  consider  it. 
The  assassin's  arm  is  raised  to  murder. 
Almighty  power  could  arrest  it  ;  but 
then  the  agent  would  not  be  free.  Two 
armies  are  about  to  rush  into  battle. 
Almighty  power  could  in  an  instant 
chain  tliese  hosts  like  statues  to  the 
earth  ;  but  then  they  would  not  be  free, 
would  not  be  men. 

I  must  desire  you  further  to  take  it 
into  the  account,  not  only  that  some 
evils  were  likely  to  flow  from  such  a 
constitution  of  things,  but  that  these 
very  evils  which  we  are  to  consider 
were  the  natural,  if  not  inevitable,  de- 
velopments of  human  ignorance  and 
weakness  ;  nay,  and  of  the  higher  hu- 
man sentiments,  too,  —  of  the  feelings 
of  r/^///  and  of  religion.  Not  from 
some  dark  cavern  are  they  let  loose, 
like  avenging  furies,  not  from  some 
fabled  Pandora's  box  have  they  issued, 
but  from  the  bosom  of  humanity  ;  nor 
from  any  constitutional  badness  of  na- 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


621 


ture,  but  from  passions,  from  errors, 
from  mistakes,  from  collisions,  from  cir- 
cumstances necessarily  attaching  to  this 
n.iture.  I  praj'  you  to  look  more  nearly 
into  these  evils  than  you  do  when  you 
generalize  and  sum  them  up  into  one 
portentous  and  crushing  mass  of  gratui- 
tous calamity  and  wrong.  Thus,  error, 
for  instance,  —  religious  error,  super- 
stition in  many  forms,  —  could  man  es- 
cape it  ?  Thus,  again,  in  rude  and 
lawless  times,  was  not  the  governing 
hand  likely  to  hold  things  with  a  strong 
grasp,  —  to  be  despotic  and  oppressive? 
And  when  questions  arose  between  na- 
tions, was  it  not  natural  that  they  should 
resort  to  physical  force,  i.  e.,  to  war  ? 
Could  rude  barbarians  stand  still  to 
argue  ?  Could  they  settle,  could  they 
understand,  any  code  of  international 
law  ?  Was  it  not  almost  inevitable  that 
they  should  fight  ?  If  the  question  was 
about  a  piece  of  land,  or  a  fishery,  was 
there  anything  else  for  them  to  do  but 
to  endeavor  to  push  one  another  from 
the  disputed  possession  .''  Supposing 
the  parties  to  be  honest,  —  supposing 
that  each  believed  the  thing  in  question 
to  belong  to  him, — -supposing  there  was 
no  umpire  to  which  they  could  appeal, 
—  must  not  a  natural  sense  oi  justice 
have  led  them  to  strive  for  their  right  ? 
War  is  ordinarily  the  clash  of  opinions. 
"  You  have  got  that  which  is  mine," 
one  says  ;  "you  will  not  give  it  to  me  ; 
you  will  not  listen  to  my  just  claims  for 
it;  then  I  must  take  it  from  you."  In 
fact,  must  not  this,  where  the  case 
arises,  be  the  language  of  to-day  ?  But, 
certainly,  where  neither  right  nor  rea- 
son would  be  listened  to,  must  not  the 
party  wronged,  or  conceiving  himself  to 
be  wronged,  enforce  his  claim  with  the 
strong  arm,  or  else  sit  down,  abused, 
crushed,  robbed,  and  despoiled  on  every 
hand  ? 

Doubtless  there  has  been  violence 
enough  in  the  world  which  has  had  no 
such  plea.  I  only  wished  to  show  that 
it  is  not  all  blank  malignity  nor  wilful 
error  which  has  filled  the  world  with 
darkness  and  sorrow.     And  do  you  not 


suppose,  let  me  ask,  that  He  who  made 
the  world  foresaw  all  this  .-'  and  are  sin 
and  pain  agreeable  to  Infinite  Benevo- 
lence ?  Must  you  not  believe  that  God 
would  have  prevented  them  had  there 
not  been  obstacles  to  prevention  in  the 
very  nature  of  things  and  in  the  wel- 
fare of  the  beings  he  made  .'' 

It  is  of  some  such  intrinsic  obstacle, 
I  think,  that  Plato  speaks,  under  the 
name  of  "necessity,"  —  a  something 
inevitably  and  inextricably  interwoven 
with  the  constitution  of  things,  and  pre- 
venting the  exclusion  of  evil  and  mis- 
ery from  the  world.  He  appears  to  me 
obscurely  to  intimate,  in  a  pas.sage  of 
the  Timaeus,  that  view  of  the  origin  of 
evil  which  I  have  endeavored  plainly  to 
set  forth  in  these  lectures  as  the  true 
and  only  solution  of  that  dark  problem. 
His  mind  evidently  had  not  settled  w^^on 
any  theory.  Sometimes  he  speaks  of  a 
malignant  being,  next  in  power  to  God, 
as  having  introduced  evil  into  the  crea- 
tion ;  sometimes  of  dark,  intractable, 
obstinate  inatter  as  the  source  of  evil  ; 
for  these  old  ideas  of  Zoroaster  seem 
to  have  pervaded  all  antiquity.  But  in 
the  Timaeus  we  find  him  speaking  of 
^'necessity''''  as  some  strong  and  appar- 
ently opposing  power,  "on  which,"  to 
use  the  language  of  a  learned  commen- 
tator,*—  "on  which  the  divine  energy 
was  constantly  exercised,  not  so  much 
in  directly  overcoming  as  in  controlling 
and  directing  it  to  the  accomplishment 
of  the  Divine  purposes."  "But  since," 
says  Plato,  "mind  [i.  e.,  the  Supreme 
Mind]  rules  necessity  by  persuading 
her  to  bring  to  the  best  results  the 
most  of  things  as  they  are  generated 
[or  made],  thus  in  this  way,  through 
necessity  overcome  by  rational  persua- 
sion, this  universe  received  its  con- 
struction," or  was  fashioned  into  its 
present  order. 

"  By  rational  persuasion,"  says  Plato, 
i.  e.,  not  by  irresistible  coercion,  but  by 
a  wise  urging  and  turning  of  things  that 
are  unavoidably  liable  to  evil  to  good 

*  Prnf.  Tayler  Lewis  on  "  Plato  against  the  Athe- 
ists," p.  217. 


622 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


account.  This  is  the  Hght,  in  fact,  in 
which  I  am  about  to  speak  of  the  spe- 
cial problems  which  are  now  before  us. 

Indeed,  our  Holy  Scriptures  teach  a 
doctrine  not  dissimilar  to  this  ;  as  when 
they  say  that  "  God  causes  the  wrath  of 
man  to  praise  him,  and  the  remainder 
of  wrath  he  restrains  ;  "  as  when  they 
say  that  he  permitted  certain  things  to 
the  Hebrew  people  "because  of  the 
hardness  of  their  hearts,"  i.  e.,  because 
they  could  bear  no  better  ;  as  when 
they  say,  "  I  gave  them  statut^s  that 
were  not  good,"  i.  e.,  not  absolutely 
good,  not  in  themselves  desirable,  but 
tolerated,  and  turned  to  good  account. 

I  know  there  are  those  who  regard 
human  superstition,  oppression,  and 
strife,  simply  and  only  as  the  results 
of  a  depraved  nature  ;  who  see  no  far- 
ther into  the  great  problem  of  human 
fortunes  ;  who,  as  they  look  back  upon 
the  history  of  the  world,  only  exclaim, 
"  See  what  a  wicked  race  !  "  But  the 
philosophy  of  human  life  and  history, 
and,  as  I  conceive,  a  just  reverence  for 
the  Divine  Providence,  demand  another 
consideration  of  things.  It  would  be 
deplorable  for  us  to  leave  the  world- 
story  in  that  blank  abstraction.  It 
would  quench  all  good  faith  in  the  past 
and  all  good  hope  of  the  future.  It 
would  be  strange,  also,  nay,  incredible, 
that  human  nature  and  history  should 
want  all  those  evidences  of  wise  and 
good  design  of  which  the  material  world 
is  full. 

I  say,  then,  and  lay  down  these  three 
propositions  :  First,  that  the  bad  insti- 
tutions and  usages  of  the  world,  whether 
religious,  political,  or  warlike,  have  been 
better  than  none  ;  secondly,  that  they 
have  been  the  only  ones  in  every  age 
that  the  world  could  then  receive  ;  and 
thirdly,  that  they  have  ministered  to 
human  energy  and  improvement,  and 
ultimately  to  human  happiness. 

First,  they  have  been  better  than 
none.  Idolatry  has  been  better  than 
no  religion  ;  superstition,  than  no  re- 
straint ;  despotism,  than  no  govern- 
ment.   War  itself  has  been  better  than 


no  activity,  —  better  than  savage  stupor 
and  indolence,  or  stupid  submission  to 
wrong.  It  has  developed  more  strength, 
more  heroism,  more  virtue,  than  abso- 
lute languor  or  moral  indifference  would 
have  done.  The  strife  of  man  with 
man  in  the  assertion  of  rights,  or  what 
were  deemed  to  be  rights,  was  better 
than  a  total  disregard  of  all  right.  For 
suppose  that  one  man  or  nation  does 
another  man  or  nation  a  gross  wrong, 
—  taking  away  with  the  strong  hand 
lands,  goods,  property,  rights,  nay,  wife 
and  children  ;  the  invading  nation  car- 
ries them  off  :  would  you  have  the 
wrong  quietly  acquiesced  in,  submitted 
to  in  dull  stupidity  .''  It  would  be  to 
deny  our  humanity.  No,  we  would  have 
every  man  feel  the  right,  and  fairly  as- 
sert and  defend  it.  We  would  have 
force  applied  for  that  end  where  it  is 
necessary  ;  and  this  force,  intervening 
in  national  questions,  is  war.  Some 
wars  have  been  right,  though  many 
have  been  wrong.  We  must  not,  for 
the  abuses  of  a  principle,  however  enor- 
mous, discard  the  principle.  It  is  right 
to  assert  our  rights,  and  to  compel  oth- 
ers, if  we  cannot  persuade  them,  to 
abstain  from  wrong.  This  appertains  to 
our  humanity.  A  sense  of  right  must 
so  assert  itself  ;  and  if  rights  could  be 
violated,  and  no  resistance,  no  conten- 
tion followed,  humanity  itself  would  be 
dead. 

Secondly,  the  institutions  and  usages 
of  every  age  have  been  the  only  ones  it 
could  receive.  The  mind  of  every  age 
has  been  bodied  forth  in  its  religious 
systems,  in  its  political  forms,  in  its 
activity,  whatever  that  activity  has  been. 
Its  action,  its  idea  of  right,  and  its  mode 
of  righting  itself  would  have  been  bet- 
ter if  its  mind  had  been  more  improved. 
Each  form  of  development  has  been 
that  which  the  spirit  of  the  time  gave 
to  it. 

Let  us  state  this  point,  however,  with 
proper  care  and  qualification.  In  one 
respect,  the  rudest  age  is  susceptible  of 
hii^h  teaching,  —  is  capable  of  receiving 
the  very  highest  ideals.     There  are  cer- 


THE   PROBLEM   OF  HUMAN   DESTINY. 


623 


tain  innate  ideas  of  right,  of  justice,  of 
religion,  —  eternal  intuitions,  —  to  which 
appeal  may  always  be  made.  To  these, 
prophets  and  wise  men  have  ever  ap- 
pealed, and  met  an  unhesitating  re- 
sponse. But  institutions,  usages,  are 
different  things.  These  must  be  in 
general  accordance  with  the  culture  of 
a  people.  Yet  even  here  there  is  still 
room  for  the  reformer ;  because  the 
institutions  are  ever  falling  behind  the 
culture,  and  need  to  be  reformed.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  reform  in  any  given  period 
could  not  proceed  beyond  a  certain 
point. 

In  ages  of  darkness  and  ignorance 
and  materialism,  superstition  was  inevi- 
table ;  oppression  was  inevitable ;  war 
was  inevitable.  Men  could  not  arrive 
at  once  at  refined  and  spiritual  ideas  of 
God,  or  at  those  ideas  of  moral  justice 
that  should  banish  oppression  and  war. 
They  could  not  comprehend,  they  could 
not  agree  upon,  those  principles  that 
should  supersede  coercion  and  strife 
with  the  strong  hand.  Alas  !  the  world 
does  not  comprehend  them  yet.  But  to 
the  infant  world  it  had  been  as  impos- 
sible to  teach  the  highest  ideas  of  re- 
ligion, of  law,  and  of  the  right  social 
relationships,  as  it  would  be  to  instruct 
one  of  our  infant  schools  in  the  mathe- 
matics, in  astronomy,  and  moral  phi- 
losophy. 

Thirdly,  the  defective  religion,  polity, 
and  intercourse  of  the  nations  have  min- 
istered to  their  energy,  improvement, 
and  happiness.  They  have  not  only 
been  better  than  none  ;  they  have  not 
only  been,  in  general,  as  good  as  the 
general  mind  could  receive  ;  but  they 
have  done  good.  This  observation 
opens  the  whole  field  of  our  present 
discussion. 

But  in  entering  upon  it,  I  wish  care- 
fully to  state  the  ground  upon  which  I 
proceed.  I  said  in  my  opening  lecture 
that  in  the  prosecution  of  the  subject  I 
had  nothing  more  at  heart  than  to  show 
how  this  system  of  human  free  action, 
while  necessarily  free,  in  order  to  be  a 
moral  system,  is  nevertheless  governed 


and  controlled  so  as  to  bring  about  good 
ends.  But  I  seek  now,  in  this  connec- 
tion, to  make  the  distinction  between 
freedom  and  control —  between  the  err- 
ing of  the  human  will  and  the  over- 
ruling of  it  for  good  —  perfectly  explicit 
and  clear.  In  man  as  a  free  agent 
there  is,  of  necessity,  the  power  and 
liability  to  err,  to  go  wrong.  Acting 
freely,  he  runs  into  polytheism  and 
idolatry  :  he  builds  up  despotic  govern- 
ments ;  he  wages  cruel  war ;  he  op- 
presses his  fellow.  Now  in  this  mass 
of  error  and  evil  there  are  two  ele- 
ments. There  was  mistake,  incident  to 
the  infancy  and  ignorance  of  the  world. 
Or,  there  was  theoretical  imperfection,  — 
a"^,  for  instance,  in  idolatry  and  despot- 
ism,—  and  yet,  withal,  a  certain  fitness 
for  the  time.  And  there  was  downrigtit 
and  wicked  hate  and  cruelty.  Now  tltis 
I  am  not  to  defend.  I  do  not  say,  with 
some,  that  evil  is  good ;  that  there  is  no 
evil  in  the  universe.  I  say  and  feel  tltat 
hate  and  cruelty  are  evil  and  wrong  and 
odious.  But  I  maintain  that  out  of  this 
whole  system,  — out  of  mistake  and  im- 
perfection, and  in  spite  of  hate  and 
wrong,  good  has  come  ;  and  this  it  is 
my  simple  and  sole  business  to  show. 
It  is  not  to  defend  human  erring;  not 
to  lessen  my  own  or  yoiir  sense  of  it ; 
but  to  show  the  guardianship  over  it  of 
a  divine  and  guiding  Providence. 

There  is  one  point,  especially,  on 
which  I  admit  all  that  can  be  charged 
upon  human  erring ;  and  that  is,  the 
abuse  of  power  ;  of  power  in  religion, 
of  power  in  government ;  of  power  mili- 
tary, feudal,  social,  individual.  Power 
of  every  kind  has  been  abused  beyond 
anything  else  that  man  has  possessed. 
There  is  nothing  that  distresses  me  in 
the  contemplation  of  past  ages  or  of  the 
present  age,  like  the  inhuinaniiy  of 
power.  That  which  furnishes  the  no- 
blest opportunity  for  doing  good  has 
been  turned  into  the  most  frightful  in- 
strument of  cruelty  and  oppression. 
"Man's  inhumanity  to  man,"  —  whether 
it  be  a  doom  to  the  prison,  to  the  rack, 
or  the  fire,  or  whether  it  be  the  scornful 


624 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


word  of  the  superior  to  the  inferior,  —  I 
have  nothing  to  say  for  it  ;  I  give  it  up 
to  the  righteous  indignation  of  all  just 
men.  Let  that  indignation  rise  higher 
and  higher  ;  let  it  accumulate  in  moun- 
tain masses,  to  crush  and  drive  the 
accursed  thing  out  of  the  world. 

What,  then,  am  I  to  say  to  all  this  ? 
'I'liis^  first  of  all :  that  to  a  free  nature, 
even  tliat  ]iatefitl  abuse  could  not  be 
forbidden.  Man  must  do  what  he  will. 
Here,  now,  to-day,  you  have  power  to 
strike  down  an  inferior  in  strength  or 
station.  God  does  not  miraculously 
interpose  to  wither  the  lifted  arm,  or  to 
palsy  the  proud  and  scornful  tongue. 
And  then,  next,  I  must  resist  the  im- 
pression that  all  this  abuse  of  power  is 
a  mass  of  unmitigated  evil.  I  must  not 
le^ve  it  to  be  supposed  that  this  has 
been  a  godless  and  forsaken  world. 
Amidst  the  strugglings  of  man  with 
man,  I  must  endeavor  to  show  that  all 
has  not  been  intentional  wrong ;  that 
there  have  been  unavoidable  mistakes  ; 
that  there  have  been  insuperable  diffi- 
culties ;  and  that  there  has  been  good 
amidst  evil.  I  must  endeavor  also  to 
correct  our  own  mistakes  in  looking  at 
these  things,  and  to  present  the  great 
institutions  that  have  presided  over 
the  world,  in  the  justest  light  that  I 
can. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  are  to  speak 
of  Polytheism  and  Idolatry.  And  here 
we  find  immediate  occasion  for  apply- 
ing the  observation  just  made  to  the 
old  7-elioion.  There  are  mistaken  views 
witfi  which  we  have  grown  up  from  our 
childhood,  that  need  to  be  reconsidered. 
For  instance,  beast  worship,  among  the 
Egyptians,  the  worship  of  dogs,  cats, 
and  even  of  meaner  creatures  ;  looking 
at  it  as  we  have,  it  has,  of  course,  always 
seemed  to  us  an  unspeakable  degrada- 
tion. In  the  view  we  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  take  of  it,  it  might  well  have 
seemed  to  us,  as  partly  it  has,  an  incred- 
ible degradation.  It  passes  belief  that 
any  human  beings  should  be  so  stupid 
as  literally  to  worship  the  meanest  rep- 
tiles.    Yet  more  is  this  incredible  of  a 


cultivated  people,  like  the  Egyptians, 
who  had  carried  the  practical  arts  to  a 
point  hardly  surpassed  by  ourselves ; 
who  had  a  learned  priesthood,  to  which 
the  Grecian  sages  resorted  for  instruc- 
tion ;  upon  one  of  whose  temples,  at 
Sais,  was  recorded  that  sublime  inscrip- 
tion, expressive  of  the  Divine  nature, — 
the  sublimest  of  all  heathen  antiquity, — 
"  I  am  all  that  has  been,  all  that  is,  and 
all  that  shall  be.  No  mortal  has  ever 
raised  the  veil  that  conceals  me  !  "  * 

What,  then,  was  this  mysterious  Exist- 
ence ?  It  was  that  great  Life  of  Nature, 
which  all  the  East  worshipped.  And 
no  doubt  it  was  this  great  Life  of  Nature 
that  the  Egyptians  worshipped  under 
animal  forms.  In  this  view,  Hegel 
maintains  that  the  worship  of  animals  is 
noway  less  respectable  than  the  worship 
of  the  sun  and  stars. t  He  remarks,  in- 
deed, that  there  is  something  peculiarly 
incomprehensible  and  mysterious  in  the 
animal  spirit  —  dumb  and  shut  up  — 
never  articulating  its  thought.  If  we 
coinpare  it  with  the  spirit  in  ourselves, 
he  says,  it  is  clear  that  we  less  under- 
stand it;  for  we  know  ourselves  by  con- 
sciousness. But  what  is  passing  in  the 
horse,  the  ox,  or  the  dog,  we  do  not 
know ;  and  the  idea  and  the  observation 
must  be  familiar  to  us  all,  that  "we 
should  like  to  know  what  they  think." 
"  A  black  cat  stealing  by  us  in  the  twi- 
light," says  Hegel,  "brings  over  our 
minds  an  impression  as  of  something 
preternatural." 

Then,  again,  with  regard  to  idolatry, 
the  worship  of  images  ;  the  idea  that 
these  images  of  wood  and  stone  were 
literally  worshipped  as  the  all-powerful 
deities  who  presided  over  the  world,  is 
utterly  inadmissible.  They  were  wor- 
shipped, doubtless,  as  representatives, 
symbols  of  the  gods.  This  worship, 
however,  became  so  gross  that  it  was 
vehemently  denounced  by  the  Hebrew 
prophets  ;  though  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  there  was  a  time  when  a  spe- 


*  Proclus  adds,  "  and  the  fruit  I  have  produced  is 
the  sun  ! " 

t  Philosophic  der  Geschichte,  pp.  258,  259, 


i 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


625 


cies  of  images,  called  Terapbim,  were 
recognized  in   the   Hebrew   worship.* 

And  with  regard,  in  fine,  to  polythe- 
ism itself,  great  as  the  error  was,  yet 
it  was  natural,  and  perhaps  unavoidable. 
The  rude  mind,  in  the  infancy  of  the 
world,  first  awaking  to  the  concep- 
tion of  unseen,  stupendous,  creative 
agencies  around  it,  would  not,  perhaps 
could  not,  immediately  learn  that  all 
these  agencies  centred  in  one  Being. 

But  I  must  desire  you  to  observe, 
that,  great  as  the  error  and  the  evil  of 
polytheism  were,  it  was  not  powerless, 
nor  altogether  useless.  What  a  keen 
and  quickened  sense  of  religion  must 
it  have  nourished  !  We  have  no  devo- 
tees to  compare  with  those  of  India 
and  Thibet.  In  Lassa,  the  metropo- 
lis of  Buddhism,  says  the  traveller,  M. 
Hue,  the  whole  population  gathers  at 
nightfall  into  little  circles  for  prayer  ; 
the  sound  goes  up  from  the  whole  city. 
But  look  at  the  ancient  polytheism. 
Erring  as  it  was,  yet  how  strong  it 
must  have  been,  and  intense,  and  ever 
awake  !  A  local  deity,  instead  of  one 
far  off;  a  god  of  the  field  and  the 
stream  and  the  grove,  and  of  the  house, 
and  of  the  very  liearthstone  ;  how  must 
it  have  struck  the  every-day  and  hourly 
thought  of  men  !  In  the  later  ages  of 
Grecian  and  Roman  refinement  this 
religion  was  dying  out,  and  so  making 
way  for  another  ;  men  did  not  believe 
in  the  religion  of  their  fathers,  and  the 
Christian  apologists  might  well  speak, 
as  they  did  speak,  of  its  inefificacy ; 
but  in  its  pristine  strength  it  was  far 
from  deserving  that  charge.  Then, 
again,  the  idol,  the  visible  symbol  of 
the  present  deity  in  every  household  ; 
how  must  it  have  appealed  to  the  imagi- 
nation, and  the  very  sense  !  Its  wooden 
or  stony  eye  ;  how  must  it  have  seemed 
at  times  to  look  into  the  very  misdeeds 
of  men  !  The  Catholics  feel  a  similar 
influence  now,  and  their  sense  of  relig- 
ion, whatever  may  be  thought  of  it  in 
other  views,  is  stronger  and  more  fre- 

*  See  Hosea  iii.  4,  5,  and  Newman's  Hebrew  Mon- 
archy, p.  28. 


quently  awakened,  I  have  no  doubt, 
than  that  of  many  Protestants.  Nay, 
I  should  doubt  whether  the  Protestant 
world  has  not  swung  too  far  toward  the 
limit  of  bare  and  naked  spiritualism. 
Some  sense  of  this  I  mark  in  that  ex- 
traordinary movement  some  years  ago, 
known  as  Puseyism,  in  the  Church  of 
England;  in  which,  if  there  were  some 
things  that  I  could  not  sympathize  with, 
yet  this  tendency  to  reconsider  and 
reassume  some  elements  of  the  past, 
were  it  wisely  controlled,  I  cannot  help 
regarding  as  healthy  and  good.  Tlien, 
again,  and  once  more,  the  sacrifices  of 
the  old  religion,  the  victim  on  the  altar, 
the  daily  rising  incense,  ■ —  all  that  di- 
rect and  visible  appeal  to  Heaven;  how 
impressive  must  it  have  been  to  the 
worshipper !  And  every  head  of  a 
household,  too,  was  a  consecrated  priest ; 
now,  few  men  comparatively  are  priests 
in  their  famihes,  in  any  sense.  And 
when  the  parent  took  his  child  from  its 
mother's  bosom  and  sent  it  through  the 
fire,  a  victim  to  Moloch,  —  dreadful  god  ! 
—  that  offering  was  not  hypocritical, 
but  terribly  sincere  ;  it  was  not  a  mere 
form,  but  religion  awfully  in  earnest  ; 
it  was  not  mere  cruelty,  but  the  shud- 
dering homage  of  religious  fear,  —  of 
a  fear  strong  enough  to  tear  the  very 
life-cords  from  the  palpitating  heart  ! 
In  all  this  there  was  much  error  ;  but 
in  all  this  there  was  a  tremendous  power 
to  bind  the  rude  mind  to  religion  of 
some  sort,  and  to  restrain  its  wildest 
excesses.  The  bond  of  religion,  the 
dread  of  Divine  displeasure,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  was  j-/r<?//^^'-t7' then  than  it 
is  now.  Men  now,  in  courts  of  justice 
and  in  national  quarrels,  appeal  against 
bad  faith,  to  Heaven  ;  but  not  perhaps 
with  such  positive  impression  and  effect 
as  when  they  said  in  old  time,  "  The 
gods  will  punish  you  !  Neptune  will 
awake  his  storms,  Jupiter  will  launch 
his  thunder  against  you  ;  the  god  of 
the  rooftree  will  desolate  your  dwelling  ; 
the  god  of  the  field  will  sweep  down 
your  harvests,  or  will  send  disease 
among  your  flocks  !  "     Other  things  are 


40 


626 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


■I 


indeed  to  be  desired  in  religion  besides 
strength,  and  no  one  would  bring  back 
the  old  superstition  ;  but  here,  I  say, 
was  strength  ;  here  was  a  power  over 
the  infant  world,  the  highest  that  it 
could  receive,  which  guided  and  con- 
trolled its  steps,  and  was  leading  them 
on  to  something  better. 

Turn  now,  in  the  second  place,  to  the 
political  relations  of  men.  A  hard  and 
grinding  despotism  weighed  upon  the 
ancient  world.  Equal  laws,  the  just 
rights  of  men,  were  unknown.  The 
chieftain  —  patriarch,  priest,  or  king  — 
reigned  with  absolute  authority.  Here 
and  there  democracies,  republics,  sprang 
up,  but  died  away  as  soon,  and  were,  in 
fact,  despotic  while  they  lasted.  And 
throughout  the  ancient  world  there  was 
no  just  conception  of  the  equal  rights 
of  men.  The  many  bowed  down  to  the 
few  with  absolute,  slavish,  superstitious 
allegiance.  The  people^  even  in  feudal 
Europe,  says  Guizot,  were  as  timid  as 
sheep.  We  see  the  injustice  and  falsity 
of  all  this.  We  have  better  theories. 
But  what  would  our  theories  of  equal 
rights  have  done,  if  they  had  been  cast 
into  the  bosom  of  the  old  Asiatic  na- 
tions ;  ay,  or  into  the  communes  and 
kingdoms  of  the  Middle  Ages  ?  Torn 
them  all  to  pieces.  Society  could  not 
have  lived  a  day  with  these  theories. 
The  single,  strong  arm  was  necessary  to 
bind  and  hold  together  the  wild  elements 
of  the  primeval  world.  The  deep  and 
lowly  submission  to  it  was  necessary. 
It  was  more  than  merely  necessary;  it 
was  beneficial.  Absolute  rule  was  the 
best  thing  p issible  ;  and  it  was  attended 
with  the  then  best  possible  results. 

This  instinct,  the  blind  instinct  of 
obedience,  natural  to  rude  and  savage 
life,  worked  usefully  in  two  ways.  First, 
it  was  a  good  guidance  for  those  whose 
minds  could  not  yet  rise  to  any  high  or 
reverential  obedience  to  law,  or  to  a 
political  constitution.  It  was  well  that 
something  should  attach  them  to  the 
chieftain,  to  the  king,  to  the  head  of  the 
state.  And  then  the  sentiment  was 
saved  from  the  meanness  and  degrada- 


tion that  would  otherwise  have  belonged 
to  it,  by  its  being  so  reverential,  affec- 
tionate, and  disinterested.  There  was 
something  affecting  and  beautiful,  as 
well  as  fit  for  its  time,  in  these  old  hom- 
ages to  superior  rank.  The  attachment 
of  the  Scottish  clansman  to  his  chief,  of 
the  feudal  retainer  to  his  lord,  was  often 
of  the  most  touching  character.  It  is 
good  to  reverence  somethini^;  and  even 
the  excess  of  the  homage  is  better  than 
the  opposite  extreme.  I  had  rather  pay 
it,  than  always  to  stand  up  stiffly  for  my 
rights.  I  like  the  story  of  the  son  of 
Ivan  IV.,  of  Russia,  better  than  some 
with  which  our  theories  of  equal  rights 
might  furnish  us.  The  armies  of  the 
emperor,  says  the  annalist,  had  been 
worsted  in  one  or  two  engagements. 
His  favorite  son  said,  "  Let  me  go  and 
take  the  command."  The  brutal  father, 
stung  with  self-reproach,  jealousy,  and 
anger,  felled  him  to  the  ground,  with  a 
blow,  that,  it  was  evident,  must  prove 
mortal.  Struck  with  horror  at  what  he 
had  done,  the  emperor  rolled  in  agony 
upon  the  floor,  and  offered  millions  to 
his  physicians  if  they  would  save  his 
I  child.  The  dying  son,  as  he  lay  upon 
i  his  couch,  strove  to  reas.sure  his  father. 
i  "You  did  right,"  he  said,  "to  strike  me. 
I  ought  not  to  have  asked  you  that 
1  question.  I  have  offended  against  the 
;  laws  of  the  empire  and  against  you ;  and 
{  I  deserve  to  die." 

I       All   power,  alas  !  is  liable   to   abuse, 
and    to   the   grossest ;   but    protestants 
against  despotism  as  we  Americans  are, 
!  we  are  prone  perhaps  to  do  it  some  in- 
[  justice.     Certain  it  is,  that  it  has  often 
i  been  paternal  and  protective,  in  propor- 
,  tion  as  the  homage  to  it  has  been  filial 
j  and  affectionate.     Hegel  says  that  there 
I  was  more  personal  freedom  in  the  old 
;  Assyrian    Empire   than    in    Rome.      In 
I  those    soft    Eastern    climes,   especially, 
the  government  was  paternal,  the  people 
as    children,  compared   with    the   stern 
Roman   rule   and    the  stalwart    Roman 
men.     The    Oriental   despotism,    com- 
pared with  the  Roman,  was  as  a  flowery 
girdle    to  an   iron  band.     The    Persian 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


627 


monarch  was  a  sort  of  teacher  and  sage 
to  the  people ;  attendant  scribes,  in 
court  and  camp,  were  ever  at  hand  to 
write  down  his  sayings  ;  and  these  were 
deposited  in  the  state  archives,  as  the 
annals  of  iiis  reign,*  —  a  tremendous 
environment  for  a  man,  and  it  must  have 
made  him  thoughtful,  and  his  speech 
the  wiser.  In  the  earliest  times  of  the 
East,  the  patriarchal  king  sat  in  the 
gate.  The  Persian  royal  palace  was 
called  the  Porte,  or  Gate,t  —  and  hence 
the  phrase  Sublime  Porte,  to  describe 
the  Ottoman  sovereignty,  —  the  patri- 
archal king  sat  in  the  gate,  to  hear  com- 
plaints and  award  justice  ;  and  although, 
in  later  times  and  in  crowded  empires, 
this  was,  of  course,  impossible,  yet  al- 
ways there  was  a  right  of  personal  ap- 
peal, as  of  children  to  a  parent,  unknown 
to  our  more  complicated  systems  of 
administration.  The  court  was  a  scene 
of  magnificent  hospitality  :  Ctesias,  a 
Greek  historian  of  Artaxerxes'  time, 
says  that  fifteen  thousand  persons  sat 
down  daily  at  the  king's  table  ;  seem- 
ingly an  incredible  number  ;  according 
to  Xenophon,  it  took  —  I  know  not  hoiv 
many  persons  to  make  Cambyses'  bed.  J 
In  short,  more  ease,  freedom,  and  hap- 
piness existed  under  these  old  despot- 
isms, than  we  are  apt  to  think, — bad 
as  they  undoubtedly  were. 

But  I  must  now  turn,  in  the  third 
place,  to  a  more  awful  element  in  the 
world-problem  ;  and  that  is  war. 

I  have  already  said  that  it  has  been, 
and  is,  inevitable.  In  fact,  unless  we 
give  up  the  right  of  self-preservation  ; 
unless  we  go  the  length  of  saying  that 
any  man  who  pleases  may  take  what  he 
will  of  ours,  or  may  break  our  limbs,  or 
ijeat  us  to  death,  without  resistance 
from  us,  we  admit  the  principle  that  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  war.  But  let  us  con- 
sider further,  whether  it  has  not  a  provi- 
dential place  in  the  world,  among  the 
means  of  its  discipline  and  culture. 

*  Heeren,  Asiatic  Nations,  vol.  i.  p.  55,  Bohn'sed. 
+   Ibid.,  p.  260. 

X  Heeren's  Researches,  Asiatic  Nations,  vol.  1.  p. 
254- 


There  certainly  have  been  worse 
things  in  the  world  than  war.  There 
have  been  states  and  conditions  of  Iiu- 
man  society  worse  than  that  of  martial 
conflict,  and  which  that  conflict  has 
broken  up  :  deep-seated  injustice,  which 
nothing  but  a  violent  shock  could  over- 
turn ;  intolerable  oppression,  universal 
corruption  and  licentiousness,  universal 
eflfeminacy  and  stupor.  Better  that  the 
cause  of  justice  and  right  be  pleaded 
with  the  sword,  than  not  pleaded  at  all. 
I  had  rather  see  the  moral  sentiments, 
or  the  material  interests  of  men,  in  fierce 
collision,  than  in  a  state  of  palsy  and 
death ;  it  is  more  hopeful,  if  not  more 
agreeable. 

Then,  again,  war  is  a  means  of  inter- 
course, communication  of  knowledge, 
interfusion  of  ideas,  between  nations. 
In  some  cases,  there  seems  no  other 
way  to  lift  a  people  out  of  its  stupor  and 
degradation.  By  means  of  isolation 
alone  China  has  remained  the  same  for 
ages.  But  in  times  when  there  was  no 
printing,  and  little  travel,  nations  lay 
side  by  side  more  ignorant  of  each  other 
than  people  now  are  in  opposite  hemi- 
spheres. What,  then,  did  a  war  effect  ? 
It  brought  nations  into  the  presence  of 
each  other's  homes,  institutions,  usages, 
arts.  Thus  the  Northern  barbarians 
were  brought  to  look  upon  the  Roman 
civilization.  Imagine  the  Roman  Em- 
pire to  have  gone  on  undisturbed,  sink- 
ing deeper  and  deeper  into  lethargy, 
luxury,  and  corruption;  and  the  Goths 
and  Vandals  to  have  remained  in  their 
rock  fastnesses  and  woody  deserts,  the 
same  brutish  people.  Instead  of  this, 
the  invasions  have  given  us  —  cultivated 
Europe. 

But  we  must  go  to  a  question  more 
radical,  with  regard  to  the  influence  of 
war  upon  the  human  character  and  con- 
dition. Could  the  world,  or  can  it,  go 
on  nobly  —  go  on  improving  —  go  on 
safely  even,  without  this  dread  discipline 
of  war.?  The  elder  Bonaparte  is  re- 
ported to  have  said,  "The  conscription 
is  the  everlasting  root  of  a  nation,  its 
moral  purification,  the  real   foundation 


628 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


of  its  habits."  I  do  not  know  precisely 
what  he  meant  by  that ;  but  I  should 
interpret  it  thus  :  Lay  upon  every  fam- 
ily in  a  nation  the  bond  of  that  dread 
liability,  —  that  one  of  its  members  may 
be  called  forth  to  fight  and  die  for  his 
country,  and  you  put  a  principle  of 
sobriety,  of  manliness,  of  sacrifice,  of 
obedience  to  the  law,  of  consecration  to 
the  common  weal,  into  that  family,  which 
nothing  else  perhaps  could  impart  to  it. 
Who  does  not  feel  that  such  an  inquisi- 
tion coming  to  the  household,  for  son, 
brother,  or  father,  must  search  out  and 
stir  to  the  very  heart  everything  loyal, 
heroic,  ay,  and  religious,  in  it .''  And 
how  many  have  felt  this  in  the  present 
solemn  crisis  in  our  country !  How 
many  have  found  life,  with  them,  to  be 
more  earnest,  high-hearted,  meditative, 
and  prayerful  than  it  ever  was  before  ! 

Suppose,  on  the  contrary,  —  in  this  na- 
tion or  any  other,  —  war  never  to  come. 
Days,  years,  centuries,  pass  on,  and  in 
all  the  households  of  a  people  there  is 
nothing  but  toil,  accumulation,  multipli- 
cation of  comforts  and  luxuries,  care 
for  themselves  and  their  children.  Can 
human  nature  be  trusted  thus  to  go  on, 
in  profound  and  unbroken  peace  and 
prosperity  ?  In  its  present  state,  I  must 
doubt  whether  it  can.  We  have  been 
wont,  in  former  days,  to  bless  ourselves 
that,  separated  by  the  ocean  from  Eu- 
rope and  European  complications,  we 
had  the  prospect  of  going  on  for  ages, 
undisturbed  by  the  alarms  and  horrors 
of  war.  That  dream  is  broken  by  in- 
testine discord,  and  by  the  levelling  of 
the  ocean  barrier  through  steam  com- 
munication ;  and  for  my  part,  I  believe 
it  is  best  for  us  that  we  are  to  take  our 
share  in  the  solemn  experience  and  dis- 
cipline of  nations. 

But  at  the  same  time,  while  I  see  and 
admit  the  inevitableness  and  the  moral 
uses  of  war,  I  believe  that  the  war  time  is 
a  transition  state  in  the  world,  and  that 
a  better  time  is  to  come.  I  look  upon 
war  as  being  to  the  body  politic  what 
disease  is  to  the  individual.  When  men 
learn  to  live  more  wisely,  simply,  and 


innocently,  there  will  be  less  disease  .^ 
ultimately  there  may  be  little  or  nons 
But  till  then,  disease  is  not  only  ine^ 
table  in  the  constitution,  but  is  a  moral 
element  bound  up  with  it  and  essential 
to  its  welfare.  So  with  war:  human 
society  will  outgrow  it,  when  it  out- 
grows its  vices,  its  angry  passions, 
its  injustice,  selfishness,  and  ambition. 
Till  then,  the  world  must  suffer,  and  I 
believe  it  is  best  that  it  should  suffer, 
from  this  fearful  scourge.* 

The  last  specific  problem  to  be  consid- 
ered is  slavery;  the  subjection  of  man  to 
man  ;  the  subjection,  not  of  man  to  the 
Government,  but  of  man  to.  man  —  of 
the  serf  to  his  feudal  lord,  of  the  slave 
to  his  master.  It  is  a  fact,  in  the  his- 
tory of  past  ages,  too  universal  to  be 
overlooked  ;  too  deep  founded  in  the 
order  of  the  world  to  be  passed  by.  I 
am  acquainted  with  no  such  fact  among 
animals  —  except  the  ant  —  as  one  mak- 
ing a  servant,  serf,  or  slave  of  another ; 
or  one  species,  of  another  and  inferior 
species.  Everywhere  in  the  history  of 
the  human  race,  we  are  met  with  this 
stupendous  problem  :  how  is  it,  or  why 
is  it,  that  man  has  thus  been  subject  to 
man  ;  that  a  condition,  directly  opposite 
to  every  free  tendency  of  humanity, 
should  have  been  as  universal,  almost, 
as  if  it  had  been  an  ordinance  of 
nature  .'' 

I  desire  you  to  dismiss  from  your 
thoughts  all  those  questions  connected 
with  this  subject,  which  are  so  warmly 
debated  at  the  present  moment :  I  am 
looking  at  the  course  of  ages,  and  not 
at  the  controversy  of  to-day.  Keep  your 
own  opinions,  whatever  they  be  ;  for 
the  present  I  controvert  none  of  them. 
Nay,    let    a   man   entertain    the   worst 

*  I  have  been  led  to  some  modification  of  my  views 
of  war,  by  M.  Prudhon's  La  Guerre  et  la  Paix 
(War  and  Peace).  I  liave  been  led  to  see  it,  that  is 
to  say,  more  as  a  Providential  fact;  to  be  accepted 
with  patience,  instead  of  being  regarded  simply  as 
horrible.  M.  Cousin  led  the  way,  in  the  same  course 
of  thought,  in  his  Lectures  Introductory  to  the  Phi- 
losophy of  History  ;  see  lee.  ix.,  latter  part.  With  re- 
gard to  the  New  Testament  protest  against  fighting,  I 
regard  it  as  a  protest,  not  against  war  absolutely,  but 
against  the  ordinary  war  spirit. 


THE   PROBLEM  OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


629 


opinion  possible  of  the  system  ;  all  the 
more  reason  is  there,  it  seems  to  me, 
why  he  should  desire  to  see,  in  the  calm 
survey  of  God's  government  over  the 
world,  all  the  good  he  can  see,  coming 
out  of  it;  and  all  the  more  the  worse 
he  thinks  of  it. 

Montesquieu  observes,  in  his  Spirit 
of  Laws,  that  slavery,  cruel  as  it  seems, 
and  unjust  as  it  certainly  is  in  the  form 
of  chattel  slavery,  had  its  origin  in  com- 
parative mercy.  That  is  to  say,  it  suc- 
ceeded, in  the  morality  of  nations,  the 
barbarous  practice  of  putting  to  death 
all  captives  made  in  war.  But  I  was 
about  to  observe,  that  there  was  another 
step  which  society  had  to  take,  that  in- 
volved greater  difficulty.  It  passed  from 
the  slaughter  to  the  slavery  of  captives  ; 
that  perhaps  was  not  difficult,  and  it 
certainly  was  beneficial.  But  how  was 
it  to  pass  from  its  nomadic  state,  from 
the  wild  and  wandering  habits  of  the 
hunter  and  shepherd,  to  settled  abode, 
and  the  tillage  of  the  soil  ?  It  has  been 
contended  by  an  able  French  writer, 
M.  Auguste  Comte,  that  fixed  occupation 
must  have  been  originally  enforced  ;  that 
the  necessary  industry  could  not  have 
been  obtained  but  by  compulsion.  He 
maintains  that  the  natural  indolence  of 
mankind,  and  especially  in  warm  climates, 
could,  in  no  other  way,  have  been  over- 
come. We,  stirring  Anglo-Saxon  men, 
cannot  understand  it,  perhaps;  and  tliere 
may  be  more  truth  in  it  than  we  sus- 
pect. If  it  be  so,  then  look  at  it.  Here 
are  men  doomed  to  death,  saved  alive  : 
that  is  something.  Then  here  is  a  soil 
which,  in  the  ruder  ages,  nobodv  will 
cultivate  without  compulsion  ;  and  these 
men  are  put  to  work  upon  it.  I  have 
said  in  former  lectures,  that  hunger  was 
a  spur  to  activity.  To  re'^ular  activit)', 
to  industry,  other  inducements  may  have 
been  necessary.  And  although  they  may 
have  been  wrongfully  or  cruelly  applied, 
yet  it  cannot  but  be  grateful —  looking 
away  from  man's  injustice  to  God's  wis- 
dom and  goodness — to  see  any  good 
that  has  come  out  of  evil. 

In  the  next  place,  this  translation  of 


men  from  states  of  barbarism  and  igno- 
rance into  more  civilized  communities, 
has  been  a  means  sometimes,  -  has 
opened  a  school,  however  unintention- 
ally, for  their  improvement.  Civilization 
has  tlnis  taken  the  wilder  natures  into 
its  bosom,  and,  with  however  much  im- 
perfection and  error,  has  performed  the 
office  of  education.  The  Thracian  and 
German  tribes  experienced  that  effect 
in  the  old  Roman  school  :  and  there 
is  one  instance  on  record  where  the 
civilizing  influence  came  from  the  other 
side  ;  for  Herodotus  tells  us  that  the 
Lydians  did  that  service  to  their  Per- 
sian conquerors  and  masters.  But  look 
at  Africa.  Surrounded  by  a  wall  of 
darkness,  and  filled  with  cruelty  and 
blood  ;  with  no  civilizing  influence  in 
herself,  as  the  story  of  ages  has  proved; 
what  now  do  we  see  ?  Britain  sends  to 
her  borders  the  man-stealer,  to  tear  her 
children  from  her  bosom  and  transport 
them  to  the  American  colonies.  It  was 
a  deed  of  unmingled  atrocity  ;  compared 
with  which  capture  in  war  was  generous 
and  honorable  :  the  African  king  of 
Dahomey  grows  white  by  the  side  of 
the  Saxon  slave-trader.  But  what  fol- 
lows "i  The  African  people  in  this  coun- 
try improve,  and  are  now  far  advanced 
beyond  their  kindred  at  home.  And 
now  they  begin  to  return ;  they  are 
building  a  state  on  their  native  borders, 
which  proinises  to  stop  the  slave  trade 
with  Africa,  and  to  spread  light  and 
civihzation  through  her  dark  solitudes. 
Was  this  the  best  means  conceivable,  to 
such  an  end  .-^  No,  but  it  was  a  means, 
and  the  best  means  possible — man  be- 
ing left  free  to  act  his  pleasure.  Was 
it  his  design  to  civilize  Africa  ?  No. 
but  God  may  overrule  his  action  to 
bring  about  that  result.* 

We  have  now  examined  the  four  great 
historic  prolilems  :  Polytheism  and  Idol- 

*  I  cannot  leave  this  subject  without  lifting  up  my 
hands  and  heart  to  the  great  hope  that  the  way  is 
now  opened  for  pureing  our  American  soil  from  the 
stain  of  slavery.  Many  of  us  have  lung  been  asking 
how  this  was  ever  to  be  done.  At  length  we  see  the 
way.  The  slave  system  is  destroving  itself.  The 
madness  of  the  slavemaster  is  breaking  the  chains  of 
the  slave. 


630 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


atry,  Despotism,  War,  and  Servitude. 
But  these  are  all  wrapped  up  and  com- 
prehended in  another,  which  is  yet  to 
be  considered  ;  and  that  is  the  preva- 
lence of  error.  The  place  and  part  which 
error  has  had  in  the  world,  and  in  the 
working  out  of  the  world's  problem,  — 
this  more  precisely  is  what  we  have  to 
consider. 

Some  place  and  part  it  must  neces- 
sarily have  had.  For  although  men 
might  have  just  ideas  of  certain  abso- 
lute truths^  and  have  had  them, — as 
of  the  beauty  and  rectitude  of  justice 
and  benevolence,  —  yet  when  they  came 
to  apply  these  ideas  to  practice,  to  in- 
stitutions in  religion,  in  government  ; 
to  usages  in  war,  or  to  the  relations  of 
man  to  man,  it  was  inevitable  that  they 
should  err.  What  place,  then,  has  this 
erring  ? 

Now  to  some,  the  problem  may  pre- 
sent itself  in  this  way, —  that  things 
should  have  been  so  ordered  in  Divine 
Providence,  that  error  should  seem  to 
have  been  better  than  truth,  polytheism 
than  pure  theism,  despotism  than  equal 
rule,  servitude  than  freedom,  war  than 
peace.  That  error  should  seem  to  have 
worked  better  than  truth,  wrong  than 
right,  —  does  it  not  appear  to  be  a  con- 
tradiction in  ideas  ?  Does  it  not  stamp 
the  charge  of  essential  falsity  upon  hu- 
man nature  itself? 

To  this  I  reply,  in  the  first  place,  that 
it  is  mainly  a  ;«2j-statement  of  the  prob- 
lem. The  case  is  too  broadly  stated, 
and  only  requires  some  analysis,  to  be 
relieved  of  its  main  difficulty.  In  all  the 
instances  referred  to,  there  has  been  a 
mixture  of  truth  and  error.  And  it  is 
the  truth,  and  not  the  error,  in  every 
case,  that  has  been  useful.  Thus  in  re- 
ligion ;  the  belief  in  an  all-creating  Power; 
the  feeling  that  that  power  was  present 
in  all  nature  and  life  ;  and  the  attempt 
.simply  to  express  or  body  it  forth  in 
visible  forms,  —  all  this  was  riglit,  and 
it  was  useful.  Even  the  giving  to  this 
Power  "a  local  habitation  and  a  name  " 
for  every  place  it  occupied,  was,  to  a 
certain    extent,   right  ;    it    conveyed  a 


juster  idea,  I  am  tempted  to  say,  than 
that  extreme  ai)straction  of  thought 
which  sees  God  nowhere.  The  exxesses 
to  which  all  this  went,  the  low  and  de- 
grading forms  of  idolatry,  the  errors,  in 
short,  were  the  things  that  were  not  use- 
ful. The  essential  strength  of  polythe- 
ism lay  in  the  truths,  and  not  in  t!ie 
falsehoods  it  involved.  So  also  with  re- 
gard to  superstition,  —  that  men  should 
fear  God,  should  feel  that  He  is  dis- 
pleased with  evil;  that  He  would  pun- 
ish evil,  —  this  was  right :  and  it  was 
useful.  When  it  went  too  far,  when  it 
created  an  irrational  terror  ;  in  so  far, 
that  is  to  say,  as  it  was  false,  it  was 
not  useful.  Then  again  that  govern- 
ment siiould  be  strong,  and  controlling, 
and,  simply  as  a  form  of  government, 
despotic,  was  necessary  and  beneficial. 
That  political  form  is  the  best,  the  near- 
est to  right,  which  is  best  suited  to 
the  people  to  be  governed.  And  for  a 
rude,  ignorant,  lawless  people,  a  strong, 
central,  controlling  power  is  best.  But 
the  selfishness,  injustice,  and  cruelty 
with  which  it  is  often  exercised  are  not 
good,  nor  do  they  work  any  good.  The 
ideas  of  divine  right  in  a  government, 
and  of  the  duty  of  religious  obedience 
to  it,  could  they  be  justly  construed,  are 
right  and  useful  ;  and  they  have  worked 
usefully  in  all  ages.  It  is  evident  that 
God  meant  that  nations  should  have 
some  kind  of  government ;  for  they  can- 
not/;^ nations, cannot  be  moral,  peaceful, 
well-ordered  communities,  without  it. 
Government,  therefore,  in  acertain  sense, 
is  of  God.  What,  then,  has  been  the 
error .''  That  of  investing  government 
with  irresponsible,  unlimited  power,  — 
that  of  consecrating  its  abuses,  worship- 
ping its  very  tyranny,  enthroning  its 
very  corruption.  That  part  of  absolute 
sovereignty  has  not  been  the  useful  part. 
The  truth  has  been  good,  but  not  the 
error.  Then,  once  more,  with  regard 
to  war  and  servitude, —  in  considering 
which,  the  question  is  about  usages 
ratlier  than  theories,  —  certainly  I  do  not 
say  that  evil  has  worked  better  than 
good  would   have   done       A  war  may 


THE    PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


63^ 


h^  right,  —  a  battle  to  defend  homes 
and  households,  to  resist  overwhelming 
wrong,  to  achieve  a  lawful  freedom 
Such  a  war  does  good.  It  sets  up  and 
sanctifies  with  blood  the  great  and  ever- 
lasting claim  of  right.  Human  blood  is 
not  too  dear  to  pour  out  for  such  cause. 
The  names  of  Thermopylae  and  Salamis, 
of  Bunker  Hill  and  Yorktown  and  Fort 
Moultrie,  are  watchwords  to  honor,  to 
patriotic  vigilance  and  self-sacrifice  in  all 
lime.  But  wars  of  mere  ambition  and 
desire  of  conquest  have  another  account 
to  setde  ;  the  worse  they  have  been,  the 
worse  has  been  their  influence ;  and 
any  good  that  has  sprung  from  them  has 
been  incidental,  and  has  arisen  in  spite 
of  them.  And  so  in  the  subjection  of 
man  to  man,  — not  the  bad  elements,  but 
the  good,  have  done  good  ;  not  injustice 
or  cruelty,  but  kindness  and  care,  —  the 
superiority  that  has  been  humane  and 
gentle.  If  you  could  suppose  that,  not 
by  human  violence  and  injustice,  but  by 
the  simple  fiat  of  Providence,  a  rude, 
ignorant,  nomadic  people  was  taken  and 
transferred  to  the  presence  of  a  culti- 
vated people,  to  be  trained  to  regular  in- 
dustry and  social  and  spiritual  improve- 
ment, you  would  say  thalwTis  a  good. 

Thus  I  think  that  I  see  a  great,  a  sol- 
emn, a  Divine  Providence  extracting 
good  out  of  all  the  conditions  upon  which 
humanity  has  fallen.  I  think  that  it  be- 
comes me  to  be  patient  with  what  God 
has  permitted.  I  look  with  awe  upon 
the  sphere  in  which  an  Infinite  Provi- 
dence is  working.  I  think  it  is  but 
reverent  to  seek  for  the  good  that  is 
evolved  from  the  dark  and  mysterious 
ways  of  Heaven,  rather  than  to  look 
upon  anything  tliat  Heaven  permits,  as 
altogether  dark  and  evil.  I  understand 
well  enough  what  indignation  at  evil  and 
wrong  is  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  that  is 
the  last  and  best  state  of  any  thoughtful 
mind.  I  might  rail  at  the  world,  and 
heap  wrath  and  scorn  upon  it ;  but  I 
believe  that  philosophy  is  better  than 
satire  With  a  brotherly  consideration 
and  sympathy  and  sorrow  must  I  take 
into  my  heart  the  struggling  fortunes  of 
my  kind.     What  mistakes,  what  errors, 


what  crimes,  what  sufferings,  what  over- 
whelming floods  of  disaster,  what  a 
mournful  train  of  evils,  filling  the  long 
track  of  ages  !  I  must  see  something 
besides  this,  —  something  beside  evil  or 
the  Evil  One  in  the  world.  I  must  see 
God  in  history,  or  I  must  not  look  at 
it  at  all. 

But  far  be  it  from  me,  at  the  same 
time,  to  spread  the  shield  of  this  philoso- 
phy over  any  mistakes  that  now  demand 
to  be  corrected,  over  any  evils  that  now 
can  be  remedied. 

That  evil  has  been  overruled  for  good 
in  certain  circumstances  is  no  argument 
for  abetting  or  perpetuating  it,  but  the 
very  contrary.  In  the  calm  and  philo- 
sophic consideration  of  the  past,  I  can 
have  patience  with  its  errors  and  abuses ; 
but  patience  with  prese?it  evil  and 
wrong,  though  possibly  to  some  impet- 
uous spirits  it  may  need  to  be  recom- 
mended, is  a  virtue  scarce  likely  to  need 
any  general  inculcation  or  enforcement. 
On  the  contrary,  we  are  far  too  liable  to 
acquiesce  in  established  wrong,  far  too 
slow  to  apprehend  the  high  point  after 
which  we  should  be  reaching  and  striving. 
Custom,  habitude,  even  prejudice,  has  its 
uses  ;  there  would  be  no  stability  with- 
out it,  but  it  would  be  death,  if  it  were 
not  mixed  up  with  the  element  of  prog- 
ress. Therefore  we  need  ever  to  hear 
the  stirring  words  of  the  reformer.  The 
human  mind  must  not  stand  still.  It 
cannot  indeed  forsake  entirely  "the  old 
paths,"  nor  ought  it  to  do  so.  But  it 
must  not  stand  still.  Therefore,  I  say, 
must  the  great  word,  ReforjJi,  be  sounded 
out  through  tlie  world.  It  has  been 
sounded  out  through  all  past  ages.  It 
has  been  the  trumpet  call  that  has  led 
on  that  grand  march  of  progress  whose 
steps  are  centuries  ;  whose  history  is 
the  hislpry  of  all  time  ;  whose  forces 
are  every  day  sweeping  on  with  acceler- 
ated movement  ;  and  whose  final  victory 
must  be  the  redemption  of  the  world 
from  Idolatry  and  Despotism,  and  War 
and  Bondage  and  Error. 

To  trace  this  great  movement  in  the 
world  will  be  the  object  of  the  two 
remaining  lectures. 


632 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


LECTURE    XI. 

HISTORIC  VIEW  OF  HUMANITY  :  HUMAN  PROGRESS,  —  THE  AGENCIES 
EMPLOYED  IN  IT  ;  THE  HISTORY  OF  THOUGHT,  OF  INSTITUTIONS, 
AND   OF  ACTIONS   OR   EVENTS. 


We  have  hitherto  surveyed  human- 
ity in  its  fixed  and  permanent  condi- 
tions. We  are  now  to  contemplate  it 
in  its  grand  movement.  Hitherto,  that 
is  to  say,  our  studies  have  been  occu- 
pied with  man  simply  as  a  being,  sub- 
ject to  certain  principles  and  influences, 
and  subject  to  them  in  all  ages,  —  sub- 
ject to  them  alike,  though  not  in  the 
same  degree,  at  the  beginning  as  now. 
We  have  considered,  first,  the  ultimate 
end  evidently  proposed  in  the  creation 
around  us  and  within  us,  —  human  cul- 
ture ;  secondly,  the  fundamental  princi- 
ple on  which  the  end  is  to  be  achieved, 
—  moral  freedom.  Then,  in  five  follow- 
ing lectures,  we  considered  the  minis- 
tration to  this  end,  first,  of  the  physical 
creation  of  nature  ;  secondly,  of  man's 
physical  organization  ;  thirdly,  of  his 
mental  and  moral  constitution  ;  fourthly, 
of  his  complex  nature,  including  the 
periods  of  life,  society,  sex,  &c.  ;  and 
fifthlv,  of  the  occupation  and  arts  of 
life,  —  agriculture,  manufactures,  trade, 
and  the  learned  professions,  —  and  of 
architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  music, 
poetry,  and  literature.  In  three  more 
lectures  we  have  considered  certain 
circumstances  pertaining  to  the  hu- 
man condition  and  culture,  and  circum- 
stances which  are  thought  to  involve 
peculiar  difficulty  :  as,  first,  imperfec- 
tion, effort,  and  penitence  ;  illusion, 
fluctuation,  indefiniteness  of  moral  at- 
tainment, and  bondage  to  the  physi- 
cal infirmities  and  appetites  ;  secondly, 
pain,  hereditary  evil,  death  ;  and  thirdly, 
polytheism,  despotism,  war,  servitude, 
and  error. 

These  are  the  subjects  in  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  interest  you  in  the 


ten  previous  lectures.  In  the  two  that 
remain  of  the  course,  I  wish  to  invite 
your  attention  to  the  historic  view  of 
the  human  race  ;  to  single  out  some 
of  the  leading  traits  that  have  marked 
its  successive  developments  ;  to  con- 
template—  of  course  it  must  be  in  the 
most  general  way  —  the  story  of  the 
world  from  the  beginning. 

What  was  that  beginning  ?  What, 
may  we  suppose,  was  the  condition 
and  character  of  the  first  inhabitants 
of  the  earth  ?  With  the  purpose  which 
I  have  in  view,  I  have  no  occasion  to 
discuss  the  question  whether  the  vari- 
ous races  of  men  had  their  origin  in  dis- 
tinct stocks,  created  in  different  parts 
of  the  world,  or  in  the  one  pair  in  Eden. 
Were  the  first  created  men.  whether 
many  or  few,  brought  into  existence  in 
a  state  of  high  development,  —  incar- 
nate angels  in  wisdom,  knowledge,  vir- 
tue,—  or  in  a  state  of  infancy,  igno- 
rance, and  weakness  ?  The  question  is 
enveloped  in  thick  darkness  ;  and  with 
regard  to  it  we  are  left  mainly  to  in- 
ference. Proceeding  upon  this  ground, 
I  adopt,  for  my  part,  the  theory  of  an 
infancy  for  mankind, —  I  mean,  of  an  in- 
tellectual and  moral  infancy.  There  is 
no  evidence  in  the  Scripture  record, 
whatever  value  or  validity  may  be  as- 
cribed to  it,  that  Adam  was  advanced 
beyond  that  condition.  We  are  told 
that  he  was  innocent  at  first,— which 
he  might  be  in  a  moral  infancy;  and  I 
find  no  mental  act  ascribed  to  him  but 
that  of  naming  the  animals, —  which  is 
the  first  and  humblest  step  of  thought ; 
and  I  say  that  the  natural  inference, 
from  all  we  know,  is,  that  the  human 
race,  like  the  human  individual,  began 


THE    PROBLEM    OF  HUMAN   DESTINY. 


^33 


its  career  in  infancy.  When  I  see  a 
tree  growing  through  successive  years, 
I  naturally  trace  it  back  to  the  sapling. 
When  I  see  a  river  gradually  enlarging 
as  it  flows,  I  justly  conclude,  not  that 
it  burst  forth  from  the  earth  at  first  a 
noble  and  majestic  stream,  but  that  it 
began  as  a  little  rill.  From  the  earliest 
recorded  history  of  the  human  race,  we 
see  a  constant  progress ;  and  as  we  fol- 
low it  back,  step  by  step,  we  naturally 
trace  it  to  a  beginning,  —  to  an  infancy. 

From  this  beginning,  I  say,  to  the 
present  day,  there  has  been  a  progress, 
—  a  gradual  advancement  in  human  cul- 
ture, character,  knowledge,  institution!;, 
government,  state  of  society,  religion, 
virtue,  and  happiness.  I  shall  take  this 
for  granted  ;  I  suppose  that  nobody  de- 
nies it.  It  will  be  the  ground  idea  of 
these  two  lectures.  It  will  not  be,  there- 
fore, by  analysis  that  I  shall  proceed, 
i.  e.,  by  taking  the  multifarious  facts  of 
history  and  life  and  tracing  them  up 
to  the  one  principle  of  progress,  but 
by  synthesis  rather  ;  i.  e.,  assuming  the 
principle  of  progress  as  lying  at  the 
root  of  humanity,  I  shall  speak  of  its 
actions  and  fortunes  in  successive  ages 
as  the  natural  unfoldings  of  that  prin- 
ciple. The  fact  of  progress  will  be 
equally  made  out  on  either  plan. 

But  I  shall  not  attempt,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  German  philosophers,  to  con- 
struct the  world  out  of  an  idea.  Ficiite, 
proceeding  on  Plato's  doctrine  of  innate, 
seminal,  world-producing  ideas, — a  doc- 
trine often  reproduced  in  the  later  Ger- 
man philosophy,  —  undertakes  to  deduce 
the  epochs  of  human  development  and 
history,  in  their  necessary  order,  from 
a  certain  principle.  He  conceives  that 
things  jnust  have  unfolded  themselves 
according  to  a  certain  plan  which  he 
has  wrought  out  in  his  own  abstract 
contemplations.  He  tells  his  auditors, 
that,  as  a  philosopher,  he  is  not  con- 
cerned with  the  facts,  but  only  with  his 
theory.  He  plainly  says  :  "If  the  phi- 
losopher must  deduce  from  the  unity  of 
his  presupposed  principle  all  the  pos- 
sible  phenomena   of    experience,    it   is 


obvious  that  in  the  fulfilment  of  this 
purpose  he  does  not  require  the  aid  of 
experience,"  and  that  ''  he  pays  no  re- 
spect whatever  to  experience."  *  He 
says  to  his  hearers,  in  substance  :  "  I 
see,  I  know,  from  the  very  nature  of 
humanity,  and  from  the  very  nature  of 
things,  that  the  human  race  must  pass 
through  certain  epochs.  Two  principles 
lie  at  the  bottom,  —  reason  and  free- 
dom. The  end  is  free  self-culture.  The 
epochs  must  be  these  :  the  first,  when 
reason  is  obeyed  as  an  instinct  ;  the 
second,  when  despotic  authority  fas- 
tens itself  upon  the  neck  of  this  obe- 
dient reason  ;  the  third,  when  the  human 
mind  struggles  to  free  itself  from  this 
yoke,  —  which  is  the  present  age  ;  the 
fourth,  when  reason  shall  reign  as  specu- 
lative truth  ;  and  the  fifth,  when  it  shall 
reign  as  moral  wisdom.  Now  I  shall 
draw  out  these  epochs  from  the  one 
principle  of  free  self-culture  as  a  mat- 
ter of  abstract  reasoning.  Yo2C  will  see 
whether  the  facts  correspond  ;  that  is 
not  my  concern." 

I  have  thus  referred  to  this  work  of 
Fichte  —  it  is  tliat  on  "  The  Character- 
istics of  the  Present  Age"  —  not  only 
as  very  curious  and  interesting,  but  as 
pursuing  a  method  in  direct  contrast 
to  that  which  I  propose  ;  for  while  I 
recognize  the  law  of  progress  as  self- 
evident  and  certain,  —  it  being  the  very 
nature  of  the  mind  and  of  all  its  facul- 
ties to  expand  and  advance,  as  much  as 
it  is  of  a  tree  to  grow,  or  of  a  stream 
to  flow  onward,  —  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
deduce  the  necessary  results  of  this  law, 
but  to  point  out  the  actual  results. 

It  has  been  made  to  appear,  I  trust, 
in  our  previous  lectures,  that  all  the 
great  laws  of  nature,  of  Hfe,  and  of  hu- 
manity, tend  to  promote,  as  their  end, 
human  culture.  As  the  proper  comple- 
ment of  this  representation,  which  has 
thus  far  been  mostly  applied  to  indi- 
vidual life,  I  wish  now  to  show  how  the 
whole  course  of  history,  the  collective 
life  of  the  race,  falls  into  accordance 
with    it.     For   this    purpose    I    propose 

*  Fichte's  Characteristics  of  the  Present  Age,  p.  3. 


<^34 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


to  take  a  cursory  view  of  the  leading 
processes,  circumstances,  and  agencies 
which  have  contributed  to  this  result. 

With  the  task  I  have  before  me,  it 
is  time  that  I  should  have  done  with 
preliminary  observations  ;  but  there  are 
yet  two  points  which  I  must  impress  on 
your  minds,  even  at  the  risk  of  repeti- 
tion, because  in  this  matter  they  are  the 
opposite  poles  of  thought,  upon  which 
everything  turns. 

Two  principles,  then,   I   say,  preside 
over   the   world-development,  —  human 
spontaneity  and  Divine  control.     When 
you   look   back  upon    past  ages,   upon 
past  races,  upon  the  heaving  elements 
of  the  world's  life,  what  impression  do 
thev  convey  to  you  ?     Do  they  not  ap- 
pear to  you  in  disconnected  fragments, 
in  stupendous  revolution,  in   wild  and 
almost  fortuitous  disorder  ?    Do  not  the 
fortunes  of   men,   in   this   larger  view, 
appear  like  a  chaotic  mass  of  accidents  ? 
Bear  in  mind,  then,  on  the  one  hand, — 
do  not  merely  say.,  but  see  clearly,  and 
fully  admit,  —  that  in  the  working  out  of 
the  imman  problem  men  7nust  act  their 
part  freely,  ay,  foolishly,  madly,  distract- 
edly, if  you  please,  —  any  way,  so  it  be 
freely  done.     In  vain  shall  we  look  for 
any  exact  system  of  arrangements  by 
which   everything  can  be  said  to  have 
helped  on  the  race,  in  the  most  direct 
way,   to  the  most   rapid  advancement. 
No,  it  could  not  be  so;  the  race  must 
find,  and  make,  and  work  out  its  own 
way.      Cruelties,     butcheries,     battles, 
murders,  crushing  oppressions,  confla- 
grations  kindled    by   incendiary   hands, 
the  whelming  of  cities  and  nations  in 
fire   and    blood, —-these    things    could 
not  be  helped,  if  man  was  to  be  free. 
Nay,  free  thought  by  its  natiiral  expan- 
sion has  burst  asunder,  age  after  age, 
the  very  frames   and  fixtures   in  which 
it    grew,  —  the    idolatries,    despotisms, 
false  systems,  cratnping  institutions, — 
and    much   to   the    general    advantage, 
though  to  much  temporary  harm. 

But  recollect,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
things  have  never  been  left  to  run  their 
own  wild  course,  free  from  Divine  con- 


trol. In  the  very  bosom  of  humanity 
are  many  checks,  placed  there  by  a  Di- 
vine hand.  There  is  what  M.  Guizot 
calls  the  "  natural  morality  of  man,  , 
which,"  as  he  truly  says,  '"  never  aban- 
dons him  in  any  condition,  in  any  age 
of  society,  and  mixes  itself  with  the 
most  brutal  empire  of  ignorance  or  pas- 
sion." *  Men  grow  weary  of  wicked- 
ness and  ashamed  of  degradation.  One 
wonders,  sometimes,  that  human  pas- 
sion stops  anywhere  ;  but  it  does  stop. 
One  wonders  that  communities  and  na- 
tions, sinking  lower  and  lower  into  disso- 
luteness, do  not  sink  to  utter  perdition; 
but  there  are  powers  put  forth  to  arrest 
their  career.  Powerful  as  evil  is,  there 
are  antagonist  powers  still  stronger. 
There  is  the  w^OE  that  evil  brings ;  a 
flaming  sword,  set  upon  the  heaven- 
erected  barriers  and  battlements  of  all 
times,  for  the  protection  of  the  human 
race.  And  other  messengers,  too,  are 
sent  forth  ;  yet  more  distinct  interpret- 
ers of  the  Great  Will  above.  Through 
ages  of  declension  from  virtue  and  piety, 
ever  from  time  to  time  has  rung  out  the 
stern  and  solemn  voice  of  the  reformer. 
Some  Moses,  some  Menes  or  Confucius, 
some  Zoroaster,  some  Socrates,  has  aris- 
en to  call  back  the  forgetful  world  from 
its  wanderings.  As  Christians,  we  be- 
lieve, also,  in  special  interpositions  for 
the  rescue  of  the  world  from  evil  and 
misery. 

But  this  leads  me  to  speak,  as  I  pro- 
pose to  do  in  the  present  lecture,  of  the 
agencies  which  have  been  employed  for 
the  world's  advancement.  In  consider- 
ing these  agencies,  I  shall  not  confine 
myself  to  any  one  precise  order  in  which 
they  have  appeared,  but  sliall  be  gov- 
erned by  that  of  time  or  affiliation  or 
natural  precedence,  as  I  may  find  con- 
venient. 

Thus  the  history  of  thought,  in  the 
first  place,  would  take  the  natural  pre- 
cedence over  every  other  topic  ;  because 
thought  lies  behind  all  other  agencies, 
and  is   the  cause  of  them.     This  great 

*  Hisloire  de  la  Civilisation  en  France,  tome  i. 
p.  262. 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


635 


subject  would  naturally  divide  itself  into 
a  history  of  philosophy  and  a  history  of 
public  sentiment.  The  first  would  em- 
brace the  theories  of  the  few  profound, 
speculative  thinkers,  from  Thales  and 
Pythagoras  down  to  the  present  day. 
The  second  would  occupy  itself  with  the 
pervading,  the  popular  ideas,  sentiments, 
and  aims  that  have  prevailed  in  succes- 
sive ages.  The  first  has  been  the  sub- 
ject of  many  treatises.  The  second  has 
not,  that  I  am  aware,  been  attempted 
in  any  work  distinctly  and  exclusively 
devoted  to  it.  It  may  be  that  the  his- 
tory of  popular  opinion  would  be  too 
multifarious  and  too  vague  for  any  such 
definite  treatment.  But  if  the  successive 
phases  of  public  sentiment,  like  the  theo- 
ries of  philosophy,  could  be  traced  ;  if 
the  dominant  thoughts  that  stirred  in 
the  bosom  of  the  old  Assyrian  civiliza- 
tion, of  tlie  Egyptian,  the  Phoenician,  the 
Hebrew,  the  Grecian,  Roman,  feudal, 
and  modern  civilization,  could  be  un- 
folded to  me,  I  should  better  understand 
the  world  and  the  problem  of  the  world's 
life  than  by  any  other  means  whatever. 

This  history  of  human  thought,  both 
philosophic  and  popular,  —  you  must 
see  at  once  how  impossible  it  is  that  I 
should  deal  with  it  here,  except  by  the 
most  general  suggestions,  even  if  I  were 
ever  so  much  qualified  to  do  it.  But 
consider,  in  this  matter  of  mental  devel- 
opment, how  natural  it  is,  and  we  may 
say  certain,  that  every  man's  indi- 
vidual life  is  a  picture  of  the  world's 
life.  Look  at  the  natural  traits  of  indi- 
vidual life.  In  childhood,  docility, — 
receiving  impressions  with  little  ques- 
tioning of  them,  wilfulness  and  wayward- 
ness controlled  by  authority  ;  timidity, 
also,  —  fears,  natural  or  superstitious  : 
in  early  manhood,  the  forming  of  opin- 
ions, the  struggling  with  questions,  the 
liability  to  be  misled  by  false  theories ; 
premature  judgments,  and  presumption 
and  confidence,  in  the  same  proportion: 
in  later  manhood,  a  correction  of  those 
errors,  a  larger  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence, a  settling  down  upon  more  simple 
and  certain  bases  of  thought ;  more  cau- 


tion, more  modesty,  more  wisdom  :  in 
short,  impressions  for  \k\t  first  period, 
assumptions  for  the  second,  solid  results 
for  the  third, — these  are  the  natural 
steps  of  individual  progress.  They  have 
been  tiie  steps  of  the  world's  progress. 
These  are  the  steps,  indeed,  which  Au- 
guste  Comte  has  so  laboriously  traced 
out,  under  the  denominations  of  what  he 
calls  the  theologic  era,  the  metaphysic 
era,  and  tiie  era  of  the  positive  philoso- 
phy ;  i.  e.,  in  other  words,  the  ages  of  su- 
perstition, of  theory  or  assumption,  and 
of  the  observation  of  facts  ;  for,  I  think, 
his  terms  are  new,  rather  than  his  ideas 
of  progress. 

But  let  us  look  at  the  luorLfs  periods. 
The  first  was  that  of  superstitious  obedi- 
ence  to  whatever  was  taught  or  estab- 
lished. It  embraces  the  oldest  Asiatic 
nations,  together  with  the  Egyptians, 
and,  indeed,  all  the  rudest  tribes  of  men 
everywhere.  Its  grand  characteristic  is 
that  of  childlike  and  implicit  acquies- 
cence in  the  existing  system,  in  the 
political  or  social  order,  as  a  Divine 
enactment.  Whether  that  order  was 
caste,  or  subjection  to  a  priesthood,  or 
to  a  patriarchal  head,  or  to  the  king,  it 
was  never  questioned.  Kings  were  often 
slain  by  their  rii/als,  but  the  people,  in 
those  earliest  days,  seldom  rose  against 
them.  We  can  hardly  comprehend,  at 
this  day,  that  absolute  obedience.  And 
we  must  not  confound  it  with  rational 
obedience,  which  is  one  of  the  latest 
fruits  of  the  highest  culture.  It  was  un- 
reasoning, instinctive  obedience  And 
the  lessons  to  be  obeyed  extended  to 
everything;  to  the  daily  action  of  life  as 
well  as  to  political  relations.  Men  took 
tlieir  trade,  their  occupation,  from  their 
fathers.  In  India  and  Egypt,  it  was 
assigned  to  them  by  the  law  of  caste ; 
but  among  all  rude  people  the  same 
principle  has  prevailed,  though  not  to 
the  same  extent.  Then,  in  political 
relations,  the  chieftain,  the  king,  was 
priest  also  ;  and  in  that  double  charac- 
ter was  regarded  with  unbounded  awe, 
and  had  unbounded  power.  This  was 
the  childhood  of  the  world. 


636 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


The  next  period  begins  with  Greece, 
and  embraces  Rome  and  the  whole  of 
semi-civiHzed  Europe  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  It  is  the  period  in  wiiich  thought 
began  to  be  free.  It  is  the  period  of 
struggling  theories  ;  about  philosophy, 
poHtics,  law,  and  the  social  relation- 
ships. Thales  and  Pythagoras,  —  both 
of  Phoenician  origin,  though  born  and 
brought  up  (about  six  centuries  before 
the  Christian  era)  in  the  great  cities  of 
Miletus  and  Samos, —  were  the  harbin- 
gers of  this  second  period  in  the  history 
of  human  thought ;  "but  it  burst  forth 
in  morning  splendor  in  the  schools  of 
Socrates  and  Plato,  and  of  Aristotle. 
Now,  one  of  the  darkest  problems  in 
the  history  of  thought  is  the  apparent 
declension  in  philosophy  from  the  time 
of  Plato  and  Aristotle  to  the  time  of 
Bacon  ;  a  period  of  about  twenty  centu- 
ries. Platonism  in  the  new  Platonic 
schools  of  Rome  and  Alexandria,  in  the 
second  and  third  centuries,  died  out 
into  mysticism  and  pantheism.  Aris- 
totle's system  arose  and  flourished  in 
the  eighth  century,  under  the  culture 
of  Arabian  philosophers :  and  partly 
through  the  Arabian  schools  in  Spain, 
and  the  fostering  care  of  Charlemagne 
and  Alfred,  it  attained,  under  the  name 
of  the  scholastic  philosophy,  to  a  firrn 
lodgment  in  the  culture  of  Europe.  It 
was  less  spiritual,  less  elevating  than 
that  of  Plato;  yet  it  prevailed.  It  was 
full  of  irrational  hypotheses,  and  barren 
syllogisms  and  subtilties  ;  more  fitted 
to  exercise  human  thought  than  to  lead 
it  to  any  true  knowledge.  Why,  then, 
did  it  prevail  1  May  we  not  fairly  sug- 
gest that  it  may  have  been  better  and 
safer  for  the  human  mind  in  that  stage 
of  its  culture  than  the  philosophy  of 
Plato  ?  Plato's  philosophy,  we  see, 
was  abused  :  it  declined  into  mysticism 
and  pantheism  !  Aristotle's,  more  for- 
mal and  mechanical,  held  its  place  more 
firmly.  And  do  we  not  see  a  type  of 
this  phase  of  the  world-development 
in  our  own  individual  progress  ?  Is 
there  not  a  time  in  our  mind's  life, 
between     youth    and     later    manhood, 


when  we  are  struggling,  rather  than 
attaining;  when  the  faculties,  the  tools 
of  thought,  are  sharpening  rather  than 
building;  or  when  their  building  is  ex- 
perimental rather  than  final ;  when  we 
are  trying  many  things,  many  theories, 
and  do  not  yet  find  the  track  to  clear  and 
settled  conclusions?  In  politics,  how- 
ever, in  the  science  of  law,  in  ideas  of 
social  justice,  there  was,  at  the  same 
time,  a  great  progress.  And  in  this 
connection  we  must  not  forget  that 
grand  achievement,  —  the  separation  of 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  powers.* 
The  union  of  political  and  spiritual 
authority,  in  the  same  hands,  formed 
and  established  in  the  ancient  world 
the  most  solid  and  impregnable  despot- 
ism. Christianity  set  up  a  new  thought 
in  the  world,  that  was  to  reign  over 
kings  and  emperors.  It  was  the  power, 
not  of  an  idol  god,  but  of  an  omnipres- 
ent Divinity  ;  not  of  a  ceremonial  func- 
tion, but  of  a  god-obeying  conscience. 
In  the  persons  of  the  Christian  priest- 
hood, it  separated  itself  from  the 
temporal  power,  struggled  with  it.  and 
at  length  gained  the  ascendency.  When 
Pope  Hildebrand,  in  1077,  summoned 
the  Emperor  of  Germany,  Henry  VI., 
to  Canossa,  in  the  Apennines,  and 
made  him  do  penance  on  the  cold 
mountain  side  for  three  days  before  he 
would  admit  him  to  his  presence  or 
give  him  absolution,  the  battle  was 
fought  and  won.  Doubtless  the  relig- 
ious power  in  its  separate  form  was 
enough  abused,  but  its  separation  was 
a  great  step  onward. 

The  third  great  period  in  the  history 
of  human  thought  commenced  with  the 
sixteenth  century.  The  revival  of  learn- 
ing, the  protest  of  Luther,  the  invention 
of  printing,  the  discovery  of  America, 
nearly  simultaneous,  gave  a  new  spring 
to  men's  minds,  and  philosophy  partook 
of  the  general  movement.  Under  the 
guidance  of  Bacon,  Leibnitz,  and  their 
successors,  it  turned  away  from  subtil- 
ties and  theories,  to  real  knowledge, 
and  to   its  foundation  principles.     For 

*  Comte,  Philosophie  Positive,  S4th  lecture. 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY. 


^n 


the  last  three  centuries,  then,  the  hu- 
man mind,  having  struggled  out  from 
the  cloud-land  of  the  Middle  Ages,  has 
been  advancing  on  firmer  ground,  and 
in  clearer  light,  and  to  more  decided 
and  substantial  results.  It  is  the  man- 
hood of  the  world. 

I  am  sensible  that  this  discoursing 
is  too  abstract  and  cursory  to  be  profit- 
ably pursued.  But  it  may  serve  to 
convince  you  that  there  has  been  a 
lirogress  in  the  highest  regions  of 
thought ;  in  that  search  for  truth  vi^hich 
touches  the  vital  springs  of  all  human 
welfare. 

Let  me  add  a  word  on  the  progress 
of  thought  as  it  appears  in  the  form  of 
public  sentiment.  And  let  it  be  con- 
sidered that  public,  like  individual  opin- 
ion, will  always  be  working  itself  out 
into  expression,  into  action.  Now  the 
progress  of  public  sentiment  through 
ages  has  manifested  itself  in  a  con- 
stantly increasing  respect  for  freedom, 
for  justice,  for  humanity.  Let  us  dwell 
upon  this  last  point  for  a  moment ;  for 
it  covers  the  whole  ground. 

Civilization,  says  M.  Guizot,  em- 
braces two  elements,  the  improvement 
of  society,  and  the  improvement  of  the 
man  ;  and  the  question,  he  says,  which 
is  to  be  put  to  all  events,  is,  —  What 
have  they  done  for  the  one  or  the 
other  ?  Of  these  two  developments, 
he  further  asks,  which  is  the  end,  and 
which  the  means  ?  Was  the  individual 
made  to  advance  society,  or  society  the 
individual?*  And  he  quotes  Royer 
CoUard  in  favor  of  the  latter  view. 
Can  there  be  any  doubt  about  it  ?  Of 
course  the  actual  tendencies  are  recip- 
rocal ;  general  culture  helps  individual ; 
the  individual,  in  turn,  helps  society. 
But  if  any  one  asks  which  is  the  ulti- 
mate end,  1  say  the  culture  of  the 
individual  soul.  Indeed,  what  is  the 
development,  improvement,  perfection, 
happiness  of  society,  when  analyzed, 
but  that  of  individuals  ?  Society,  like 
humanity,  is  a  mere  abstraction  ;  only 

*  Histoire  de  la  Civilisation  en  Europe,  tome  ii. 
PP-  23.  24. 


individuals  have  any  actual  being  or 
fortune,  weal  or  woe.  Society  is  only 
a  relation;  man  is  the  substance.  So- 
ciety passes  away ;  man  is  immortal. 
The  family,  tribe,  commune,  nation, 
state,  is  instrumental ;  man,  final.  So- 
ciety can  do  nothing  greater  than  to 
make  noble  and  happy  men.  But  men 
can  do  something  greater  than  to  make 
noble  institutions,  —  to  make  them- 
selves noble.  It  is  beautiful  to  die  for 
one's  country  ;  but  it  is  more  beautiful, 
it  is  maje'stic,  to  die  for  the  right,  —  for 
the  sense  of  right  in  the  lonely  and  pri- 
vate heart. 

Now  the  progress  of  the  world,  of 
society,  of  freedom,  of  education,  in- 
telligence, literature,  religion,  has  wit- 
nessed a  gradual  development  of  con- 
scious individuality,  of  the  worth  of  man, 
of  the  individual  man.  It  may  be  traced 
down  through  successive  institutions 
and  ages.*  Under  the  ancient  despot- 
isms, Assyrian  and  Egyptian,  still  more 
in  China  and  India,  the  man  was  noth- 
ing. Society  was  strong ;  but  the  man 
was  nothing.  Armies  of  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men,  with  terrible  unity, 
cohesion,  and  force,  swept  over  the 
world  ;  still  the  individual  man  was 
nothing  but  a  particle  of  that  destroying 
cloud.  In  the  Roman  time,  man  was 
nothing  but  for  the  state.  The  sole 
thought  of  parental  affection,  yea,  of 
the  tenderest  maternity,  was,  to  rear 
children  for  the  state.  Christianity 
gave  birth  to  individuality.  Feudalism 
permitted  the  great  idea  to  grow.  Man 
became  free,  and  learned  more  and 
more  that  he  was  a  man.  The  con- 
sciousness of  one's  self  has  gone  on 
developing  ever  since,  till,  in  these  days, 
it  is  tending  in  some  instances  to  isola- 
tion, to  a  sort  of  intellectual  monachism, 
to  fastidious  peculiarities  of  thought 
and  modes  of  speech,  and  almost  to 
self-apotheosis.  Its  creed  is  a  very 
short  one  :  "  I  believe —  in  myself  ;  " 
and  its  practice  equally  brief  :  "  I  will 
live  in,  by,  and  for  myself." 

*  To  do  this  was  the  favorite  thought  of  Hegel 
in  his  Philosophy  of  History. 


6sS 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


P'rom  the  History  of  Thought,  the 
next  step  naturally  is  to  the  History  of 
Institutions  ;  though  they  are  closely 
connected,  and  cannot,  in  our  considera- 
tion of  them,  be  entirely  separated. 

And  here  religion,  by  every  right, 
claims  the  first  place, —  by  its  dignity, 
its  priority  in  time,  and  the  extent  of 
its  influence. 

This  grand  impress  upon  the  world 
is  a  sublime  testimony  to  human  nature. 
Religion  was  the  dominant  thought  of 
all  the  early  ages.  The  sceptic,  nay,  the 
atheist  philosopher  of  history  and  hu- 
manity, has  been  obliged  to  take  it 
into  the  very  heart  of  his  theory  ;  for 
no  account  can  be  given  of  the  world, 
without  it.  But  in  the  ancient  world 
especially,  religion  reigned  supreme. 
It  was  the  shadow  in  every  grove,  the 
wind  upon  every  shore,  the  waving 
harvest  in  every  field;  the  sunlit  moun- 
tains were  its  burning  altars  ;  the  deep- 
sunken  glens  and  caverns  its  haunted 
chambers  ;  its  idols  were  in  every  house, 
its  signet  was  upon  every  hearthstone  ; 
birth  and  burial,  feast  and  fight,  it 
claimed  for  its  own  ;  it  was  the  conse- 
cration of  marriage,  the  strength  of  gov- 
ernment, the  sanctitude  of  kingship  ;  it 
was  the  seal  upon  everything  sacred  ; 
upon  every  oath  and  covenant  and  bond 
in  the  world.  Nay,  and  concerning  the 
more  modern  ages,  the  ablest  judge 
on  the  subject,  M.  Guizot,  says,  that 
"  until  the  fifteenth  century,  we  see  in 
Europe  no  general  and  powerful  ideas, 
really  acting  upon  the  masses,  but  re- 
ligious ideas."*  "  Yea,"  savs  Plutarch, 
who  stood  a  little  this  side  of  the  divid- 
ing line  between  the  pagan  and  the 
Christian  ages,f  and  thus  belonged  to 
our  Christian  era  in  ^/>«^,  though  not  in 
faith,  — "  yea,  shouldst  thou  wander 
through  the  earth,  thou  mayest  find 
cities  without  walls,  without  a  king, 
without  houses,  without  coin,  without 
theatre  or  gymnasium  ;  but  never  wilt 
thou  behold  a  city  without  a  god,  with- 
out   prayer,     without    oracle,     without 

*  Civilization  in  Europe,  p.  307. 
t  Died  about  A. D.   120. 


sacrifice.  Sooner  might  a  city  stand 
without  ground,  than  a  state  sustain 
itself  witliout  religion.  This  is  the 
cement  of  ail  society,  and  the  support 
of  all  legislation."  * 

In  religious  ideas  and  institutions,  it 
is  hardly  necessary  to  show  that  there 
has  been  a  constant  progress  from  the 
earliest  ages ;  but  its  steps  have  been 
more  marked  than  is  likely  to  be  com- 
prehended by  the  common  and  vague 
impression  of  the  fact.  The  first  form, 
—  I  except,  of  course,  from  this  account 
of  the  natural  progress  the  Hebrew 
system,  —  the  first  form  of  religion  that 
prevailed  over  the  world  was  Fetichism  ; 
a  word  derived  from  the  Portuguese 
fetisso,  meaning  a  block,  worshipped  as 
an  idol.  It  prevailed  over  all  Asia  and 
in  Egypt,  and  was  substantially  tiie 
worship  of  nature.  It  was  the  worship 
of  nature,  or  of  idols,  the  monstrous 
births  of  nature ;  for  the  idolatry  of 
these  countries  is  widely  to  be  distin- 
guished from  that  of  Greece.  So  gross 
were  the  Oriental  ideas,  that  the  idol 
was  sometimes  chained  by  the  leg  to 
his  place  in  the  temple,  lest  he  should 
leave  it,  and  desert  his  worshippers. 
The  idols  were  ugly  and  misshapen, 
often  huge  and  monstrous  ;  like  the 
statue  oi  Nebuchadnezzar,  fifty  cubits 
(about  one  hundred  feet)  high,  or  like 
the  colossal  Sphinx  at  Gize  in  Egypt, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  and 
sixty-three  feet  high.  The  Sphinx,  you 
know,  was  in  the  form  of  a  human  head 
on  the  body  of  a  lion,  —  humanity,  as 
one  has  said,  looking  out  from  animal- 
ism. Indeed,  the  Egyptian,  as  a  worship 
of  animal  fife,  was  an  advance  upon  the 
mere  worship  of  material  nature ;  and 
was  an  approach  —  was  a  "looking  out," 
perhaps  we  may  say  —  to  the  Grecian 
development.  This,  the  Grecian  devel- 
opment, was  the  second  step,  and  was 
the  worship  of  deified  human  attributes; 
the  worsliip,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  gods 
under  these  i  epresentations ;  for  we  are 
always  to  understand  this  by  the  wor- 

*  Quoted   from   the     Biblical    Repository,   vol.    ii. 

p.   25<;. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


^39 


sliip,  as  it  is  called,  of  outward  forms. 
The  Greek  worship  formed  its  symbols 
of  the  Divinity  by  an  idealizing,  not 
of  nature,  but  of  humanity.  That  is  to 
sav,  it  was  distinctively  this  ;  for  much, 
doubtless,  of  the  old  Oriental  worship 
was  left ;  it  is  always  to  be  remembered 
that  much  of  the  spirit  of  every  previous, 
flows  into  the  succeeding  age.  The 
Greeks,  then,  deified  humanity  ;  the 
most  illustrious  men  they  had  known, 
represented  their  idea  of  God;  and  they 
made  their  idols  in  the  most  beautiful 
human  forms.  It  was  a  step  onward. 
Next,  the  Romans  abjured  idolatry  en- 
tirely. This  trait  the  better  prepared 
them  for  the  further  and  last  great  re- 
ligious step  in  the  world,  the  introduc- 
tion of  Christianity.  Christianity  has 
presided  over  all  the  best  culture  in  the 
world  since  its  advent.  It  has  itself 
passed  through  successive  stages  of 
development  and  improvement.  That 
is  to  say,  its  principles  have  been  better 
and  better  understood. 

But  before  speaking  more  particularly 
of  Christianity,  let  us  turn  a  moment  to 
consider  the  place  which  the  Hebrew 
religion  has  held  in  the  world. 

There  is  scarcely  anything  that  is 
so  urgently  demanded  in  our  literature 
as  a  work  which  will  justly  discriminate 
and  fairly  present  the  claims  of  the  He- 
brew system  to  our  attention  and  ven- 
eration. The  Bible  is  regarded  by  a 
pirt  of  the  world  as  a  literal  record  of 
the  words  of  God,  —  a  theory  which  pre- 
cludes all  free  appreciation  ;  and  by  an- 
other part,  as  a  book  of  old  and  useless 
stories,  and  formal  and  antiquated  writ- 
i"J?s,  —  a  presumption  that  altogether 
overlooks  its  true  character.  For  here 
is  a  book  that  stands  out,  amidst  the 
darkness  of  antiquity,  in  bold  relief  and 
uiichallenged  superiority  to  everything 
aruund  it.  Here,  in  the  first  place,  is 
the  most  valid  history  of  the  earliest 
known  period  of  the  world  ;  of  the  time 
before  the  flood.  Here,  in  the  second 
place,  is  a  record  of  the  most  liberal 
polity  of  ancient  times.  There  was 
nothing  among  surrounding  nations  to 


compare  with  the  freedom  of  the  He- 
brew state.  Here,  in  the  third  place, 
is  the  sublimest  poetry  of  the  ancient, 
if  not,  indeed,  of  any  time.  Some  of 
the  ablest  critics  have  agreed  to  assign 
to  the  Book  of  Job  and  the  writings  of 
Isaiah  a  place,  not  only  above  the  In- 
dian Mahabarat,  but  above  the  Iliad 
itself.  And  in  the  fourth  place,  here  are 
writings,  of  such  lofty  spiritualism  and 
devotion,  tiiat  they  not  only  leave  all 
conteiTiporary  records  far  behind,  but 
have  been  the  food  of  piety  and  the 
language  of  prayer,  among  the  most 
enlightened  nations,  to  the  present  day. 
Compare  the  prayers  in  the  Zend-Avesta 
and  the  Iliad  with  those  of  David,  —  and 
they  are  all  nearly  contemporaneous, — 
and  you  must  feel  that  David  soared  far 
above  them  all. 

Such  a  system  of  lofty  spiritualism, 
moral  wisdom,  and  civil  polity  could  not 
fail  to  have  some  effect  upon  the  sur- 
rounding nations.  Indeed,  M.  Auguste 
Comte  himself,  though  far  enough  from 
recognizing  any  element  of  supernatural- 
ism  in  the  Hebrew  system,  is  disposed 
to  ascribe  to  it  the  initiative  and  lead- 
ing part  in  the  great  transition  of  the 
world  from  polytheism  to  the  worship 
of  one  God.*  The  position  of  the  He- 
brew state  favored  such  an  influence. 
It  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  most  an- 
cient civilizations,  with  Assyria  on  the 
one  hand  and  Phoenicia  and  Egypt  on 
the  other.  At  a  later  day  it  was  a  cen- 
tral province  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
And,  as  if  its  office  were  meant  to  be 
diffusion,  the  Hebrew  state  was  never 
at  any  time  a  locked-up  and  impregnable 
kingdom.  It  was  frequently  overrun  by 
the  armies  of  Egypt  and  Assyria  and 
Rome  ;  many  times  they  desolated  and 
despoiled  the  Holy  Temple  ;  yet  they 
found  there  no  idol  nor  idol- worship, 
but  only  a  simple  altar  to  the  one  in- 
visible God.  They  dashed  it  in  pieces, 
indeed,  with  idolatrous  rage  ;  but  they 
must  have  felt  the  sublimity  of  the  sym- 
bol and  the  worship.  So  little,  in  truth, 
did  the  Hebrew  theocracy  exist  for  its 

•  Philosophie  Positive,  vol.  v.  pp  290,  291. 


040 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY, 


own  sake  ;  so  much  for  the  lifting  up  of 
a  standard  of  pure  theism  to  the  nations, 
as  the  Hebrews  themselves  were  often 
told,  that  they  were  rcai-ed  as  a  people 
in  Egypt,  and  were  more  than  once  car- 
ried into  captivity  into  Assyria.  Not 
for  national  aggrandizement  did  the  He- 
brew state  exist,  but  for  the  diffusion 
of  higher  truths  than  the  world  had 
elsewhere  attained,  and  thus  to  prepare 
the  way  for  a  still  higher  and  purer 
religion. 

This  was  Christianity.  The  crisis  of 
its  advent  and  the  consequences  must 
occupy  some  attention,  even  in  the  most 
cursory  notice  of  the  world's  progress. 

The  old  religions  were  worn  out.  The 
Asiatic  and  Egyptian  worship  of  nature 
had  given  place  to  the  Grecian  mythol- 
ogy, and  to  this  had  succeeded  the  Ro- 
man latitudinarianism  and  indifference. 
Though  abjuring  idolatry,  Rome  ad- 
mitted the  gods  of  all  nations  indif- 
ferently into  her  pantheon,  and  her 
philosophers  believed  in  none.  The 
observation  of  Cicero  is  familiar  to  you, 
that  the  very  priests  could  not  help 
laughing  in  one  another's  faces  as  they 
celebrated  the  sacred  rites.  All  faith 
was  fast  dying  out  of  the  world,  and 
where  faith  is  dead,  nothing  lives. 

Then  it  was  that  Christianity  came, 
as  we  may  say,  to  the  world's  rescue  : 
and  many  circumstances  favored  its  in- 
troduction. I  do  not  choose  to  say,  as 
most  writers  do,  that  Providence  es- 
pecially prepared  these  circumstances  ; 
they  arose  in  a  natural  way;  the  facilities 
of  communication  apened  by  the  extent 
of  the  Roman  Empire,  language  and 
law,  the  prevalence  of  peace,  the  failure 
of  polytheism,  and  the  despondency  of 
philosophy,  all  favored  the  new  religion. 
Occasion  was  taken  from  these  circum- 
stances, we  may  doubtless  say :  it  was 
"the  fulness  of  time."  But  what  I  wish 
especially  to  mark  is  the  crisis  in  civili- 
zation. Civilized  society,  to  which  the 
rescue  came,  was  about  to  sink  under 
the  weight  of  its  own  inherent  vices. 
The  life  of  the  world  had  been  gathered 
up  in  Rome  to  one  central  point;   the 


limbs  had  been  drained  to  fill  the  heart 
to  repletion  ;  and  now  that  destruction 
threatened  it  from  very  plethora  and 
consequent  gangrene  and  corruption, 
now,  too,  that  the  Goth  and  the  Vandal 
were  coming  to  pierce  it,  that  mighty 
heart  was  about  to  burst  in  deluges  of 
blood.  It  had  been  an  awful  problem 
for  any  philosopher  of  those  days,  any 
Cicero  or  Plotinus,  to  consider  Jioiv, 
from  that  dark  and  mysterious  abyss 
into  which  humanity  was  descending,  it 
should  emerge,  —  how,  and  in  what  form 
and  character.  But  there  was  a  power 
coming  to  help  and  to  rescue,  of  which 
the  philosophers  knew  nothing.  Chris- 
tianity descended  with  the  world  into 
that  awful  abyss,  where  the  wild  tor- 
rents and  stormy  winds  of  human  pas- 
sion were  struggling  together  in  the 
night-brooding  chaos;  and  that  heavenly 
Guardian  and  Restorer  brought  it  up 
again  to  stand  on  a  firm  basis.  For 
then  it  was  that  the  spiritual  powers, 
the  dread  sanctions,  and  the  imposing 
ceremonies  of  the  Christian  religion 
awed  the  rude  invader.  Then  it  was 
that  its  mitred  bishops  clothed  them- 
selves with  the  office  of  the  civil  magis- 
trate to  restrain  the  lawless.  Then  it 
was  that  its  monasteries  preserved  the 
treasures  of  the  ancient  learning.  Then 
it  was,  above  all,  that  the  one  great  idea 
arose  in  the  world,  to  reign  over  all  after 
ages,  —  the  Christ,  the  divinest  being 
that  ever  appeared  in  the  world,  and 
the  most  human  ;  divine  to  inspire  rev- 
erence, human  to  win  confidence  ;  and 
suffering  in  such  wise  as  to  touch  the 
springs  of  love  and  pity  through  all 
time.  And  it  did  touch  the  hearts  of 
men.  It  transformed  many  from  earthly 
baseness  into  confessors,  saints,  and 
martyrs.  And  it  is  a  circumstance  to 
which  I  wish  to  call  your  particular  at- 
tention, that  the  lives  of  these  holy  men 
became  the  popular  literature  of  the 
world  from  the  sixth  to  the  eighth  cen- 
tury. The  profane  literature  had  disap- 
peared ;  and  these  Lives  of  the  Saints 
took  its  place.  The  Collection  of  Bol- 
land,  a  Belgian  Jesuit,  with  its  continua- 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


641 


tion,  consists  of  fifty-three  volumes  of 
these  Lives.  I  wish  I  had  time  to  recite 
to  you  some  of  these  legends  of  the 
early  Christian  saints.  They  were  often 
extravar'ant ;  but  they  contained  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  of  hero- 
ism, self-sacrifice,  and  saintly  pity  and 
care  for  the  poor  and  suffering,  that  can 
be  found  in  any  literature  of  any  age. 
And  these,  amidst  the  wild  license  and 
cruelty  of  b.irons  and  robbers,  were  the 
good  Christian  legends  that  circulated 
among  the  people.* 

And  thus,  amidst  the  corruptions  and 
vices  of  succeeding  times,  Christianity 
has  ever  stood  forth  as  the  image  of 
purity  and  goodness.  It  has  not  been 
as  in  the  ancient  heathen  time,  when 
the  religion  was  no  better  than  the  mor- 
als of  the  people.  Ever,  in  the  Chris- 
tian ages,  there  has  been  an  ideal,  draw- 
ing on  to  something  better.  And  thus 
Christianity  has  ever  been  impressing 
itself  more  and  more  upon  governments, 
upon  social  institutions,  and  upon  art. 
It  has  made  governments  more  just 
and  tolerant.  It  has  built  hospitals  and 
asylums  on  the  sites  of  voluptuous  baths 
and  bloody  amphitheatres.  It  has  formed 
worshipping  congregations,  built  for 
them  temples  for  meditative  thougiit,  for 
instruction,  —  a  thing  unknown  toother 
religions  ;  an  institution,  indeed,  of  almost 
inappreciable  value.  And  what  but  the 
Christian  idea  has  been  imaged  forth  in 
the  architecture  of  Europe  ;  in  its  solemn 
temples,  its  majestic  cathedrals,  its  time- 
hallowed  universities  ?  And  what  is  it 
that  is  spread  in  forms  of  living  beauty 
upon  the  walls  of  Italy  ?  It  is  the  great 
Christian  idea.  The  moving  incidents 
of  the  Christian  story,  and  the  sublime 
virtues  of  Christian  confessors  and  mar- 
tyrs, are  there  portrayed  before  the 
/passing  generations. 

I  cannot  dwell  longer  upon  the  insti- 
tutions that  have  advanced  the  world; 
and  must  come,  in  the  third  place,  to 
actions  and  events.  Ideas,  institutions, 
actions,  —  this  is  the  order  of  my  dis- 


•  Guizot,    Histoire  de  la  Civilisation  en  France, 
i6e  et  176  lemons. 


course  ;  and  I  am  obliged  to  content 
myself  with  the  mention  of  only  some 
instances   under  each  head. 

As  I  shall  pass  from  the  agencies  em- 
ployed in  the  world's  progress,  to  con- 
sider in  my  next  and  last  lecture  the 
actual  steps  of  it,  I  shall  reserve  several 
points,  under  the  head  of  action,  for  the 
places  into  which  they  naturally  and 
chronologically  fall;  and  I  shall  take  up, 
in  this  lecture,  only  some  of  those  move- 
ments of  a  general  character  which  have 
occurred  occasionally  and  indifierently 
in  all  ages. 

The  first  is  colonization.  The  great, 
peaceful  colonizers  of  the  world  —  for 
the  military  colonization  practised  by 
Rome  and  Russia  does  not  come  under 
our  present  view  —  have  been  Phoenicia 
and  Greece,  England  and  Holland  : 
Phoenicia  having  had  colonies  in  Spain 
and  Northern  Africa  ;  Greece,  in  Asia 
Minor  and  Southern  Italy  ;  and  England 
and  Holland,  in  the  East  Indies  and  in 
America.  This  swarming  of  the  hives 
of  men  has  always  been  attended  with 
certain  advantages  to  the  cause  of  civili- 
zation and  progress.  Heeren  says,  "  It 
is  from  the  bosom  of  colonies  that  civil 
Hberty,  nearly  in  all  ages,  has  set  forth."  * 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  colonization  is 
likely  to  be  an  emancipation  from  many 
prejudices  and  many  inconvenient  usages 
at  home.  Men,  in  a  long-established 
order  of  society,  become  weary  of  bur- 
densome and  cramping  institutions  long 
before  they  can  get  rid  of  them.  They 
have  improved  ideas  which  tliey  desire 
to  put  in  practice  ;  and  when  founding 
new  communities,  they  are  certain  to  do 
it.  Our  own  forefathers,  indeed,  came 
to  this  country  with  that  distinct  pur- 
pose ;  and  in  consequence  they  abol- 
ished all  state  religion,  all  orders  of 
nobility,  and  all  irresponsible  govern- 
ment. 

The  next  great  movement  which  I 
shall  mention,  is  invasion.  By  this  I 
do  not  mean  international  war,  to  set- 
tle some    temporary  quarrel,  but  those 

*  Historical   Researches  —  Asiatic  Nations,  vol.  i. 
P-  303. 


41 


642 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY. 


immense  tides  in  human  affairs  by  which 
either  barbarism  has  poured  itself  down 
upon  the  seats  of  civihzation  to  settle 
itself  there,  or  civilization  has_  invaded 
barbarism  to  uproot  and  supplant  it.  Of 
the  first  kind,  was  the  invasion  of  India 
and  Persia  from  the  central  mountain 
land  of  Asia,  and  of  the  Roman  Empire 
from  Northern  Europe  and  Tartary.  Of 
the  second,  are  the  remarkable  move- 
ments of  the  present  day, — of  Russia 
upon  Tartary  and  Circassia,  of  France 
upon  Northern  Africa,  and  of  England 
upon  Southern  Asia. 

Here  opens  an  awful  page  in  human 
affairs,  written  in  blood  and  blackened 
with  many  atrocities  and  miseries  ;  and 
we  must  pause  to  consider  it.  And 
everything  depends  upon  our  standpoint. 
If  we  demand  some  artificial.,  best  atl- 
turc  for  the  human  race  ;  if  we  permit 
ourselves  to  say  —  why  was  it  not  car- 
ried forward  in  civilization,  with  the  few- 
est blunders,  troubles,  and  .sufferings, 
and  all  according  to  some  factitious  ideal 
of  our  own  ?  —  we  shall  meet  with  a  con- 
founding problem.  But  let  us  say,  here 
is  a  race  made  as  it  is  made,  and,  as  we 
are  bound  to  think,  wisely  made,  and 
of  necessity  left  mainly  to  work  out  its 
own  way  ;  and  from  this  standpoint, 
what  do  we  see  }  Nations,  in  fertile 
realms,  like  Persia  and  Italy,  grow  in 
wealth,  comfort,  and  luxury,  and  sink 
into  indulgence,  licentiousness,  base- 
ness of  every  sort.  Every  tendency  is 
downward,  and  there  is  no  internal 
power  or  life  to  bring  them  up.  Injus- 
tice, cruelty,  and  corruption  cry  to 
Heaven  for  their  destruction ;  and  moral 
debility,  waste,  and  woe  have  left  no 
argument  on  earth  for  their  continu- 
ance. The  cup  of  iniquity  and  misery  is 
full  ;  and  the  rudest  barbarism  is  better 
and  happier  than  this  effete,  worn-out, 
blighted    civilization. 

Then,  from  the  founts  of  primeval  na- 
ture are  collected  the  mountain  streams, 
that  pour  a  new  life  through  the  cor- 
rupted channels  of  the  old  society.  The 
streams  are  turbid  and  violent,  indeed  ; 
^but  after  the  first  rush  is  over,  and  they 


have  swept  the  choking  filth  from  the 
old  channels,  they  become  in  time  calmer 
and  purer.  The  elements  that  compose 
the  new  civilization  are  better  than  the 
old.  In  fact,  the  better  part  of  the  old 
are  retained.  For  the  barbarian  cannot 
understand  the  effeminacy,  the  sloth,  the 
luxury,  the  artificial  vices  into  whose 
presence  he  comes  ;  but  the  visible  im- 
provements, the  comfortable  dwellings, 
the  useful  arts,  and  even  the  institutions 
and  laws,  he,  in  a  measure,  comprehends 
and  partly  adopts. 

He  is  improved.  But  now  at  length  he 
too  sinks  into  debility  and  corrujjtion, 
and  is  prepared  to  share  the  fate  of  his 
predecessors.  And  certainly,  if  this  ter- 
rible revolution  in  the  wiieel  of  fate,  by 
which  another  invasion  is  to  cast  ////// 
out  and  sweep  him  away,  —  if  this,  1  say, 
were  but  mere  repetition,  without  any 
progress,  the  problem  of  all  human  his- 
tory would  be  as  dark  as  ever.  But  the 
contrary  is  the  undoubted  fact.  The 
experiment  is  not  in  vain.  The  new 
civilizations  that  arise  are  ever  better, 
and  have  been  growing  better  through 
all  ages. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  counter  move- 
ment of  civilization  upon  barbarism. 
The  most  remarkable  instance  of  this 
is  the  establishment  of  the  British 
power  in  India.  It  is  the  most  stu- 
pendous spectacle  of  an  age  full  of 
wonders.  Within  a  century  past,  more 
than  a  hundred  millions  of  barbarous 
people  —  the  number  is  now  said  to 
amount  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  mil- 
lion, —  a  population  greater  than  that  of 
the  Roman  Empire  in  the  time  of  Clau-  | 
dius,  —  spreading  over  twenty-seven  de- 
grees of  latitude,*  and  almost  as  many 
of  longitude,  from  Cape  Comorin  to  the 
Himalaya  Mountains,  and  from  Persia 
to  the  Ganges  —  have  come  under  the 
ascendency  of  the  highest  civilization 
in  Europe.  Commenced  by  a  company 
of  merchants,  and  carried  on  by  a  people 
from  the  other  side  of  the  world,  noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  unintentional 
or    improbable  than    the   result   of  this 

•  From  b°  to  35°. 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINV. 


643 


movement.  That  in  this  stupendous 
march  of  events,  great  suffering,  great 
wrong,  has  been  inflicted,  that  princes 
and  nations  have  been  trampled  under 
foot,  cannot  be  denied.  And  yet  it  has 
not  been  a  course  of  mere  reckless  and 
ruthless  conquest.  Many  of  the  Indian 
princes  have  been  t'aken  under  British 
protection  at  their  own  instance  ;  many 
others  have  met  with  subjugation  as  the 
reward  of  unjust  aggressions  on  their 
purt.  And  the  English  are  not  a  people 
to  let  oppression,  in  their  name,  go  un- 
challenged ;  as  the  trial  pf  Warren  Hast- 
ings, Mr.  Fox's  East  India  Bill,  and 
many  other  parliamentary  interpositions 
show.  They  have  labored,  at  the  same 
time,  to  suppress  many  abuses  and  to 
spread  education  among  the  people. 

The  effects  must  be  immense,  must  be 
incalculable  ;  and  they  must  be  good. 
For  two  thousand  years  India  has  made 
hardly  a  step  forward  ;  bound  in  the 
chains  of  political  despotism,  of  a  re- 
ligion at  once  dreamy,  cruel,  and  de- 
grading, and  the  fatal  institution  of 
caste.  All  this  is  destined  to  give 
place  to  Christian  order,  law,  religion, 
and  society.  Where  Alexander  with 
his  armies,  and  Mohammedan  con- 
querors, and  Tamerlane  with  his  Mon- 
gol hosts,  swept  like  a  destroying 
cloud,  leaving  behind  them  the  same 
sterile  immobility  and  death  which  they 
found,  —  in  that  land  a  new  realm  is 
rising,  with  the  seeds  of  a  new  life  in  it. 
-Meanwhile  England  is  spreading  her 
influence  far,  both  to  the  east  and 
west  of  India.  Already  she  meditates 
a  land  route  by  railroad  from  the 
-Mediterranean  to  Hindostan,  through 
the  plains  of  the  Euphrates  and  Ti<'ris ; 
and  that  fallow  ground  of  the  old  As- 
syrian Empires,  which  has  lain  waste 
for  ages,  is  to  be  turned  into  a  fruitful 
field,  busy  with  thronging  life,  by  the 
ploughshare  of  modern  civilization.  Eng- 
land seems  destined  to  regenerate  en- 
tire Southern  Asia,  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean to  the  China  Sea.  What  a 
magnificent  mission  for  that  Island 
Oueen  ! 


There  is  one  further  topic  to  which. 
but  for  fear  of  exhausting  your  pa- 
tience, I  should  give  some  space  in  this 
lecture  :  and  that  is  political  revolu- 
tions, or,  more  exactly,  popular  resist- 
ance to  arbitrary  power.  Insurrections 
of  the  people  against  the  governinent 
are  seldom  aroused  without  a  cause  ; 
when  successful,  they  are  usually  fol- 
lowed by  beneficial  changes  ;  and  even 
when  they  fail,  they  often  do  good  ser- 
vice to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  justice. 
It  is  to  this  last  point,  as  the  darkest  in 
the  case,  that  I  shall  direct  your  atten- 
tion in  close. 

The  burden  of  the  case,  so  to  speak, 
usually  rests,  as  we  survey  it  in  history, 
upon  the  sad  fate  of  conspicuous  indi- 
viduals ;  for  they  are  ordinarily  the 
victims.  Ever  since  history  began  the 
record  of  human  struggles  for  justice 
and  for  progress,  we  see  that  the  rack 
and  the  scaffold,  the  market-place  and 
the  battle-field,  have  been  stained  with 
the  blood  of  the  free  and  strong-hearted, 
of  patriots  and  martyrs,  of  men  who 
died  nobly  because  they  could  not  live 
ignobly.  To  any  high  and  heroic  sensi- 
bility, it  is  the  saddest  and  most  agoniz- 
ing spectacle  in  the  world. 

But  the  moving  story,  that  stirs  our 
blood  with  indignation  and  pity  when 
we  read  it,  does  not  end  here.  No, 
there  is  another  account  to  be  made  of 
deeds  like  these.  Haughty  power  has 
its  day,  and  martyred  heroism  has  its 
day,  —  ay,  and  it  sets  in  darkness  and 
blood  ;  but,  that  day  past,  and  they 
change  places  forever.  Forever  hal- 
lowed and  dear  to  all  mankind  is  that 
martyred  heroism.  Every  drop  of  inno- 
cent blood  that  ever  tyranny  and  in- 
justice have  shed,  has  been  sprinkled 
upon  the  heart  of  the  world,  as  upon 
an  altar,  to  cause  the  flame  of  indignant 
virtue  to  mount  higher.  No  such  wea- 
pon was  ever  formed  on  earth  to  sustain 
the  right,  no  such  \yeapon  to  beat  down 
the  wrong,  as  the  battered  sword  of 
martyred  patriotism.  Separated  from 
all  earthly  dross  in  the  furnace  of 
tyranny,   forged   on  the    anvil  of   hard 


644 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


injustice  and  oppression,  and  tempered 
in  lioly  blood,  it  is  lifted  up  as  a  stan- 
dard before  the  eyes  of  all  mankind. 

Nor  let  it  be  thought  that  things 
like  these  are  buried  in  obscurity;  as 
the  tyrant  would  have  the  names  of  his 
victims.  Some  of  tis,  perhaps,  never 
heard  of  the  Duke  of  Alva  and  of  the 
Count  Egmont,  —  the  one,  the  brutal 
Spanish  commander  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, whose  cruelties  were  such  that  he 
drove  a  hundred  thousand  people  from 
their  country,  and  boasted  that  he  had 
cau,«ed  the  public  execution  of  eighteen 
thousand  persons  ;  and  the  other,  a 
young  nobleman  —  the  Count  Egmont 
—  otherwise  to  have  been  unknown  in 
history,  whom  he  sent  to  the  scaffold  ; 
but  all  Germany,  all  Europe,  lias  heard 
of  them ;  of  the  one  for  execration,  of 
the  other  for  pity  ;  the  pen  of  genius 
has  written  their  names  on  everlasting 
tablets  ;  in  history,  in  ballads,  in  dra- 
matic story,  they  are  known,  and  will 
be,  to  theend  of  the  world. 

But  we  all  have  heard  of  the  heroic 
Wallace  of  Scotland.  From  indignant 
resistance  to  the  English  soldiery  sta- 
tioned in  his  country,  he  was  led  to 
armed  assertion  of  her  rights  ;  and 
after  many  daring  actions  he  was  de- 
feated through  the  jealousy  of  the  Scot- 
tish nobles,  and  by  the  command  of 
Edward  I.  was  beheaded  and  quartered 
in  the  English  capital.  With  grief  and 
indignation  we  read  the  story.  We  sym- 
pathize with  the  lonely  sufferer,  torn 
from  his  country  and  his  home,  and 
sinking  to  his  doom  amidst  exulting 
crowds  of  enemies.  But  there  is  an- 
other award,  far  other  than  that  of  the 
English  court  and  the  London  of  that 
day.  Suppose  that  behind  that  hostile 
crowd  had  risen  an  amphitheatre,  on 
which  were  seated  a  hundred  thousand 
spectators,  all  execrating  the  deed,  and 
lauding  and  glorifying  the  victim  of  arbi- 
trary power.  He,  alas  !  saw  no  such 
majestic  amphitheatre,  but  only  mur- 
derous foes  around  him.  Yet  how  feebly 
would  that  crowded  theatre  represent 
the  verdict  of  posterity  !     How  do  the 


ranks  of  ages  on  ages  rise,  to  take  the 
victim's  part;  ay,  to  the  end  of  time,  — 
to  celebrate,  through  all  time,  with  song 
and  paean  and  dramatic  scene  and  his- 
toric story,  his  nobleness  and  heroism  1 
Yes,  it  is  such,  in  tlieir  melancholy  but 
glorious  fate,  that  fire  the  hearts  of  mil- 
lions with  new  indignation  at  wrong, 
with  new  enthusiasm  for  the  right.  It 
is  such,  in  their  melancholy  but  glorious 
fate,  that  are  the  noblest  teachers  of  all 
mankind.  Chairs  of  philosophy,  pulpits, 
forums,  thrones,  sink  to  the  dust  before 
them. 

The  difference  between  the  faint  ap- 
proval which  contemporaries  give  to 
virtue,  and  the  decisive  and  loud  award 
of  posterity,  is  strikingly  evinced  by  a 
passage  in  Herodotus  concerning  Aris- 
tides.  Herodotus  was  born  in  the  very 
year  of  the  banishment  of  Aristides 
from  Athens,  — i.  e.,  four  hundred  and 
eighty-four  years  before  the  Christian 
era.  Speaking  of  that  event,  Herodo- 
tus uses  this  language:  "He  was  ban- 
ished by  a  vote  of  the  people,  althougli 
my  information  induces  me  to  consider 
him  as  the  most  upright  and  excellent 
of  his  fellow-citizens."  *  •'  My  info*-- 
mation  induces  me  to  consider  him,"  — 
is  the  cautious  language  of  the  time  : 
while  the  ages  have  rung  with  the  title  of 
the  "Just,"  appropriated  without  doubt 
or  hesitation  to  the  name  of  Aristides  ; 
while  every  language,  every  literature, 
every  writing  of  human  speech,  from 
the  school-boy's  theme  to.  the  sage's 
thesis,  has  repeated  the  eulogium  ;  and 
while,  moreover,  the  name  of  Themis- 
tocles,  the  adversary  of  Aristides,  the 
most  successful  man  of  his  day,  —  pro- 
claimed by  all  Greece  the  greatest  gen- 
eral at  the  battle  of  Salamis,  but  worldly- 
wise,  wily,  and  unprincipled,  —  while 
that  name,  I  say,  wins  no  good  verdict 
from  posterity.  There  stands  the  little 
day's  vote  of  Athens  on  one  side,  and 
the  verdict  of  sixty  generations  of  man- 
kind on  the  other. 

It  has  been  thought  wrong,  to  desire 
martyrdom  ;  but  I  can  think  of  no  death 
*  Book  viii  sec.  79. 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


645 


so  much  to  be  coveted,  as.  after  having 
lived  a  heroic  life,  to  consummate  all  in 
one  bright  example,  which,  at  no  more 
cost  than  an  hour's  pain,  shall  send  light 
and  power  through  the  world.  This  is 
heaven's  commission  to  suffering  inno- 
cence. This  is  Heaven's  vindication  of 
its  bitter  pain.  The  lowliest  sigh  from 
the  valleys  of  Piedmont  is  echoed  from 
distant  continents.  One  glance  from  the 
dying  martyr's  eye  flashes  througli  the 
ages.  Small  cost  for  such  stupendous 
purchase  !  Little  to  do  and  to  suffer, 
for  so  much  to  follow  !     That  little  done. 


is  worth  the  world  beside.  Let  us  not 
despair  at  the  dark  pictures  which  his- 
tory spreads  before  us.  From  that 
darkness  is  the  brightest  flashing  out  of 
heroic  virtue.  In  the  dark  cloud  is  em- 
bosomed a  splendor  that  outshines  the 
common  light  of  day.  Ay,  and  but  for 
the  gathering  storm,  that  sometimes 
closes  around  the  noblest  men  that  the 
world  ever  saw,  their  virtues  had  never 
been  signalized  nor  clothed  with  honor 
and  beauty  for  the  admiration  of  all 
mankind. 


LECTURE     XII. 


HISTORIC  VIEW  OF  HUMANITY  :   HUMAN  PROGRESS,  — THE  STEPS  OF  IT. 


I  HAVE  considered,  in  my  last  lecture, 
some  of  the  great  agencies  by  which 
human  progress  has  been  promoted.  I 
propose  now  to  trace  the  steps  of  this 
progress.  A  few  preliminary  observa- 
tions may  prepare  us  to  take  a  juster 
view  of  it. 

There  are  difficulties,  in  many  minds, 
about  the  world's  life,  which  do  not 
press  equally  upon  individual  life.  Many 
feel  that  in  their  personal  experience 
and  lot  moral  laws  are  revealed,  and 
that  things  are  tending  to  moral  issues  ; 
that  there  really  is  a  high  purpose  in 
their  own  life.  "  But  to  what  end," 
they  say,  "have  the  wild,  warring, 
slaughtering,  struggling  nations  lived  ? 
This  wide  waste  and  desolation  which 
history  spreads  before  us, —  this  con- 
fused turmoil  of  follies  and  crimes,  — 
what  necessity  has  there  been  for  it  ? 
What  good  has  come  of  it?"  Such  is 
the  view  which  they  take  of  the  past 
life  of  the  human  race,  that  they  are  al- 
most ready  to  feel,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Manichcean  philosophy,  as  if  the  domain 
of  the  world  had  been  divided  between 
good  and  evil  spirits  ;  ay,  and  had  been 


given  to  the  evil  more  than  the  good. 
Nay,  there  are  those  who  say  that  man 
is  but  an  animal,  sprung  from  the  ape, 
and  stami>ed  with  animalism  in  his  whole 
embryotic  development. 

Now  suppose  it  were  true  that  hu- 
manity is  a  development  from  animalism. 
Yet  even  upon  t/iis  theory,  as  upon  every 
view  of  the  world,  one  fact  is  found  to 
be  involved  in  the  whole  history  of  hu- 
manity ;  and  that  is  \\\&fact  of  progress. 
Everywhere,  from  the  beginning,  through 
all  ages,  there  has  been  progress.  If, 
indeed,  the  race  had  been  running  down, 
or  if  it  had  stood  stationary  amidst  its 
struggles  and  sufferings,  then,  must  we 
have  given  it  up  to  the  scorn  of  the  sat- 
irist or  of  the  false  philosopher.  Then 
had  our  problem  found  no  solution.  But 
progress  redeems  all,  pays  for  all ;  shows 
that  in  all  things,  however  dark  and  my.s- 
terious,  there  has  been  a  good  intent  and 
tendency,  a  good  Providence,  ruling  all, 

"  From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression." 

This,  it  is  our  present  design  to  trace 
and  show. 


646 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN   DESTINY. 


And  we  may  observe  that  this  order 
of  progress  has  presided  over  successive 
productions  and  races  on  earth,  before 
the  .appearance  of  man.  There  were, 
unknown  ages  ago,  monstrous  amphib- 
ious creatures  ;  nameless  when  they 
lived,  for  there  was  none  on  earth  to 
name  them  ;  and  it  has  been  left  to  the 
present  age  to  classify  them,  —  the  ich- 
thyosaurus, the  megatherium,  the  mega- 
lonyx,  —  names  that  seem  monstrous 
and  fabulous  like  themselves;  but  they 
have  lived.  Then  appeared  more  per- 
fect animals  ;  then  man.  The  vegetable 
products,  too,  kept  pace  with  the  needs 
of  animal  life.  When  those  amphibious 
monsters  were  seventy  feet  long,  when 
there  were  such  swarms  and  clouds  of 
insects  that  their  fossil  remains  formed 
quarries  and  mountains  of  rock,  then 
our  common  fern  and  brake  shot  up  sev- 
enty and  eighty  feet  high.  Not  till  man 
was  brought  upon  the  scene,  perhaps, 
were  created  "the  grass,  the  herb  yield- 
ing seed,  and  the  fruit-tree  yielding 
fruit  after  his  kind."  And  Mr.  Agassiz 
says  that  no  fossil  remains  of  roses  are 
found,  of  a  date  prior  to  the  advent  of 
man.  Let  me  add,  in  passing,  that  these 
discoveries  of  modern  science  do  not 
conflict  with  the  Mosaic  account  of  the 
creation  ;  since,  in  a  just  construction, 
the  "  days  "  there  spoken  of  are  not  to  be 
taken  for  periods  of  twenty-four  hours,  — 
certainly  not  the  first  period,  which  was 
before  the  sun  is  represented  as  meas- 
uring the  day,  —  but  for  a  term  of  indefi- 
nite length,  during  which  the  earth  was 
"without  form  and  void,"  not  yet  pre- 
pared and  beautified  for  the  abode  of 
man. 

But  the  important  observation  is,  that 
in  all  progress,  the  past  has  ever  been 
preparing  for  the  future;  and  in  the 
progress  of  rational  beings,  that  the  fu- 
ture is  ever  borrowing  wisdom  from  the 
past.  Tradition,  history,  experiment, 
are  ever  spreading  before  mankind  the 
facts  from  which  they  are  perpetually 
drawing  almost  unconscious  conclusions. 
With  the  philosophic  observer,  however, 
they  are   not   unconscious,  but    plainly 


traced  out.  The  work  which  John  Ad- 
ams wrote  in  defence  of  our  political 
Constitution,  and  for  the  guidance  of  our 
Revolutionary  times,  was  founded  alto- 
gether upon  the  experience  of  nations. 
In  matters  of  practical  wisdom,  it  is  only 
by  experience  that  we  truly  know  any- 
thing ;  quantum  sunius,  scimusj  and 
only  so  it  is  that  the  world  knows  or 
can  know.  It  is  striking  to  see  how 
ono.  political  truth  after  another  slowly  , 
rises  out  of  the  bosom  of  past  ages  of  91 
experience  ;  first,  that  the  people  must  ^"l 
share  the  government,  to  make  it  safe 
and  just ;  and  with  this  conviction,  falls 
the  divine  right  of  kings  :  next,  that  the 
people's  interest  in  the  government 
must  be  expressed  through  representa- 
tion, through  suffrage  ;  and  with  this, 
sinks  a  hereditary  nobility :  then,  on 
some  experience  of  the  representative 
system,  that  majorities  may  tyrannize  ; 
and  the  sanctity  of  numbers  begins  to 
be  called  in  question,  the  rights  of  mi- 
norities to  be  insisted  on,  and  the  neces- 
sity asserted,  of  intelligence,  of  educa- 
tion ;  nay,  more,  of  virtue,  of  mutual 
regard,  of  reverence  for  the  Supreme 
Lawgiver. 

Thus  great  principles  take  their  place 
with  us  as  famihar  truths ;  and  we  al- 
most forget  whence  they  have  come 
and  what  they  have  cost.  Our  common- 
est beliefs  are  the  fruit  of  ages  of  exper- 
iment. They  are  familiar,  and  we  imag- 
ine that  they  were  easily  acquired.  We 
cannot  look  "  to  the  rock  whence  they 
were  hewn,  nor  to  the  hole  of  the  pit 
whence  they  were  digged."  We  think 
them  intuitions ;  but  the  truth  is,  the 
steps  of  centuries  have  led  to  them  ;  the 
pathway  of  generations  has  been  opened, 
through  mountains  and  through  deserts, 
through  flood  and  fire,  to  bring  down  to 
us  the  precious  heritage. 

Yet  further,  I  must  pray  you  not  to 
look  at  the  material  in  this  world  alone, 
but  at  the  spiritual  yet  more.  Not  as  a 
dull,  obstinate,  intractable  world  must 
we  see  it,  but  as  God's  ever-renewed 
and  instant  work  ;  not  as  a  mass  of  mat- 
ter  and   sense   and    corruption,   but    as 


THE    PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


647 


penetrated  all  through  and  forever  with 
spiritual  rays ;  not  as  darkness  and 
gloom,  chaos  and  night  and  storm,  but 
as  the  theatre  and  story  of  a  heavenly 
order ;  not,  if  I  may  say  so,  as  if  it  were 
that  dull,  familiar  place  which  we  call 
the  world,  for  which  we  have  no  respect 
because  it  is  familiar,  as  the  husband- 
man unwisely  has  none  for  his  farm, 
because  he  has  always  trodden  it  and 
toiled  upon  it ;  but  rather  should  we 
look  upon  this  world  as  some  vast  re- 
pository of  life,  some  fair  planet,  rolling 
tlirough  the  heavens,  and  bearing,  midst 
light  and  shade,  midst  change  and  strug- 
gle, midst  varying  forms  of  development, 
—  Celtic,  Saxon,  Slavonic,  Gothic,  and 
African,  —  its  infinite  burden  of  human 
joy  and  sorrow  :  concerning  which  we 
would  know,  as  far  as  we  7nay  know, 
the  divine  history  of  God's  providence 
over  it. 

But  there  is  one  further  preliminary 
point  to  which,  in  this  connection,  I 
wish  more  particularly  to  draw  your  at- 
tention ;  and  that  is,  that  the  progress 
of  the  world  has  been  a  purpose  and  a 
plan  abqve  all  human  sagacity ;  inas- 
much as  it  has  been  carried  forward  by 
man,  while  acting  in  total  unconscious- 
ness of  any  such  instrumentality. 

It  has  been  justly  observed  that,  in 
some  views,  animal  instinct  is  a  clearer 
proof  of  Divine  direction  than  human 
reason.  Reason  acts  for  itself.  Within 
a  certain  sphere  it  seems  to  act  inde- 
pendently of  the  Power  that  made  it. 
Instinct,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  mere 
vehicle  of  an  intention  acting  through 
it.  Unconscious  tendencies  in  human 
nature  bear  a  similar  character.  And  it 
is  by  these  mainly  that  the  world  has 
been. advanced.  Men,  nations,  genera- 
tions, have  not  purposely  combined  to 
secure  its  progress.  No  grand  council, 
amphictyonic  or  ecclesiastic,  Grecian  or 
Roman,  ever  sat  down  and  solemnly 
resolved  that  the  world  should  improve. 
If  there  was  such  a  design  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  if  it  has  been  steadily  kept 
in  view,  it  has  come  from  a  thought 
l>ehind  all,  and  above  all;  it  has  been  , 


God's  design,  and  not  man's.  And,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  has  been  a  purpose  not 
of  man's,  but  of  God's  creation  ;  it  has 
been  a  purpose  aided,  as  we  Christians 
believe,  by  Divine  interposition  ;  it  has 
been,  as  I  have  said,  a  purpose  accom- 
plished by  man  while  acting  in  total 
ignorance  of  it  ;  and  it  has  been  a 
purpose,  too,  accompHshed  in  spite  of 
man. 

But  it  was  especially  of  human  uncon- 
sciousness in  this  matter  that  I  proposed 
to  speak.     A  French  writer,  M.  Hello,* 
has  devoted  an  entire  work  to  the  illus- 
tration of  this  point   in   the   history   of 
France.     He  contemplates  the  elements 
of  national  progress  as  social,  territorial, 
and    political.       Thus,    under   the   first 
head,    he    says    that    the   gradually   in- 
creasing  freedom    of    the   mass   of  the 
people,  the  circumstances  that  aided  it, 
the  pecuniary  needs  of  kings,  which  cast 
them  upon  the  help  of  the  people,  the 
means    provided    by    which    the   cities 
bought  their  privileges,  and    hence  the 
rights  of   property,  the  value  of  labor, 
and  the  increasing  dignity  of  labor,  — 
that  all  this  did  not  come  from  any  de- 
sign of  man,  but  from  God.    Then  again, 
with  regard  to  the  territorial  element,  — 
to  hold  together  an  iminense  empire  like 
France,  he   says,  some  principle,  some 
power,  was  necessary,  some  permanent 
bond   of  union.      What   should   it   be  ? 
Perhaps  there  was  no  other  possible  in 
that  country   but   a    metropolitan   city  ; 
the  centre    from   wliich    should   radiate 
the  great  routes  to  the  extremity  of  the 
kingdom  ;    to   which   everything  should 
be  subordinate  ;   to  which  all  the  world 
should  resort.    Such  is  the  great  central 
city  of  that  empire  ;   and  when  it  is  said 
that  "Paris  is  France,"  the  importance 
of  this  may  be  tnore  than  its  import  in 
the  common  speech   of  men.      I  have 
sometimes  felt,  for  myself,  that  this  rela- 
tion of    the   imperial  city   was  a  great 
hardship  to   the  provincial    towns   and 
districts ;    but   I   confess  that  this  view 
of  it  has   put  a   different   aspect    upon 
the  matter.     But  what  has  given  to  the 
*  Philosophie  de  I'histoire  de  France. 


648 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


central  city  this  pre-eminence  ?  Not  the 
intention  of  those  who  founded  it,  but 
the  course  of  events,  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances,— in  other  words,  tlie  provi- 
dence of  God.  A  similai*  course  of 
observations  conducts  the  writer  to  a 
hke  conclusion  witli  regard  to  the  pohti- 
cal  element,  —  the  government,  —  wliich 
has  been  gradually  changed  and  im- 
proved by  struggles  between  the  king 
and  nobles  and  people,  mainly  of  a  per- 
sonal character,  and  having  little  refer- 
ence to  the  general  good.  "  Modern 
Europe,"  says  M.  Guizot,  "is  born  of 
the  struggles  of  different  classes  of  so- 
ciety." Society  has  wrought  out  these 
changes,  but  society  did  not  know  what 
it  was  about. 

This  view,  which  M.  Hello  takes  of 
his  country's  history,  is  a  good,  a  relig- 
ious, and  you  will  think,  perhaps,  a 
somewhat  remarkable  view  of  things  for 
a  French  philosopher;  and  I  was  will- 
ing to  spread  it  before  you. 

But  the  same  view  may  be  extended 
to  the  entire  history  of  the  world.  Its 
progress  has  been  carried  forward  by 
many  agencies  that  were  unconscious 
of   their  high  mission. 

He  who  discovered  the  mariner's 
compass,  he  who  invented  the  art  of 
printing,  they  who  perfected  the  steam 
engine,  little  thought,  perhaps,  what  in- 
struments they  were  putting  into  the 
hands  of  humanity  for  advancing  its 
great  end.  Each  one  developed  his 
own  genius,  followed  his  own  taste,  in 
his  individual  sphere  ;  in  his  privacy,  he 
held  the  thread  of  inventive  thought; 
in  his  humble  workshop,  he  pursued  his 
task  ;  but  the  eye  of  Providence  looked 
upon  that  work,  and  saw  those  narrow 
walls  burst  asunder  and  the  wide  world 
pervaded,  illuminated,  revolutionized,  by 
the  ingenuity  of  that  dreaming  recluse. 
—  a  Gutenberg  or  Faust,  a  Fitch  or 
Fulton,  a  Watt  or  Arkwright ! 

In  like  manner,  science  has  owed  its 
triumphs  mainly  to  the  simple  love  of 
knowledge,  to  single-hearted  enthusi- 
asm. But  the  secrets  of  nature  which 
it  has  unfolded,  the  unsuspected  powers 


which  it  has  developed  from  the  earth, 
and  the  wisdom  which  it  has  drawn 
from  the  skies,  have  united  to  bear  the 
world  onward,  though  Newton,  "child- 
like sage,"  and  Davy,  torch-bearer  in 
the  dark  earth-mines,  thought  of  but 
httle,  perhaps,  besides  their  studies. 

And  so  it  has  been  with  men  of  gen- 
ius, those  masters  of  human  thought, 
that  they  have  labored,  not  for  influ- 
ence, but  for  utterance,  —  not  for  fame, 
but  for  truth.  Genius  is  the  grandest 
power  on  earth,  for  in  its  highest  form 
it  is  religious  as  well  as  intellectual  ; 
and  yet  it  has  been  well  said,  that  it  is 
as  remarkable  for  its  unconsciousness 
as  for  its  energy.  The  eloquent  thought, 
the  epic  story,  the  life-imaging  drama, 
have  come  .from  depths  of  self-devel- 
opment far  beneath  all  calculation  of 
results. 

And  why  has  not  thought  terminated 
in  itself?  Wiiy  has  it  not  ministered 
only  to  its  own  improvement,  died  in  its 
own  bosom  ?  Why  are  the  noblest  ema- 
nations of  human  genius  running  on  glo- 
rious errands  through  the  earth  and  to 
the  ends  of  the  world?  Is  it  ncit  evident 
that  God  has  made  man  thus  to  act  on 
man,  for  the  general  enlightening  and 
advancement  ?  If  the  imperial  minds 
in  this  magnificent  empire  of  thought 
were  conscious  of  their  appointment 
and  mission,  then  the  plan  and  the  intent 
were  plain  ;  but  how  much  more  strik- 
ing is  it,  when  just  in  proportion  to  their 
efficiency  has  been  their  ««conscious- 
ness  of  the  glorious  ministration  for 
which   they  are   raised  up  ! 

But  it  is  time  that  I  should  proceed, 
as  I  proposed,  to  take  a  brief  survey  of 
the  actual  course  of  things,  the  steps 
of  human   progress. 

The  first  two  thousand  years  are  very 
dark  in  every  sense,  whether  as  history 
to  be  studied,  or  problem  to  be  solved. 
A  wild  wandering  over  the  earth,  as  far 
as  we  can  judge,  —  men  nomadic,  — 
hunters,  shepherds  ;  no  civilization,  at 
least,  capable  of  making  any  record  of 
itself. 

The   infant   school  of  the  world  had 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


649 


rude  teachers,  —  cold  and  hunger  and 
nakedness  and  need  and  peril  were  its 
teachers.  The  early  cosmogonies  rep- 
resented the  earth  when  it  first  became 
the  abode  of  man  as  a  scene  of  dis- 
order and  misery.  Diodorus  the  Sicilian 
speaks  of  the  trees,  plants,  animals, 
and  man  himself,  as  springing  from  the 
mud  warmed  by  the  sun,  and  pictures 
the  first  men  as  brutish  and  weak. 
Heraclitus,  according  to  Plutarch,  im- 
agined the  original  habitable  earth  to 
have  been  but  a  mass  of  cinders,  left  by 
volcanic  fires.  Plutarch  himself  gives 
his  opinion  in  the  touching  picture 
which  he  draws,  of  a  man  of  the  ear- 
liest period,  addressing  tliose  of  later 
ages.  "  Oh  !  how  are  you  cherished  of 
the  gods,"  he  says,  "you  who  live  now! 
How  fortunate  is  your  time  !  The  fer- 
tile earth  yields  you  a  thousand  fruits  ; 
all  nature  is  engaged  but  in  giving  you 
delights  ;  but  our  birthtime  was  mourn- 
ful and  sterile  ;  the  world  was  so  new 
that  we  were  in  want  of  everything  ; 
the  air  was  not  pure  ;  the  sun  was  ob- 
scured ;  the  rivers  overflowed  their 
banks  ;  all  was  marsh  and  thicket  and 
forest ;  the  fields  were  not  cultivated ; 
our  misery  was  extreme  ;  we  had  neither 
inventions  nor  inventors;  our  hunger 
was  never  appeased  ;  we  tore  the  limbs 
of  wild  animals  to  devour  them,  when 
we  could  find  neither  moss  nor  bark  ; 
and  if  we  found  an  acorn,  we  danced 
around  the  oak,  chanting  the  praises  of 
the  earth  ;  we  had  no  other  fetes  nor 
rejoicings  but  these;  and  all  the  rest  of 
our  life  was  trouble  and  poverty  and 
sadness."  * 

But  let  us  leave  this  period  of  the 
world's  infancy,  which  is  indeed,  as  you 
see  it  in  the  historic  charts,  covered 
with  clouds  ;  concerning  which  we  can 
offer  nothing  but  conjectures  ;  and  come 
at  once  to  our  proper  starting-point, — 
the  earliest  period  of  recorded  history. 
We  can  trace  no  proper  history  of  the 
world  but  in  the  form  of  nationalities  ; 
and  we  know  nothing  of  nations  earlier 

*  See  Boullanger,  —  Antiquitd  Ddvoilde,  tome  i. 
pp.  19s,  196. 


than  the  Chinese,  the  Indians  of  Hindo- 
stan,  the  Persians,  and  the  Egyptians; 
nor  anything  of  them  earlier  than  about 
the  year  2000  of  the  Mosaic  era. 

In  the  survey  which  I  am  about  to 
take  of  known  epochs  and  of  distinct 
nationalities,  the  points  to  which  I  wish 
to  invite  your  attention  are  these  :  that 
every  great  step  which  the  world  has 
taken  has  been  a  manifest  improvement 
upon  the  past,  and  a  manifest  prepara- 
tion for  further  progress ;  that  at  every 
great  step,  the  world  has  paused  and 
gained  a  foothold,  in  which  it  has  rallied 
the  energies  of  the  past,  to  throw  them 
into  the  fortunes  of  the  future  ;  that 
every  great  era  of  civilization,  in  other 
words,  has  presented  these  two  remark- 
able facts,  —  it  has  received  and  collect- 
ed the  improvements  of  the  preceding 
era,  its  poliucal  forms,  its  laws,  philoso- 
phies, theologies,  literatures ;  it  has 
carried  them  to  the  highest  point  it  was 
able  ;  and  then  it  has  cast  them  into 
the  bosom  of  the  future.*  Thus  im- 
provement has  passed  on :  from  Asia 
and  Egypt  to  Greece,  from  Greece  to 
Rome,  from  Rome  to  the  feudal  forms 
of  Central  Europe,  and  from  Central  or 
Continental,  to  Western  Europe,  and  to 
America. 

The  childhood  of  civilization,  then, 
was  in  Southern  Asia.  In  the  soft 
clime  and  fragrant  bowers  of  the  East 
was  man's  birthplace  and  cradle.  There, 
indeed,  was  the  Eden  of  the  world,  and 
there  was  its  childhood  nurtured.  There 
were  the  earliest  and  simplest  govern- 
ments ;  patriarchal,  despotic,  but  paren- 
tal, too, —  parental  in  their  indulgence, 
parental  in  their  summary  discipline  and 
instant  punishment;  and  there  were  in- 
stitutions fitted  in  every  respect  to  be 
the  leading-strings  of  the  world's  child- 
hood. Do  you  not  see  men  there 
seated  as  on  school  forms,  in  the  great 
divisions  of  caste  ;  generation  after 
generation  taking  their  places  on  those 

*  I  state  this  in  the  most  general  way.  I  know 
how  many  exceptions  and  deviations  there  may 
seem  to  be;  but  such,  taking  the  whole  world  into 
the  account,  I  believe  to  be  tlie  general  course  of  things. 


6qo 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


forms,  with  all  the  docility  of  children  ; 
finding  them,  to  a  certain  extent,  seats 
of  instruction,  and  at  any  rate  barriers, 
against  universal  anarchy,  —  barriers, 
indeed,  without  which  they  could  re- 
ceive no  instruction  ?  Caste,  in  India 
and  Egypt,  was  nothing  else  but  the 
extreme  of  a  principle  that  has  pre- 
vailed in  all  ages  ;  i.  e.,  the  division  of 
society  into  ranks  and  orders.  The 
Indian  parent  taught  his  son  his  own 
trade  or  pursuit,  and  the  son  could 
follow  no  other.  He  could  not,  like  the 
German  apprentice  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
wander  over  the  country  for  three  years 
as  a  journeyman.  The  German  had 
more  liberty  ;  but  his  liberty  was  strictly 
limited.  There  have  always  been  re- 
strictions upon  the  freedom  of  occupa- 
tion ;  till  in  this  country  every  man  is 
allowed  —  I  had  almost  said  —  to  do 
luhat  he  will,  where  he  will.  But  this 
liberty  would  have  been  disorder  and 
ruin  in  the  old  Indian  or  Egyptian  life. 
It  could  no  more  have  borne  the  same 
liberty  than  literal  children  could,  in 
these  days.  Do  you  not  see,  again,  the 
leading  traits  of  childhood,  in  the  ab- 
solute and  universal  submission  to 
authority,  and  in  the  unreasoning,  un- 
aspiring contentment  with  their  lot, 
of  Hindostan  and  China  ?  Do  you 
not  also  see  the  people  of  Southern 
Asia,  and  of  Egypt,  lapped  in  the  bosom 
of  a  rich  mother  earth  and  of  a  mild 
embracing  climate ;  with  few  wants, 
with  few  cares,  with  few  calls  to  exer- 
tion ?  Do  you  not  see  them,  moreover, 
wrapped  about  with  material  influences, 
pupils  of  matter,  taking  all  their  ideas 
from  physical  nature,  and  so  building 
vast  pyramids  and  splendid  mausole- 
ums and  stupendous  rock-temples,  ex- 
cavated from  the  very  mountains,  like 
those  of  Petra  and  Ellora  ;  and  esti- 
mating the  forces  of  their  armies  alone 
by  numbers ;  attracted  by  outward 
decorations,  conceiving  of  power,  of 
kingship,  always  as  something  seated 
upon  a  magnificent  throne,  holding  out 
a  jewelled  sceptre  and  clothed  with  gor- 
geous   habiliments  ?      Look   at  Xerxes 


and  Darius,  thus  seated  on  their  thrones, 

—  the  great  child-kings  ;  surrounded 
by  the  cloud  of  innumerable  hosts  ; 
Oriental  homages  at  their  feet ;  silk- 
en tent-curtains  swelling  in  the  night 
breeze  over  them  ;  music  in  their  ears  : 
they  never  imagined  that  anything  of 
hardship  or  peril  could  approach  them  : 

—  when  lo !  at  Plataea  and  Marathon 
shot  the  lightning  of  intellect  into  that 
cloud,  and  scattered  the  visions  of 
Oriental  greatness,  and  revolutionized 
the  ideas  of  an  age. 

There  is  discrimination  doubtless  to 
be  made,  among  these  Oriental  nations, 
in  regard  to  progress.  In  China,  life 
retires  back  into  the  most  childish  sim- 
plicity, docility,  and  subjection.  The 
emperor  was  the  government,  and  the 
law,  and  the  morality,  and  the  religion, 

—  and  the  very  people  ;  all  was  absorbed 
into  him.  The  rigor  oi  caste  in  India  — 
i.  e.,  recognized  classes  with  recognized 
rights^  was  something  better  than  this 
stereotyped,  this  solidified  unity.  The 
subjection  of  inferiors  was  such  in 
China,  that  if  a  son  complained  of  his 
father,  or  a  younger  brother  of  his 
elder,  he  was  to  be  whipped  with  a 
hundred  blows  and  banished  three 
years,  even  if  his  complaint  were  just  ; 
if  not,  he  was  to  be  strangled,  If  a  son 
lifted  his  hand  against  his  father,  his 
flesh  was  to  be  torn  froin  his  body  with 
hot  pincers.  I  am  speaking  of  the 
past  ;  such  is  the  law ;  how  often  it 
is  executed  now,  I  do  not  know.  In 
China,  all  was  prosaic, — life,  learning, 
and  philosophy  alike.  The  earliest 
Chinese  sage  divided  all  knowledge 
into  three  departments,  —  silk  culture, 
bridge  building,  and  the  training  of 
burden-bearing  animals.  The  philos- 
ophy of  Confucius  never  went  beyond 
the  simplest  precepts  of  morality  and 
religious  veneration.  No  deep  ques- 
tions are  discussed  ;  no  sense  is  enter- 
tained, apparently,  that  there  are  such 
questions.  It  is  the  very  earliest 
childhood  of  philosophy.  The  Indian 
philosophy,  with  all  its  dreaminess  and 
mysticism,  goes   far   beyond    this.       It 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


651 


meditates  the  deepest  questions.  The 
secret  of  nature,  the  mystery  of  God, 
the  end  of  being,  invite  its  contempla- 
tion. Its  system  indeed  was  pantheism  ; 
but  the  Chinese  could  hardly  be  said  to 
have  any  system.  And  although  they 
were  a  purer  people  than  those  of  India, 
it  was  because  they  were  more  child- 
like, submissive,  and  timid.  The  men- 
dacity of  the  people  of  India  is  well 
known.  The  Chinese,  perhaps,  did  not 
dare  to  lie. 

The  Persian  was  considerably  ad- 
vanced beyond  either.  The  Light 
which  he  worshipped  was  not  Lama,  not 
Brahma,  not  any  particular  existence, 
but  the  sentient  All  itself.  It  was  not 
Ormuzd  as  the  original  principle,  but 
the  Zeroene  Akerene,  —  the  infinite  and 
uncreated  Life.  And  the  Persian  Zend- 
Avesta  —  i.  e.,  living  words  —  dis- 
coursed far  more  nobly  than  the  old 
Indian  mythologies.  In  all  respects, 
too,  political  and  social,  the  Persian  life 
was  a  clear  step  beyond  the  Indian. 
In  fine,  the  Phoenicians,  the  Hebrews, 
and  the  Egyptians,  it  is  well  known, 
went  far  beyond  them  all ;  whether  we 
consider  their  polity,  their  religion,  their 
commerce,  learning,  or  arts.  In  fact, 
as  you  advance  westward  from  the 
farthest  East,  every  step  of  your  survey 
is  a  step  of  progress  ;  and  I  believe  the 
rule  will  hold  good,  as  you  travel  on 
through  successive  nations  and  ages 
down  to  the  present  day.  "  Westward 
the  star  of  etnpire  takes  its  way,"  says 
Berkeley  :  certainly  that  has  been  the 
course  of  the  empire  of  civilization. 

We  have  glanced  now  at  its  first  great 
phase  ;  in  which  docility,  submission, 
mental  slavery  to  religion,  to  govern- 
ment, to  social  order,  held  almost  abso- 
•lute   sway. 

But  Asia  at  length  ceased  to  be  the 
theatre  to  which  the  eyes  of  men  were 
directed  ;  and  the  great  drama  of  the 
world's  story  passed  away  to  the  shores 
of  Greece. 

Here  was  a  new  world,  a  new  people, 
a  new  genus  of  the  human  race.  Off- 
shoots perhaps   from    Oriental   civiliza- 


tion, that  took  root  on  the  shores  and 
islands  of  Asia  Minor,  small  tribes  that 
wandered  at  their  will  along  the  north- 
ern boundaries  of  the  Mediterranean, 
born  of  the  sea,  bred  among  the  hills, 
they  had  escaped  from  Oriental  pas- 
si  veness  and  from  the  bondage  of  great 
empires  ;  they  were  hardy,  vigorous, 
active,  and,  above  all,  free.  For  here 
especially  was  the  birth  of  intellectual 
freedom  ;  of  a  freely  working  and  crea- 
tive energy,  which  unfolded  itself  in 
religion,  in  polity,  and  in  literature. 

So  situated,  trained,  and  endowed, 
Greece  made  a  large  step  in  the  world's 
progress.  She  took  from  Asia  and 
Egypt  what  they  had  to  give,  their  laws, 
their  systems  of  philosophy,  their  mythol- 
ogies, their  crude  and  gigantic  forms  of 
art,  and  refined  them  from  their  gross- 
ness,  stripped  tiiem  of  tlieir  clumsy 
overlay!  ngs,  idealized  what  was  crude 
and  material  in  them,  and  wrought  them 
into  delicacy  and  beauty,  —  both  of 
form  and  thought.  She  rose  from 
sense  to  idealism.  The  earth-gods 
gave  place  to  celestial  powers.  The 
fabled  war  of  the  earth-born  Titans 
against  the  heavenly  divinities  who 
overcame  them,  is  probably  the  mytho- 
logical expression  of  that  fact.  But 
all  the  mythology  and  religious  art  of 
Greece  had  their  precursors  and  proto- 
types in  Egypt  and  Asia.  The  Sun 
in  the  Persian  worship,  the  Osiris  of 
the  Egyptians,  was  in  Greece  the 
beautiful  Apollo.  "  The  gods  of  Greece, 
says  Heeren,  "  were  moral  persons :" 
they  were  not  symbolical,  but  ideal  ; 
and  they  could  no  longer  be  represent- 
ed as  monsters  with  many  heads  and 
arms. 

But  Greece  had  more  to  do  than  to 
make  statues  or  to  spiritualize  or  hu- 
manize the  old  mythologies.  In  her 
was  developed  the  first  free,  political 
energy  in  the  world.  There  had  been 
singular  freedom  in  the  Hebrew  land  ; 
but  it  was  comparatively  passive  ;  and 
besides,  it  was  pressed  on  either  side 
by  the  Assyrian  and  Egyptian  mon- 
archies.     In    Greece,     freedom  had    a 


652 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


field  to  itself.  Yet  more,  it  was  dis- 
enthralled from  Oriental  languor.  It 
breathed  its  inspiration  into  the  whole 
life  of  the  people.  It  expressed  itself 
in  literature.  It  resolved  itself  into 
deeds.  It  was  full  of  restless,  of  youth- 
ful activity.  Yes,  upon  the  hills  of 
Greece  went  forth  the  struggling  youth 
of  the  world  ;  it  went  forth  in  toil,  and 
it  went  forth  in  battle.  Her  soil  was 
comparatively  sterile,  and  her  climate 
bracing,  though  pure  and  delicious  ; 
and  hers  was  the  hard  hand,  the  strong 
sinew,  and  the  manly  nurture.  Her 
very  sports  were  races  and  wrestlings 
and  feats  of  strength. 

The  Grecian  literature  was  a  still 
more  remarkable  stride,  and  may  seem 
to  bring  into  question  our  position,  that 
she  lived  in  the  youth  of  time.  There 
are  indeed  wonders  in  it  that  cannot  be 
accounted  for,  except  by  an  original 
power,  a  divine  energy  native  to  the 
human  soul,  and  hardly  yet  recognized 
in  our  theories  of  culture.  That  the 
poems  of  Homer,  defying  all  after  com- 
petition in  epic  verse,  should  have  burst 
out  from  the  darkness  of  a  rude  and 
almost  unknown  antiquity,  is  a  mystery, 
for  which  I  confess  I  have  no  other 
solution.  The  perfection  of  the  Greek 
language  and  style  surprises  me  far 
less.  For  it  appears  to  me  that  the 
whole  Greek  culture  owed  a  great  deal 
of  its  perfection  and  power  to  the  liin- 
ited  channel  in  which  it  flowed,  to  the 
singleness  of  its  aim  ;  which  was,  to 
embody  nature  and  humanity  in  their 
simplest  and  grandest  characteristics, 
without  grasping  the  wider  ranges  and 
more  complicated  forms  of  human 
thought.  I  think  I  have  known  a  youth 
of  twenty  who  in  his  style  approached 
much  more  nearly  to  the  Greek  sim- 
plicity and  purity  than  he  did  at  forty, 
when  he  had  much  more  complex  and 
difficult  forms  of  thought  to  grapple  with. 
Deep  philosophizing  is  very  apt  to  spoil 
the  style,  or  at  least  this  kind  of  perfec- 
tion in  it.  And  the  modern  poet,  who 
sounds  the  depths  of  the  modern  mind, 
has  far  more  difficulty  in  expressing  his 


thought  with  force  and  clearness,  than 
had  Homer  and  Sophocles.  And  I 
maintain  that  the  whole  literature  of 
the  Greeks  was  youthful,  compared 
with  that  of  modern  times.  There  was 
nothing  in  their  drama  like  that  com- 
prehension of  the  whole  breadth  of  our 
humanity  which  we  see  in  Shakspeare, 
or  the  espousal  of  its  noblest  interests 
and  aifections  in  Schiller.  There  was 
nothing  in  their  poetry  like  the  intro- 
version, the  self-communion,  the  sub- 
jective character  of  modern  genius,  in 
Wordsworth  and  Browning.  There  was 
nothing  in  Herodotus  and  Thucydides 
to  compare  with  the  philosophical  in- 
sight into  history,  of  Herder  and  Guizot. 
There  was  nothing  in  Plato  and  Aris- 
totle to  compare  with  the  breadth  of 
Bacon  and  Leibnitz,  or  the  sharp  and 
patient  analysis  of  Locke  or  of  Kant. 
Of  ancient  and  modern  science  I  need  say 
nothing  ;  for  there  is  710  comparison. 

The  next  great  step  of  the  world  was 
planted  in  Rome.  But  was  it  a  step 
onward  ?  This  it  may  seem  more  diffi- 
cult to  prove.  In  philosophy,  in  poetry, 
in  art,  in  graceful  culture,  certainly  it  was 
not.  But  there  were  two  offices  which 
Rome  discharged  for  the  world's  culture, 
that  were  of  more  practical  and  diffusive 
benefit  than  anything  done  in  Greece. 

The  first  was  that  of  lawgiver  ;  more 
important  to  the  world,  at  that  period, 
than  philosophy  or  art.  In  this  respect 
she  went  entirely  beyond  her  predeces- 
sor. For  impracticable  political  theories, 
like  those  of  Plato,  and  for  ill-defined 
rights  of  property  and  persons,  she  sub- 
stituted a  grand  and  elaborated  Code  of 
Law.  Law  has  far  more  to  do  with  the 
welfare  of  well-ordered  society  than 
books  or  theories,  orations  or  poems, 
pictures  or  statues.  The  Roman  law 
was  precisely  what  her  barbarian  in- 
vaders needed  ;  nay,  and  of  such  per- 
manent value  is  it,  that  it  has  continued, 
under  the  name  of  the  Civil  Law,  to  be 
the  guide  of  more  than  half  the  culti- 
vated world   to   this   day. 

The  second  office  which  Rome  dis- 
charged for  the  world  was  that  of  dif- 


THE    PROBLEM    OF    HUMAN    DESTINY 


^53 


fuscr.  That  which  was  pent  up  within 
the  narrow  confines  of  Greece  was  now 
scattered  through  the  world.  Plato  and 
Aristotle,  Homer  and  Herodotus,  /Es- 
chyliis  and  Sophocles,  were  transplanted 
to  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  the  Seine, 
and  the  Thames.  Stores  of  cultivated 
wisdom  there  were  in  the  world  ;  but 
how  should  they  benefit,  how  enlighten, 
the  Gaul,  the  Saxon,  the  rude  tribes  of 
Germany?  It  was  for  that  stupendous 
and  earth-shadowing  power,  that  spread 
her  wings  from  Britain  to  Parthia  and 
India,  to  bear  to  the  nations  the  burden 
of  ancient  lore.  Her  legions  swept 
through  the  world;  but  not  for  evil 
alone  ;  philosophy  and  the  arts,  and 
Christianity  too,  followed  in  their  train. 
Gaul  and  Britain  might  have  remained 
unchristianized  for  ages,  if  they  had  not 
come  within  the  sweep  of  the  Roman 
power. 

For  the  part  which  she  had  to  act, 
Rome  was  fitted  by  her  character  and 
whole  training.  She  who  was  to  spread 
iierself  over  the  earth,  had  no  hotne 
character  to  begin  with.  Not  from  quiet 
patriarchal  hearths  did  she  take  her  ori- 
gin, but  from  a  robber's  lair.  Rome,  at  | 
the  first,  was  a  nest  of  military  marau- 
ders, a  refuge  of  renegades  from  sur- 
rounding tribes,  a  colluvies,  says  Livy 
himself,  a  sink  into  which  flowed  the 
dregs  of  the  Latin  cities  around  ;  their 
very  wives  these  Roman  robbers  tore 
from  the  Sabines,  and  the  children  of 
this  violence  were  Ishmaels.  From  this 
origin  came,  not  beauty  nor  grace,  nor 
the  liberality  which  commerce,  friendly 
communication  with  the  world,  give ; 
but  simple,  concentrated  strength.  The 
Roman  was  a  man  of  iron  nerve  and 
firmness.  In  his  girding  arm  was  a 
power  to  hold  in  check  those  tendencies 
which,  in  Greece,  had  snapped  the  bonds 
of  social  order.  The  beautiful  Grecian 
theories  of  right,  with  the  Roman, 
hardened  into  law.  Law,  with  him,  as 
lias  been  often  observed,  was  morality, 
religion,  the  only  idea  of  right.  Relig- 
ion, —  religio,  from  religare,  to  bind,  — 
it  was  simply  a  state  bond.    The  Roman 


genius  is  not  attractive,  not  beautiful  to 
us  ;  but  it  had  its  use.  Cicero  is  its 
fairest  representative,  but  for  spiritual 
beauty  he  does  not  compare  with  Plato. 
His  religion  was  a  correct  sentiment, 
often  noble,  touching  sometimes  from 
its  sadness  ;  but  it  does  not  freely  and 
joyously  well  up  from  the  deep  fountains 
within,  like  Plato's.  In  short,  the  joy- 
ous and  graceful  Grecian  boy  of  fifteen 
has  become,  in  Rome,  as  we  sometimes 
see  a  youth  of  twenty,  when  first  touch- 
ing the  practical  interests  of  life,  utili- 
tarian, selfish,  grasping.  It  is  not  beauti- 
ful. An  iron  jar  is  not  so  beautiful  as 
a  porcelain  vase  ;  but  it  may  be  more 
useful ;  it  can  better  hold  and  transmit 
what  is  deposited  in  it. 

And  when  that  iron  jar  was  expanded 
to  a  mighty  vase,  wide  as  the  world,  and 
then  broke  in  pieces,  we  do  not  lament 
over  it ;  we  say,  it  had  served  its  pur- 
pose. Perhaps  no  great  empire  ever 
fell,  with  so  little  of  the  sympathy  of 
the  world,  as  this.  When  we  learn  from 
Tacitus,  that  even  so  early  as  the  first 
century,  the  armies  of  Rome,  ay,  of  old 
military  Rome,  were  composed  wholly  of 
foreigners  ;  when  we  read  that,  in  the 
fourth  century,  in  a  time  of  famine,  all 
the  teachers  of  youth  were  banished 
from  the  city,  and  six  thousand  dancers 
were  retained,  —  we  give  up  a  people 
who  had  lost  all  the  spirit  for  which  na- 
tional existence  is  worth  preserving. 

The  dissolution  of  the  Roman  Empire 
opens  to  us  the  next  great  scene  in  hu- 
man affairs.  The  theatre  is  Central  and 
Western  Europe.  The  political  form 
is  feudality.  The  social  powers  are  the 
family  and  individual  force.  The  pre- 
siding genius  is  Christianity  ;  sadly  cor- 
rupted, indeed,  but  still  it  is  Christianity. 
To  adventure  upon  this  restless  sea  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  with  all  its  struggling 
elements,  its  crossing  tides,  and  stormy 
winds,  is  of  course  more  than  I  propose; 
but  something  may  be  said  to  indicate 
the  great  current  that  was  bearing  the 
world  onward. 

The  feudal  system  was  far  freer  than 
the  despotisms  that  preceded  it.     It  was 


654 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN    DESTINY 


not,  as  I  think  is  often  supposed,  a  mere 
relation  of  barons  and  serfs  ;  it  was  a 
general  form  of  government,  a  political 
hierarchy,  extending  from  the  emperor 
or  king,  through  successive  grades,  down 
to  the  lowest  subject;  barons,  counts, 
lords,  kings,  as  well  as  serfs,  holding 
their  power  or  privilege  respectively  of 
their  superiors,  and  holding  it  on  con- 
dition of  certain  services  to  be  rendered. 
The  tenure  was  a  fee  ;  a  word  from  the 
old  Teutonic,  or  from  the  Latin,  yfii^'i-  — 
fede  in  Italian — fe  in  Spanish,  i.  e.,  a 
trust.  The  idea  involved  in  this  tenure 
was  that  of  a  duty,  —  of  the  low  to  the 
high,  and  of  the  high  to  the  low.  It  is 
obvious,  then,  that  the  feudal  system  un- 
dertook to  define  the  relations  of  the 
governing  and  the  governed.  It  recog- 
nized in  both  alike  certain  rights  and 
duties.  This,  if  I  mistake  not,  was  a 
new  thing  in  the  world.  Tiie  old  Ro- 
man law  minutely  described  the  rights 
and  duties  of  citizens  toward  one  another, 
but  not  the  reciprocal  claims  of  the  gov- 
ernment and  people.  That  is  to  say,  it 
was  law,  but  not  a  constitution.  In  the 
feudal  time  was  first  heard  in  the  world 
the  word  privileges.  It  was  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  so  to  speak,  to  demand 
them.  The  religious  orders,  as  well  as 
the  civil,  were  constantly  obtaining/^rzW- 
leges  from  their  superiors.  Privileges, 
I  repeat  ;  it  was  a  word  of  potent  effect, 
a  precedent  never  to  be  forgotten.  The 
whole  struggle  in  Europe,  by  which 
political  freedom  advanced,  has  been  a 
struggle  for  privileges,  —  a  struggle  of 
nobles  with  kings,  of  the  people  with 
them  both. 

Next,  as  M.  Guizot  has  remarked,* 
a  n&vi  family  culture  sprang  from  the 
feudal  system.  The  feudal  lords,  the 
feudal  superiors  of  every  rank,  dwelt 
apart  and  alone.  They  were  driven  by 
their  very  isolation  to  some  culture,  to 
some  mental  resources  ;  and  they  were 
numerous  enough  to  give  some  tone  to 
public  sentiment.  Woman  assumed  a 
new  place,  a  new  importance  in  society. 
The  romantic  poetry  of  the  period  and 

*  Civilization  in  Europe,  4th  lecture. 


the  spirit  of  chivalry  both  afford  suffi- 
cient proof  of  that. 

But,  above  all,  individual  force  was 
developed  in  this  period.  Men  began 
slowly  to  learn  and  to  feel  that  they 
were  men,  that  they  had  rights,  that 
they  had  individual,  yea,  and  immortal 
interests.  Christianity  inspired  this  feel- 
ing, but  feudalism  fostered  it  beyond 
all  previous  systems.  Service  to  supe- 
riors was  voluntary;  the  serf  or  vassal 
might  choose  his  suzerain,  and  exact 
guarantees  from  him.  A  new  feeling 
of  selfhood,  self-consciousness,  self-reli- 
ance, slowly  grew  up  in  the  human 
breast.  It  grew  especially  in  the  cities. 
Commerce  and  mechanic  art  made  men 
rich  and  strong ;  and  they  were  able  to 
buy  or  exact  from  kings  and  nobles  im- 
portant concessions.  There  was  much 
freedom  in  Greece,  but  little  individual 
force.  And  when  did  there  ever  stand 
upon  the  earth  such  a  visible  rep- 
resentative of  individual  force  as  the 
armed  knight,  —  clad,  himself  and  his 
good  ateed,  in  complete  steel,  with  his 
plated  gauntlets,  and  breastplate,  and 
shield,  and  barred  helmet,  with  his 
double-edged  falchion  on  one  side,  and 
poniard  on  the  other,  and  the  axe  at 
his  saddle-bow,  and  his  long  lance  rest- 
ing upon  the  stirrup,  —  a  moving  tower 
of  iron  seated  upon  a  fire-breathing  en- 
gine ?  Our  modern  men  dwindle  into 
puny  citizens  compared  with   this. 

And  the  good  knight  must  needs 
wage  war,  ^ — must  wage  it  even  to  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem.  And  what  fol- 
lowed ?  Why,  he  must  have  means,  — 
must  have  money.  And  where  could 
he  get  it  ?  Why,  of  the  good  burgesses 
and  citizens.  And  did  they  give  it  for 
nothing  ?  No,  tliey  bought  privileges 
of  knights  and  nobles  and  kings.  Thus 
the  whole  course  of  things,  and  espe-  ^ 
cially  the  Crusades,  helped  to  raise  the  I 
people,  to  sink  the  rulers.  Tlie  iron 
tower,  like  the  image  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, was  destined  to  fall,  and  crum- 
ble in  pieces,  and  disappear  from  the 
earth. 
I       I  have  siid  that  Christianity  presided 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


655 


over  this  epoch.  However  imperfectly 
understood,  it  did  reign  with  absolute 
swav.  It  was  a  law  from  which  there 
was  no  appeal.  The  high  and  the  power- 
ful, thougli  they  violated,  never  dared 
formally  to  set  it  aside.  They  trembled 
before  its  spiritual  powers  and  awful 
retributions.  And  it  was  not  only  a 
law  of  right,  but  a  spirit  of  mercy.  It 
not  only  awed,  but  softened  the  hearts 
of  men.  It  was  an  image  of  suffering 
p:Uience  and  pity  that  they  worshipped. 
That  one  perfect  life,  —  that  one  great 
sacrifice,  —  think  what  its  appeal  must 
have  been  compared  with  the  influence 
of  any  former  religion.  It  espoused, 
aiiove  all,  the  cause  of  the  poor,  the  suf- 
fering, the  wronged,  and  crushed.  The 
gosjjel  was  humanity,  even  more  than  it 
was  divinity.  The  light  that  came  into 
the  world  was  veiled  in  the  softened 
shadow  of  human  pity  and  gentleness. 

Still,  however,  the  civilization  of  this 
period  was  extremely  immature.  It 
was  full  of  misdirected  efforts  and  wild 
struggles.  No  satisfactory  civil  order 
was  established,  nor  proper  recognition 
of  human  rights  obtained.  The  human 
race  went  on  through  the  Middle  Ages 
like  a  rash  and  reckless  youth  when 
approaching  his  majority.  It  pursued 
a  wild  and  irregular  career,  now  rising, 
now  falling,  now  stumbling  on  the  dark 
mountains  of  ignorance,  and  now  wal- 
lowing in  the  great  Roman  sink  of  sensu- 
ality,—  with  broken  columns  and  fallen 
temples  all  around,  —  now  filled  with  the 
fierce,  hot  haste  of  passion,  and  then 
witli  the  sullen  melancholy  of  despair. 
-All  its  labors  were  tentative.  The  whole 
course  of  things  was  a  series  of  experi- 
ments preparing  for  a  future  and  brighter 
day. 

In  that  brighter  day  I  believe  we  now 
stand,  —  in  the  great  day  of  the  world's 
mnnhood, — not  in  the  latter,  however, 
but  in  the  earlier  part  of  that  day  ;  for  I 
look  upon  the  grand  agents  now  in  the 
field  as  having  only  commenced  their 
magnificent  work. 

This  epoch,  beginning  with  the  six- 
teenth century,  is  crowded  with  events 


which  are  alike  proofs  and  promises  of 
advancement,  —  the  birth,  as  a  popular 
fact,  of  free  religious  thought  in  the 
Reformation  in  Germany  ;  the  great 
stand  for  political  liberty  in  England, 
and  the  building  up  and  prosperity  of 
the  American  republic ;  the  establish- 
ment of  the  inductive  philosophy,  and 
the  almost  entire  creation  of  the  physi- 
cal sciences  ;  the  rise  of  the  fine  arts 
in  Italy,  and  the  cultivation  of  music, 
which  are  almost  wholly  within  this 
period  ;  the  invention  of  the  art  of 
printing,  of  the  cotton  gin,  and  of  the 
steam  engine  ;  the  introduction  of  the 
system  of  common  schools  and  the  dif- 
fusion of  knowledge  among  the  people  ; 
in  fine,  the  unprecedented  impulse  given 
to  the  minds  of  men  by  the  universal 
spirit  of  improvement. 

All  this,  I  need  not  insist,  is  prog- 
ress. Neither  can  I  dwell  upon  these 
subjects  in  detail  ;  nor  is  it  necessary, 
perhaps,  for  my  purpose  ;  they  speak 
sufficiently  for  themselves.  I  can  only 
refer,  in  general,  to  the  indications 
which  these  agencies  bear  to  the  sphere 
in  which  they  are  working,  and  to  the 
encouragement,  if  not  a  more  solemn 
feeling,  which  they  should  inspire. 

Look,  then,  at  this  grand  array  ot 
forces.  Can  any  one  of  them  stop  ? 
Can  the  spirit  of  freedom,  political  or 
religious,  die  out  from  the  hearts  of 
men?  Have  they  got  hold  of  rights, 
and  will  they  ever  let  them  go  ?  Can 
philosophy  or  science  stop  ?  Go  ask 
the  studious  and  enthusiastic  toilers  in 
those  enchanted  fields,  and  they  will 
tell  you  that  you  might  as  well  ex- 
pect them  to  desire  the  sun  to  go 
down  when  its  morning  light  is  spread 
upon  the  mountains.  Can  genius  be 
quenched,  or  the  fine  arts  dash  chisel 
and  palette  to  the  ground,  or  music, 
that  is  making  the  air  of  the  world 
vibrate  to  its  melodies,  die  out  into 
mournful  silence  ?  Can  men  stop  print- 
ing hooks,  or  reading  them  ?  Can  they 
break  the  steam  engine  in  pieces,  un- 
less they  fiind,  if  that  be  possible,  a  bet- 
ter power  ?     But  will  they  give  up,  after 


656 


THE   PROBLEM    OF   HUMAN   DESTINY. 


having  found  it,  a  power  to  bear  their 
cars  over  the  land  and  their  ships  over 
the  sea  ?  Can  this  pestilent  notion  of 
educating  the  people  —  this  universal 
diffusion  of  knowledge  —  by  any  means 
have  a  stop  put  to  it  ?  I  am  afraid 
not.  Let  Austria  try.  But  she  does  not 
try.  She  is  swept  on  by  the  resistless 
current.  No,  the  spirit  of  improvement 
has  got  hold  of  the  world,  and  the  ex- 
orcism to  drive  it  out  is  not  yet  found, 
and  never  will  be.  No,  the  world  has 
got  beyond  the  waverings  of  its  youth  ; 
it  has  come  of  age.  It  has  come  to 
the  sober  thought  and  settled  purpose 
of  manhood,  and  nothing  can  shake 
that  thought  and  purpose.  Look  again 
at  the  theatre  of  this  modern  culture. 
It  is  Western  Europe  and  America, — 
not  an  inaccessible  mountain  land,  fit 
to  be  the  fastness  of  mere  freedom,  — 
not  a  vast  plain,  like  those  of  Asia, 
opened  for  the  expansion  of  immense 
empires,  —  but  a  tract  of  the  earth 
washed  by  oceans,  intersected  by  bays 
and  rivers,  essentially  commercial,  hav- 
ing easy  communication  with  all  the 
world.  It  is  the  grand  propagandist 
portion  of  the  world.  Its  inhabitants, 
descending  from  races  in  whom  the 
fullest  measure  of  human  energy  has 
been  developed,  have  become  the  most 
enlightened  nations  of  the  earth,  and 
the  most  rapidly  growing.  The  Saxon 
race,  which  two  centuries  ago  was  only 
three  millions,  now  numbers  fifty-three 
millions.  These  countries,  thus  ad- 
vanced in  civilization,  filled  with  manu- 
factories, with  arts,  with  books,  with 
inventions  for  human  comfort  and  im- 
provement, possess  the  very  advantages 
which  the  rest  of  the  world  wants  ;  and 
now,  just  when  they  are  prepared  for 
this  office  of  diffusion,  is  the  grand  in- 
strument of  diffusion  put  into  their 
hands,  —  I  mean,  of  course,  the  power 
of  steam.  Now,  at  length,  shall  they 
send  back  to  Asia  and  the  farthest  Tar- 
tary  the  cultivated  children  descended 
from  their  swarming  colonies,  and  to 
Africa  the  descendants  of  the  captives 
once  torn  from  her  bosom.     It  has  be- 


come just  as  certain  that  steamships 
and  steam  cars  shall  penetrate  the  soli- 
tudes of  Africa  and  the  crowded  vil- 
lages of  populous  Asia,  and  carry  to 
them  our  arts,  our  sciences,  our  litera- 
ture, and  our  religion,  as  that  the  light 
which  breaks  upon  the  eastern  horizon 
shall  spread  itself  through  the  world. 

1  know  that  dark  fears  are  entertained 
by  some  concerning  what  is  passing 
in  these  very  countries,  —  popular  out- 
breaks, decline  of  the  old  reverence, 
signs,  as  they  think,  of  social  deteriora- 
tion. But  it  seems  to  me,  with  all  due 
respect  for  their  opinion,  that  they  are 
looking  at  the  little  eddyings  on  the 
stream  of  events,  and  not  at  the  deep 
current.  There  are  popular  outbreaks, 
but  they  soon  pass  away.  There  is  less 
respect  for  rank  and  riches  —  less  even 
than  there  should  be  —  the  world  does 
not  easily  stop  at  the  right  point  ;  but 
is  there  less  respect  for  talent,  learn- 
ing, and  worth  ?  I  believe  that  the  indi- 
cations, which  the  alarmists  constantly 
adduce,  are  the  superficial  ones.  The 
movement  of  things  is  perhaps  never 
direct,  but  in  circles.  Rubbish  and 
straw  are  on  the  outside,  and*  they  are 
blown  this  way  and  that  way;  and  in 
the  wide  sweep  of  the  elements,  in  the 
vast  gyrations  of  the  slow  revolution- 
ary movement  that  is  bearing  on  the 
civilized  world,  things  may  seem  to  be 
going  backward,  and  may  really  be  go- 
ing backward  in  certain  quarters,  —  i.  e., 
relatively  going  backward,  while  all  is 
actually  going  forward.  Nay,  and  the 
more  violent  are  the  gusts  upon  the  sur- 
face, the  eddies  upon  the  stream,  the 
more  rapid  and  strong  may  be  the  great 
and  onward  tendency. 

This  impression  which  prevails  in  the 
minds  of  some  of  the  best  men,  that 
we  are  in  a  state  of  social  deterioration, 
is  no  new  thing  in  the  world,  and  it  is  a 
very  curious  thing.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  it  proceeds,  in  part,  from  a 
natural  modesty  ;  that  it  results,  under 
this  influence,  from  a  comparison  very 
likely  to  be  made  by  superior  minds, 
and  not  by  the  body  of  the  people.    Our 


THE   PROBLEM   OF   HUMAN    DESTIiNY. 


657 


predecessors^  the  leading  men,  by  whom, 
as  pillars,  the  world  was  borne  up,  are 
venerable  lo  us;  the  places  they  filled, 
the  presidencies,  the  magistracies  ;  the 
parts  they  acted— of  orators,  judges, 
lawyers,  clergy  —  were  clothed  with 
dignity  and  honor  ;  they  were  great  and 
noble  men  to  us  ;  their  figures  loom  up 
majestically  in  the  dim  land  of  the  past. 
.Vow  these  great  functions  —  these  presi- 
dencies, magistracies,  forums,  pulpits  — 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  us,  pygmy 
men  :  these  high  places  have  sunk  down 
to  the  level  of  our  common  and  every- 
day life  ;  we  are  nothing  to  ourselves, 
compared  with  wliat  l/'iiy  were  to  us  ; 
we  cannot  believe  that  we  equal  them, 
or  anything  near  it ;  all  is  run  down,  we 
say ;  society  is  deteriorating ;  the  world 
is  growing  more  ignoble  every  day. 
The  next  generation  will  probably  make 
the  same  reflection,  when  it  compares 
itself  with  us. 

It  is  no  new  thing  in  the  world,  as  I 
have  said;  and  if  it  were  true,  —  if  the 
world,  according  to  this  impression,  had 
been  really  ever  growing  worse,  it  must 
have  come,  by  this  time,  to  a  sad  pass 
indeed.  Even  the  old  Greek  Hesiod 
thought  that  he  was  living  in  "  an  iron 
age,"  and  that  all  the  happy  ages  had  gone 
by.  LonginUs,  who  lived  in  the  time  of 
Aurelian  and  in  the  court  of  Zenobia, 
compared  the  men  of  his  day  to  chil- 
dren, whose  limbs  were  contracted  and 
cramped  by  bandages.*  The  decadence 
of  Rome  might  well  justify  something 
of  this  despondency.  And  we  can  sym- 
pathize with  the  noble  Cicero  in  his  sad- 
ness, who,  writing  to  his  friend  Atticus, 
from  his  retreat  in  the  beautiful  island 
of  Astura,  says,  "  I  retire  in  the  morning 
to  the  thick  and  wild  wood,  and  do  not 
leave  it  till  evening.  Next  to  you,  the 
dearest  tiling  is  solitude.  In  this,  my 
converse  is  with  letters  ;  but  tears  often 
interrupt  it.  I  restrain  them  as  much 
as  I  can  ;  but  as  yet,  am  not  equal  to 
it."t  More  magnanimously  fought  his 
battle  with  discouragement  a  modern 
man.  and  in  an   hour  no  less  dark.     It 


*  De  Sublimitate,  chap.  43. 
t  Epist.  ad  Atticuni,  B.  xii.  15. 


was  amidst  the  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution.  There,  in  a  street  in  Paris, 
in  a  house  sought  for  hiding,  and  while 
the  blood  of  the  innocent  and  noble  was 
flowing  around  him,  sat  a  man  whose 
quiet  employment  was  the  writing  of  a 
book.  That  man  was  the  Marquis  de 
Condorcet.  And  what,  think  you,  was 
the  subject  of  the  book  he  was  writing  ? 
It  was  niati's  certain  progress  to  liberty, 
virtue,  and  happi/uss. 

It  is  certain.  It  is  certain  ijecause 
it  is  the  purpose  of  Heaven.  It  is  cer- 
tain because  of  what  it  has  already  cost. 
It  is  certain  because  all  the  steps  of 
past  progress  are  promises.  And  what 
promises  .-*  Promises  earned  from  ages 
of  toil  and  sorrow  ;  promises  written  on  . 
the  rack  and  the  scaffold,  where  patriots 
have  died  for  liberty,  and  Christians  for 
truth  ;  promises  pronounced  over  the 
gloomy  altars  where  sorrowing  nations 
have  been  slain  ;  ay,  and  sealed  in  the 
blood  of  the  noblest  men  in  the  world  : 
such  promises  shall  not  go  unfulfilled. 

Ever  solemn  is  the  story  of  the  world. 
A  solemn  thing  it  is  for  us,  the  Ameri- 
can people,  to  take  our  place  in  the 
great  procession  of  nations.  Whence 
came  we,  and  why  are  we  here,  but  to 
do  our  part  ?  The  sorrowing  ages  call 
upon  us  to  do  our  part.  The  tears  and 
groans  of  long-suflfering  and  sighing 
humanity  call  upon  us  to  do  our  part. 
Empires  crushed  under  the  weight  of 
hopeless  bondage  —  millions  that  have 
wandered  in  the  darkness  of  ignorance 
and  amidst  the  terrors  of  superstition, 
address  to  us  —  to  ks  especially  —  the 
great  adjuration  ;  and  they  say,  O  ve,  a 
people,  free,  intelligent,  Christian  !  — 
who  know  your  duty  and  have  liberty  to 
perform  it ;  O  ye,  a  people,  whose  foot 
is  set  upon  an  unchartered  soil  ;  whose 
hands  are  filled  with  the  riches  of  the 
world ;  whose  children,  partners  of  your- 
selves, are  to  wander  down  the  coming 
ages,  through  the  fairest  domain  that 
God  ever  gave  to  man  ;  hear  the  voice 
of  humanity;  hear  the  voice  that  comes 
from  earth  —  and  that  comes  from 
Heaven  ! 


42 


THE    TWO    GREAT    COMMANDMENTS. 


SERMONS. 


ON    THE    CULTIVATION    OF    THE 
RELIGIOUS    AFFECTIONS. 

Psalm  cxlv.  lo :  "All  thy  works  praise  thee,  O 
Lord,  and  thy  saints  bless  thee." 

There  is  a  cluster  of  stars  in  the 
southern  heavens  appearing  to  the 
naked  eye  as  a  faint  haze,  scarcely 
larger  than  a  hand's-breadth,  but  which 
is  seen  by  the  telescope  to  be  filled  with 
innumerable  suns.  Suns,  they  must  be, 
because  they  could  not  be  seen  if  they 
were  planetary  orbs  ;  and  again,  suns, 
because  it  is  found  by  the  spectrum 
analysis  that  they  are  composed  of  the 
same  materials  as  our  own.  If  a  canvas 
were  lifted  up,  high  and  vast  as  a  moun- 
tain-side, and  then  if  it  were  filled  with 
jets  of  golden  light,  thickest  in  the 
centre,  and  sown  all  round  with  bril- 
liant points,  some  impression,  might  be 
taken  of  that  wondrous  spectacle  in  the 
heavens. 

There  is  a  bed  of  coral,  and  many 
such  there  are,  in  the  Pacific  Seas,  filled 
with  animalcules,  —  living  creatures,  un- 
numbered as  the  stars  in  that  far-off 
universe  ;  so  small  that  only  the  micro- 
scope can  discover  them  ;  each  one  with 
an  exquisite  organization  ;  each  one  fit- 
ted for  its  work,  and  all  working  with 
perfect  enjoyment.  The  whole  popula- 
tion of  our  globe  is  but  as  a  unit  to  the 
countless  millions  which  inhabit  those 
coral  beds.  How  much  enjoyment  there 
lis  in  a  hundred  millions  of  them,  —  and 


there  are  more  than  that  in  a  drop  of 
water,  —  how  much  enjoyment,  I  say,  in 
that  drop  of  water,  compared  with  what 
there  is  in  a  single  animal,  an  ox  or  a 
lion,  we  do  not  know ;  but  they  are  ac- 
tive ;  they  feed  and  sport —  I  have  seen 
them  ;  they  are  sensitive  creatures,  they 
play  and  they  work  ;  they  build  houses, 
larger  than  royal  palaces,  —  houses  in 
which  they  Uve,  and  when  they  die  they 
leave  behind  them  tombs,  the  cemetery 
ranges  of  coral  reef  which  line  the  shores 
of  continents. 

Between  these  extremes  of  the  crea- 
tion, between  the  almost  infinitely  great 
and  the  infinitesimally  small,  there  is 
a  universe  of  splendor,  beauty,  and  be- 
neficence ;  systems  within'  systems  of 
material  order,  from  the  hyssop  that 
springeth  by  the  wall,  to  the  cedar  of 
Lebanon  ;  from  the  taper  that  shines  in 
our  chamber,  to  Sirius  flaming  with  the 
blaze  of  a  hundred  suns ;  worlds  within 
worlds  of  life  ;  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  animal  species  on  earth  and  millions, 
perhaps,  of  such  living  worlds  in  the 
spheres  around  us  ;  and  hierarchies  of 
immortal  souls,  made  to  behold  and 
enjoy  all  this  wonder  and  beauty :  — 

"There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  be- 
hold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins." 

Above  all  these  worlds  of  life,  these 
systems  of  worlds,  there  is  One  Being, 
from  whom  they  have  proceeded, — from 
One  Being,  or  from  nothing;  who  can 


RELIGIOUS   CULTURE. 


659 


believe  that  it  is  from  nothing  ?  No,  as 
we  look  upon  this  stupendous  frame  of 
thino-s,  one  thought  predominates  over 
all  others  ;  and  we  say  of  this  universe, 
'•  wliose  Builder  and  Maker  is  God,"  I 
know  of  Him  the  least  possible  com- 
pared with  what  He  is ;  and  yet  there  is 
nothing  of  which  1  know  so  much.  All 
else  that  I  know  is  knowing  something 
of  Him.  No  perception  of  my  mind, 
no  tliought,  no  imagination,  no  affec- 
tion, but  relates  to  something  which 
His  power  has  made  or  His  goadness 
given. 

What  place  does  this  great  Idea  hold 
in  our  minds  ?  Not,  what  place  as  an 
abstraction,  but  as  a  reality;  what  place 
in  our  daily  thoughts,  in  our  cherished 
affections,  in  the  very  culture  of  our 
minds  and  hearts,  in  the  very  forming 
our  character,  in  the  living  springs  of 
our  happiness,  in  what  we  most  earnestly 
seek  to  know  and  realize  and  make  our 
own.'  Does  it  hold  any  such  place, — 
I.  e.,  in  most  minds  ?  When  the  gran- 
deur and  beauty  of  nature  are  before  us, 
when  we  gaze  upon  beautiful  scenery, 
does  the  thought  of  that  great  Presence 
often  come  over  us,  and  irradi  ite  them 
with  new  glory?  When  we  mingle  vvith 
our  fellow-beings  in  happy  intercourse, 
ao  we  often  think  of  that  Goodness  that 
breathes  through  all  human  affections  ? 
Ana  when  the  visible  world  is  shut  out, 
when  we  lay  ourselves  down  to  rest, 
alone,  in  silence  and  darkness,  does  the 
all-creating  Life,  that  stirs  in  every  beat- 
ing pulse  and  thrilling  nerve,  in  this 
whole  complicated  and  wondrous  frame, 
and  in  the  mind  that  soars  above  it, 
often  fill  us  with  adoring  gratitude  and 
peaceful  trust  ? 

If  not,  why  does  it  not?  Why  is  it 
that  that  which  is  not  only  greatest  as 
an  object  of  thought,  but  which  lias  the 
most  vital  relations  with  all  that  we 
think,  occupies  so  small  a  space  in  the 
actual  thoughts  of  men  ?  We  admire 
grandeur  and  beauty  ;  it  is  a  law  of  our 
nature.  We  are  not  made  to  prefer  the 
mean  and  low,  for  contemplation,  to  that 
which  is  lofty  and  sublime.     We  could 


not  bend  our  gaze  upon  the  ground,  or 
upon  any  gem  that  sparkled  in  it,  if  an 
angel  presence  were  passing  by.  How, 
then,  is  this  ?  How  is  it  that  this 
anomaly  in  human  experience  is  to  be 
understood  ?  How  is  it  that  the  pulpit 
can  hurl  down  denunciations  upon  the 
people  for  their  neglect  of  God,  and  the 
people,  convicted  and  conscience-strick- 
en, can  do  nothing  but  bow  submissive 
before  it  ?  A  man  would  resent  the 
charge  of  indifference  to  liuman  friend- 
ship and  affection.  Accuse  him  of  being 
thankless  to  his  benefactor,  and  he  feels 
it  like  a  wound.  Tell  him  even  that  he 
has  no  taste,  no  sense  of  what  is  beauti- 
ful or  grand  in  nature  or  art,  no  admira- 
tion nor  reverence  for  the  noblest  things, 
for  the  noblest  men  in  the  world,  and 
he  will  be  as  indignant  as  if  he  were 
defamed.  How  is  it,  then,  that  he  can 
pass  on  in  life  and  through  life,  uncon- 
cerned at  being  cold  and  dead  to  that 
which  is  the  source  of  all  that  is  glorious 
and  beautiful,  —  seldom  brought  to  any 
solemn  pause  or  meditation,  seldom 
drawn  to  admiration  or  wonder,  by  all 
the  Glory  and  Goodness  and  Loveliness 
that  shine  around  him  ? 

Doubtless  there  are  reasons,  partly 
moral,  but  partly  mental  also.  Scrip- 
ture saith,  '-Your  iniquities  have  sepa- 
rated between  )'ou  and  your  God." 
Doubtless  the  thought  of  an  Infinite 
Holiness  strikes  us  with  restraining  awe. 
Infinite  Perfection,  through  our  miscon- 
ception of  it,  causes  our  imperfection  to 
stand  aghast,  aloof,  at  a  distance.  It 
could  never  have  been  meant  that  it 
should  do  so.  Infinite  Perfection  is  In- 
finite Love,  and  should  win  and  draw  all 
creatures  to  it.  And  there  is  nothing 
which  to  my  mind  more  completely  sums 
up  the  meaning  of  the  mission  of  fesus, 
than  that  he  came  ''to  bring  us  nigh  to 
God." 

But  there  are  mental  difficulties  also 
in  the  way.  Sympathy  is  the  nurse  of 
affection ;  but  we  hesitate  to  apply  that 
term  to  the  relation  between  us  and  the 
Infinite  One.  I  will  not  say  that  His 
invisibility  hinders  us  from  feeling  His 


66o 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


presence  ;  for  man's  spirit  is  just  as 
truly  invisible.  But  human  loveliness  is 
clothed  with  a  form,  is  manifested  by  a 
countenance,  b}'  actions  and  expressions, 
which  appeal  more  easily  and  movingly 
to  our  affections.  Nor  yet  is  this  all. 
Greater  hindrances  than  all  these  are 
found  in  false  ideas  of  God.  These 
take  root,  alas  !  in  the  very  nurture  of 
(;ur  childhood.  All  that  makes  religion 
disagreeable  to  us,  all  the  gloom  and 
constraint  that  gathered  in  the  faces  of 
our  friends  when  God  was  spoken  of,  a!l 
the  weariness  of  enforced  worship,  — 
sabbaths  and  sermons  and  cateciiisings, 
—  all  these  influences  have  collected 
around  the  great  central  Idea  to  make 
it  something  strange  and  repulsive. 
And  when  we  grew  up  into  life,  what 
were  we  taught  concerning  God?  What 
was  tiie  character  ascribed  to  Him  ? 
Doubtless  it  was  said  that  He  is  infi- 
nitely good ;  and  that^  detached  from  all 
other  considerations,  would  draw  love  to 
Him,  and  has.  But  theology  has  over- 
shadowed the  bright  picture,  and  created 
a  character  which,  if  it  were  attributed 
to  any  other  being,  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  love.  Men  have  been  taught 
that.it  was  natural  to  them  to  hate  their 
Maker:  and  such  a  Being  as  has  been 
represented  to  be  their  Maker,  a  Being 
who  has  brought  them  into  existence, 
with  a  nature  totally  depraved  and  ut- 
terly helpless,  unable  to  render  obedi- 
ence, and  yet.  for  failing  of  it,  to  be 
doomed  to  endless  misery;  yes,  infants, 
little  children  too,  who  had  not  sinned, 
doomed  to  be  cast  into  everlasting  fire, 
there  to  suffer  forever,  not  for  anything 
they  had  done,  but  for  Adam's  fall ;  such 
a  Being,  I  say,  men  could  not  love ;  but 
such  a  Being  their  Maker  is  not.  The 
dogma  of  endless  pain  for  the  errings 
of  a  short  life  is  fast  dying  out  of  the 
world ;  but  its  influence  upon  our  minds 
does  not  die  so  fast.  Let  not  those  wlio 
flntter  themselves  that  they  have  escaped 
from  the  shadow  of  darkening  creeds, 
imagine  that  they  have  escaped  alto- 
gether. The  motley  of  errors  which 
ages  have  laid,  fold  after  fold,  upon  the 


human  mind,  cannot  be  stripped  off  in  a 
single  generation. 

Now  all  this  enforces  the  necessity  of 
care  and  culture  for  our  religious  affec- 
tions. And  yet  this  is  precisely  what  is 
liable  to  be  overlooked.  It  is  so  with  all 
our  affections.  The  idea  of  cultivating 
tliem  enters  into  few  men's  thoughts. 
Family  attachment,  for  instance,  friend- 
ship, love,  are  regarded  as  things  to  be  left 
to  themselves.  Because  they  are  natu- 
ral and  spontaneous,  which  they  are  in 
their  origin,  it  is  thought  that  they  are 
to  be  left  to  themselves.  Culture,  care 
of  them,  would  distort  or  stunt  them,  it 
is  thought,  would  mar  their  beauty  or 
check  their  freedom.  Like  wild  growths 
of  nature,  they  are  left  to  be,  to  run  to 
waste  or  to  overgrowth ;  not  to  be  trained 
to  higher  perfection  and  beauty,  as  in  a 
garden. 

Thus  wedlock,  the  tap-root  of  all  well- 
ordered  human  society,  is  looked  upon 
as  a  simple,  perhaps  sudden,  love- 
growth, —  ''love  at  first  sight,"  it  is 
sometimes  called,  —  and  it  is  expected 
to  make  a  happy  life  of  itself  Its  first 
rapture  is  taken  to  be  the  pledge  of  life- 
long happiness.  Alas  !  there  are  those, 
and  too  many  such,  who  find  that  to  be 
a  dreadful  mistake.  I  once  heard  a 
lecturer,  who  boldly  said,  "  No  :  wed- 
lock is  not  meant  for  happiness  alone, 
but  for  development,  discipline,  trial  of 
the  character."  Certain  it  is,  and  plain, 
that  two  imperfect  human  wills  cannot 
be  bound  together  in  any  possible  re- 
lation without  difference  and  difficulty 
sometimes  springing  up.  Questions 
must  often  arise.  "  Is  this,  or  that 
way,  the  best  ?  Which  of  two  things 
is  right  .''  —  which  expedient?"  It  is 
impossible  that  any  two  minds  should 
always  agree.  And  that  is  a  reason,  I 
think,  for  the  separate  employments 
that  seem  to  be  appointed  to  the  sexes, 
—  for  separate  spheres  of  action,  —  that 
there  be  not  too  much  collision.  But, 
any  way,  it  is  certain  that  there  is 
enough,  and  inevitably  enough,  to  make 
candor,  patience,  and  forbearance  neces- 
sary ;  in  other  words,  to  make  cultiva- 


RELIGIOUS   CULTURE. 


66 1 


tion,  thought,  watchfulness,  indispensa- 
ble to  the  perfection  and  blessedness  of 
connubial  love. 

I  have  turned  aside  from  my  theme 
for  a  moment  to  give  this  as  an  illustra- 
tion ;  for  that  which  is  true  in  the  sphere 
of  our  highest  earthly  affections  is  still 
more  true  in  the  higher  sphere  of  our  re- 
ligious affections.  Religion  in  the  soul  is 
regarded  as  a  gift  bestowed,  rather  than 
as  a  talent  to  be  improved.  But  neg- 
lected, bound  up  and  laid  aside  in  a 
napkin,  it  will  find  no  acceptance  nor 
favor  nor  help  from  Heaven. 

The  higher  any  culture  is  in  the  soul, 
the  more  will  it  cost  to  reach  it ;  the  high- 
est education  in  science,  literature,  phi- 
losophy, art,  more  study  and  effort  than 
the  lowest.  If,  then,  there  is,  between 
every  soul  and  its  Maker,  a  bond  more 
sacred,  a  relation  more  exalted,  than 
any  other  ;  if  this  one  thing  in  human 
experience  is  loftier,  is  more  sublime 
than  any  other  ;  if  there  is  such  a  thing 
possible  for  man  as  the  love  of  God,  a 
reverence,  an  adoration  which  no  words 
can  utter,  a  trust  and  joy  in  the  Infinite 
Rectitude,  bringing  perfect  peace,  bring- 
ing the  unshaken  assurance  that  all  is 
well,  and  will  end  well,  —  if  such  a  stay 
and  strength  can  be  found  by  the  weak 
and  troubled  soul,  and  such  a  profound 
and  soul-filling  satisfaction,  would  the 
study  and  care  and  prayer  of  a  life  be 
accounted  too  much  to  gain  it  1 

But  now  everything  depends  on  the 
mode  of  seeking;  in  other  words,  upon 
the  method  of  culture,  and  upon  the 
motive,  too.  If  piety  is  cultivated  with 
reluctance,  with  much  pain,  and  much 
mere  pains-taking,  only  to  escape  per- 
dition, only  to  secure  the  favor  of  a 
jealous  God,  nothing  will  be  gained  but 
dearth  and  barrenness  and  death  ;  or 
if  life  of  a  certain  kind,  if  a  selfish 
satisfaction,  it  will  not  be  piety,  but 
superstition. 

Therefore  the  first  thing  in  the  cul- 
ture of  piety  is  to  think  rightly  of  God  ; 
not  only  by  ridding  our  minds  of  the 
false  ideas  to  which  I  have  referred,  but 
by  positive  conceptions  of   the   Divine 


Nature  as  that  which  justly  draws  to  it 
an  unhesitating  and  unbounded  affec- 
tion. 

Now  that  which  hinders  this  is  either 
a  distrust  of  the  Infinite  Goodness,  or 
else  it  is  the  failure  to  see  this  Goodness 
as  real,  as  intentional,  as  the  attribute 
of  a  Being.  Consider  first  the  failure 
to  see.  I  cannot  love  or  revere  an  ab- 
straction. I  cannot  love  a  universe  of 
things,  though  it  be  co-ordinated  to  do 
me  good.  There  must  be  a  meaning,  a 
motive,  an  intent  in  all  this,  or  I  am  left 
cold,  indiflferent,  and  thankless.  And 
this  is  the  condition  of  too  many  minds. 
The  earth  and  sky  give  us  light  and 
food  and  raiment,  and  the  common 
tliought  does  not  go  beyond  them. 
''  What  a  beautiful  day  !  "  one  ,says, 
and  thinks  no  more  of  it,  —  perhaps 
never  does.  The  stream  of  social  affec- 
tions flows  through  us  and  around  us  ; 
and  what  pours  that  flood-tide  of  joy 
through  the  world  is  unthought  of: 
swift-winged  thoughts  fly  from  mind  to 
mind  in  wonderful  interchanges  all  the 
day  long,  and  they  are  as  birds  of 
the  air,  scarcely  regarded  ;  never  sing- 
ing out  our  thanksgiving  to  the  all- 
quickening  Life.  We  are  shut  up  in 
this  visible  round  of  nature  and  life,  as 
in  a  theatre ;  the  lights,  the  scenes, 
engage  us  :  and  who  wrought  this  won- 
derful drama,  who  has  filled  it  with 
beauty,  with  delight,  with  joyous  satis- 
faction,—  this  Source  of  all  is  out  of 
the  common  reach  of  men's  thoughts. 

"  Filled  it  with  delight,  with  joy,"  do 
you  say?  Ah!  if  it  were  so.  Here 
comes  in  the  distrust.  Pain,  bitter  pain, 
of  body  and  mind  ;  "  the  heart-ache  and 
the  thousand  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to;"' 
can  it  be  Goodness,  unmingled  Good- 
ness, that  sends  all  tiiis  upon  us  ?  This 
is  not  often  expressed,  but  it  is  felt,  as 
a  brooding  distrust.  I  remember  being 
told  of  a  man,  otherwise  respectable, 
who  was  drawing  nigh  to  his  end,  in 
great  and  previously  long-continued 
suffering,  who  broke  out  into  open- 
mouthed  rage  at  his  lot ;  who  did  what 
the  wife  of  Job  counselled  /i:>n  to  do ; 


66: 


THE    TWO   GREAT    COMMANDMENTS. 


who  cursed  God  and  died.  He  said, 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  God,  as  a  Being  to 
love.  God  Almighty,  if  there  be  a  God, 
would  never  inflict  upon  me  such  suf- 
fering if  he  were  a  good  Being."  Now 
suppose  that  this  man  had  Hved  to  learn 
a  new  lesson  from  the  discipline  of  sor- 
row and  pain.  Suppose  that  he  had 
lived  to  learn  that  suffering  contributes 
to  make  a  far  grander  manhood  than 
uninterrupted  enjoyment  could.  Suppose 
he  had  risen  from  his  sick-bed,  with  a 
new  and  more  tender  sympathy  for  «// 
suffering ;  nay,  that  he  had  been  led  to 
consecrate  his  life  to  the  soothing  and 
relief  of  all  suffering  ;  and  that  he  had 
thus  come  to  a  far  other  and  nobler  end, 
amidst  the  blessings  and  thanksgivings 
of  multitudes  whom  he  had  lived  to 
comfort  and  help.  Would  he  not  then 
have  seen  that  "  whom  God  loveth,  he 
chasteneth "  ?  Why,  even  Bidpai,  the 
old  Asiatic  fabulist,  knew  that.  Boe- 
thius  and  many  another  ancient  sage 
and  sufferer  knew  that.  They  all  say, 
what  our  Christian  teachers  say,  that 
the  path  to  the  highest  for  man  is 
through  hardship  and  trial  and  heroic 
endurance  ;  nay,  that  martyrdom  —  to 
die  for  the  right,  amidst  fire  and  blood 
—  is  the  very  crown  of  humanity. 

It  is  said,  I  know,  that  animals  have 
no  such  remuneration  for  what  they  suf- 
fer. And  it  may  be  asked  why  they 
should  suffer  at  all,  since  it  is  not  for 
their  sins,  nor  for  their  improvement. 
The  problem  may  be  too  deep  for  us 
to  fathom.  But  we  see  in  all  animal 
life  an  immense  superabundance  of  en- 
joyment, with  but  few  of  the  drawbacks 
that  are  found  in  our  human  lot.  And 
seeing  this,  more  than  one  miserable 
Imman  creature  has  envied  them  their 
happy  condition.  And  such  is  their  en- 
joyment of  existence,  and  such  are  the 
evidences  of  a  divine  goodness  and  wis- 
dom all  around  us,  that  I  should  not  so 
much  wonder  at  the  animal  lot,  as  I 
should  at  the  presumption  that  turned 
it  into  an  argument  for  distrust  of  God. 
Surely  it  is  reasonable  to  believe,  and  it 
is  monstrous  to  doubt,  that  the  best  was 


ordained  for  them,  as  for  all  things,  — the 
best  that  was  iDossible.  We  do  not  know 
that  it  was  possible  to  give  any  creature 
a  constitution  sensitive  to  pleasure,  with- 
out its  being  liable  to  pain;  the  one 
being  the  correlative  of  the  other.  Un- 
conditioned good  may  be  as  impossible 
to  created  beings  as  absolute  perfection. 
Impossibilities  are  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  power  to  achieve  or  wisdom  to  will. 
Nobody  denies  that  the  streams  which 
flow  down  our  valleys  are  beneficent 
and  beautiful,  though  they  sometimes 
swell  into  freshets  that  tear  away  their 
banks  or  the  buildings  upon  them. 

And  there  is  a  stream  of  blessings, 
flowing  through  the  wcrld,  through  the 
universe,  in  outpoured  life,  in  the  light 
of  suns  and  stars,  — 

"  Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate,"  — 

in  the  astonishing  system  of  molecules, 
now  discovered,  now  found  to  be  atoms 
or  forces  propagated  with  inconceivable 
swiftness  through  the  whole  material 
creation,  causing  it  to  throb  from  side 
to  side,  as  with  pulses  of  the  infinite 
Life.  All  this  must  draw  our  wonder, 
delight,  and  admiration  to  the  all-won- 
derful Cause,  whatever  else  we  know 
or  do  not  know  concerning  it. 

How  can  any  rational  being  look  upon 
all  this  outward  show,  and  never  think- 
of  the  infinite  Reality !  How  can  he 
idly  glance  at  the  pages  of  such  a  vol- 
ume, and  never  ask  what  it  tells  him  ! 
Imagine  social  life  to  be  such,  —  a  mere 
outside  show,  and  no  thought  nor  affec- 
tion of  ours  going  beyond  the  visible 
action  to  the  loving  hearts  around  us  ! 
It  would  be  an  inconceivable  blindness. 
But  an  infinite  goodness  !  —  think  of 
that ;  and  no  thought  going  behind  the 
gifts  to  the  Giver  !  If  it  had  created 
beauty,  and  the  sense  of  the  beautiful 
alone,  that  would  be  enough  to  chal- 
lenge perpetual  admiration.  Why  should 
not  a  thoughtful  man  pause  and  meditate 
upon  all  this,  and  deliberately  and  ear- 
nestly set  himself  to  acquire,  to  cultivate 
the  habit  of  looking  through  the  seen  to 
the  Unseen  ?     I  put  it  to  such  thought- 


RELIGIOUS    CULTURE. 


663 


ful  man  ;  and  I  say,  one  of  two  things 
is  certain  and  must  be  accepted  by  you. 
Either  there  is  no  God  :  the  universe 
of  things  is  all  that  exists ;  or  there  is  a 
God, — the  Cause  of  ail  this  wonderful 
universe  th.it  is  around  us.  If  atheism 
is  the  mournful  conclusion  to  which  any 
one  has  come,  then  in  that  mournfulness 
I  must  leave  him,  so  far  as  my  present 
argument  is  concerned ;  appeal,  expos- 
tulation, calling  upon  all  religious  aspi- 
rations, has  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
But  if  there  is  a  God,  what  then  ?  If  it 
is  a  fool  that  says,  "  There  is  no  God  ;  " 
what  is  he  who  says  there  is  a  God, 
there  is  such  a  transcendent  and  all- 
glorious  Existence,  and  does  not  bow 
down  with  awe  and  wonder,  with  joy 
and  gladness  in  His  presence,  —  does 
not  feel  that  that  is  the  one  central  Idea 
about  which  everything  revolves  .''  Ev- 
ery thing,  —  the  stars  in  their  courses, 
the  train  of  all  earthly  events,  the 
tlioughts,  the  purposes,  the  reverence, 
the  obedience  of  every  living  soul. 

To  arrest  the  thoughts,  to  fix  them 
from  time  to  time  in  meditation  upon 
God,  to  lift  the  undisturbed  soul  to 
Him  in  aspiration  and  prayer,  to  read 
books  written  by  devout  men  ;  to  see 
how  David,  how  Isaiah,  how  Jesus, 
felt  the  great  presence  ;  to  meditate 
upon  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  "  O 
God,  Thou  art  my  God,  early  will  I  seeic 
Thee  ;  "  to  listen  when  Jesus  savs, 
"Father,  my  Father!"  —  is  not  this 
what  any  one  can  do,  what  he  will  do,  if 
he  is  interested  to  learn  this  great  wis- 
dom ;  what  he  ivoiild do,  to  be  acquaint- 
ed with  anything  that  he  desires  to 
know,  —  as  the  artist  with  his  model,  the 
poet  with  his  theme,  the  philosopher 
with  his  problem  ?  Shall  everything  be 
studied,  inquired  into,  meditated  upon, 
but  the  Source  of  all  thought,  knowledge, 
and  wisdom  .?  Shall  a  man  seek  to 
know  of  everything  but  of  God  ?  The 
partisan  theology  of  sects  is  laden  in 
these  days,  I  know,  with  the  heaviest 
opprobrium  ;  but  theology,  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word,  is  the  noblest  of  sci- 
ences and  pursuits. 


But  let  not  this  daily  meditation,  this 
holy  retreat,  that  I  am  speaking  of,  be 
spoiled  by  formality  or  by  constraint ; 
let  it,  in  the  time  and  manner  of  it,  be 
freely  chosen,  and  freely  used  as  every 
one  finds  best  for  him.  There  are  many 
who  go  daily  to  their  prayers,  to  what 
they  call,  perhaps,  "  saj'i/ig  their  pray- 
ers," reluctantly  ;  to  keep  their  religious 
account  right ;  to  do  that  without  vvhicli 
they  would  not  be  Christians,  and  could 
have  no  Christian  hope;  like  the  pilgrim 
to  Mecca  or  Loretto,  to  touch  a  certain 
spot,  or  to  perform  a  certain  rite,  neces- 
sary to  salvation.  Fatal  is  all  such 
praying ;  leaving  the  soul  cold,  reluc- 
tant, sad  in  its  devotions,  or  if  with  a 
selfish  joy,  no  better  for  it.  No;  let  the 
retreat  into  private  thought  be  welcome, 
free,  sought  for  a  higher  end  than  safety. 
No  matter  for  the  manner  of  it :  walk- 
ing in  a  grove,  sitting  in  silence,  or 
kneeling  in  lowly  adoration.  Let  it  be 
a  mingling  of  meditations  and  prayers  ; 
of  thoughts  of  ourselves,  of  our  errings 
and  needs, — a  seeking  for  help  and 
strength,  but  above  all  a  sinking  into 
the  depths  unknown,  of  the  all-divine 
and  good  and  beautiful.  God  is  far 
away  from  the  too  common  habits  of 
our  minds ;  let  us  draw  nigh  to  Him,  to 
"be  filled,"  as  St.  Paul  expresses  it, — 
"to  be  filled,  with  all  His  fulness." 

Blessed  beyond  all  price  is  the  place 
and  the  hour  of  such  visitation  from  On 
high  ;  yea,  one  touch  of  that  great  feel- 
ing ;  but  the  whole  of  life,  the  world,  is 
the  sphere  to  be  blessed  by  an  habitual 
sense  of  the  ever-present  and  all-sur- 
rounding Goodness  :  and  to  attain  this, 
is  the  special  and  earnest  endeavor  which 
I  would  urge. 

There  is  a  sense  of  the  Divine  Pres- 
ence, in  which  one  may  be  said,  like 
Enoch  of  old,  to  walk  with  God.  It  is 
not  distinctly  prayer :  it  is  better  than 
prayer  ;  it  is  the  outcome  of  prayer  ;  but 
who  will  ever  attain  to  this  without  learn- 
ing by  direct  endeavor  to  look  through 
life,  through  the  world,  through  nature, 
up  to  nature's  God  ? 

Ah  !  this  all-surrounding  Goodness, — 


664 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


it  is  too  vast  and  glorious  for  us  to  com- 
prehend ;  and,  alas  for  us  !  it  seems  so 
impersonal  at  times.  It  must  be  real 
and  living;  goodness  cannot  be  an  at- 
tribute of  matter  ;  whatever  has  made 
me  good  and  happy  must  have  meant  it  ; 
sunshine  and  showers  and  spring  ver- 
dure have  no  thought  in  them  to  do 
that;  the  joy  and  love  that  flow  through 
( ur  hearts  cannot  have  come  from 
nothing  :  and  yet,  the  all-pervading 
Goodness  seems  so  impersonal  at  times. 
It  is  liable  to  seem  so,  from  its  bound- 
less and  ceaseless  diffusion.  And  it 
moves  on  in  such  majestic  and  unbend- 
ing order  ;  it  shines  in  the  sun,  it  falls 
in  the  rain  ;  all  is  silent,  voiceless,  un- 
varying law,  —  "  the  light,  the  fountains 
sweet,"  morning  and  evening  ;  the  splen- 
dor of  day  and  the  night  shade  for  re- 
pose, hill  and  dale,  flowing  streams  and 
waving  grain-fields, —  so  that  he  who 
looks  upon  all  this  with  vague  and  un- 
thinking gaze,  will  never  come  to  know 
the  living  God. 

Then,  and  if  it  be  so,  must  come  in 
place  of  this  vague,  unthinking  gaze,  a 
thoughtful,  careful,  cultivated  attention. 
A  book  is  opened  to  us,  in  nature  and 
in  our  own  souls,  for  us  to  read.  Shall 
we  not  strive  to  penetrate  through  its 
visible  letters  to  its  great  meaning  ? 
Why,  even  the  work  of  an  earthly  sage 
demands  that  much  of  us.  What  would 
be  said  of  one,  who  looked  upon  the 
works  of  a  great  human  genius,  of  Shak- 
speare  or  Milton,  and  took  notice  of 
nothing  but  the  exterior  appearance,  ■ — 
the  fine  binding,  the  beautiful  type,  the 
gilded  edges,  —  and  never  cared  to  go 
beyond  to  the  volumed  wisdom  within  ? 
And  if  such  a  superficial  person  should 
come  u!ider  our  observation,  could  we 
help  saying  to  him,  —  why  do  you  not 
look  more  deeply  into  these  volumes,  to 
see  what  genius,  light,  and  beauty  are 
within  them  ? 

Oman  of  thought !  —  if  such  will  listen 
to  me," — why  was  thought  given  you,  if 
not  to  rise  to  the  Source  of  all  thought .'' 
I  am  sorrv,  in  what  1  am  saying,  to  use 
this  tone  of  urgency,  of  urgent  argument. 


—  so  spontaneous,  so  freely  upspring- 
ing  is  the  devotion  of  a  soul  once 
touched,  once  translated  into  that  sphere 
of  heavenly  light  and  life.  But  it  must 
be  Jij'i^ed,  it  must  be  urged,  upon  a  workl 
that  is  living  without  God.  It  is  a  new 
word  to  that  world.  And,  accepted,  it 
would  make  a  new  heavens  and  a  new 
earth.  But  if  habit  is  strong,  and  argu- 
ment with  it,  alas  !  unavailing,  though  I 
trust  it  is  not,  yet  if  1  thought  it  must 
be  so,  1  would  turn  to  the  season  in 
which  habits  are  not  formed,  to  the  plas- 
tic season  of  youth  :  and  I  would  say, — 
begin  that  life,  which  you  have  just  re- 
ceived from  the  Infinite  Goodness,  by 
confiding  in  it,  by  loving  it.  What  is  it 
that  has  kindled  the  heavens  over  you 
and  opened  your  eyes  to  all  this  wonder 
and  beauty  around  you  ?  Just  stepped 
out  from  nothing,  just  awakened  to  tiiis 
joyous  existence  ;  flowers  blossoming  in 
your  path,  pleasant  fields  and  play- 
grounds around  you  ;  sweet  fields,  not 
beyond  the  swelling  flood,  but  here  and 
now  around  you  :  sweeter  affections  in 
your  hearts,  that  make  the  names  of 
father,  mother,  brother,  sister,  so  dear ; 
what  is  it  that  has  opened  these  foun- 
tains of  joy  and  gladness  ;  what  is  it 
that  hath  poured  around  you  all  this 
flood  of  blessings  ?  It  is  Goodness,  over- 
flowing, unbounded,  unspeakable.  It  is 
God.  If  God  were  not,  nothing  of  all 
this  had  ever  been.    Turn,  child  of  God  ! 

—  turn,  like  the  morning-glory,  to  that 
Sun  which  alone  can  impart  to  your 
life  its  brightest  hues,  and  fill  it  with 
more  than  earthly  fragrance. 

In  old  time,  "men  sought  the  Lord, 
if  haply  they  might  feel  after  Him  and 
find  Him."  So  must  they  seek  Him 
still,  with  earnest  desire  and  endeavor. 
Truly  and  rightly  to  love  the  Infinite 
Goodness,  is  to  do  so,  not  of  constraint, 
not  for  hire,  not  for  heaven,  but  for  itself, 

—  simply,  sincerely,  willingly,  gladly, 
just  as  we  love  everything  good  and 
lovely.  We  grow  in  the  love  of  our 
friend  by  being  with  him,  in  body  or  in 
spirit.  So  must  we  be  with  God,  in 
meditation,   in    communion,   in   the  full 


RIGHTEOUSNESS   THE   CENTRAL   LAW. 


66= 


sense  of  His  presence.  David  knew 
tlie  way.  "O  God,  Thou  art  my  God, 
early  will  I  seek  Thee  :  my  soul  thirsteth 
for  Thee,  my  flesh  longeth  for  Thee  ;  to 
see  Thy  power  and  Thy  glory.  Because 
Thy  loving-kindness  is  better  than  life, 
my  lips  shall  praise  Thee.  Thus  will  I 
bless  Thee  while  I  live  ;  I  will  Hft  up 
my  hands  in  Thy  name." 


II. 


RIGHTEOUSNESS,    THE    SELF-RE- 
VEALED  AND   CENTRAL  LAW. 

"THE    ETERNAL     POWER,     NOT   OURSELVES, 
TH.\T    M.\KES    FOR    RIGHTEOUSNESS." 

Job  xxxvi.  3  :  "  I  will  fetch  my  knowledge  from 
afar,  and  will  ascribe  righteousness  to  my  Maker." 

The  expression,  "  I  will  fetch  my 
knowledge  from  afar,"  is  to  be  explained 
by  the  circumstances.  The  controver- 
sy between  Job  and  his  friends  had 
hitherto  turned  principally  upon  Job's 
particular  case.  But  now  comes  for- 
ward at  last  Elihu,  the  youngest  of 
them,  and  more  of  a  Radical  than  his 
elders,  and  he  says,  "  I  will  fetch  my 
knowledge  from  afar."  That  is,  I  will 
go  behind  and  beyond  these  old  ques- 
tions about  Providence,  and  these  per- 
sonal questions  about  Job  ;  I  will  go 
down  to  the  root  of  all  truth.  What- 
ever else  be  true  or  false,  "  I  will  ascribe 
righteousness  to  my  Maker." 

That  which  Elihu  says,  or  what  I 
understand  him  to  mean,  suggests  to 
me  the  subject  of  my  discourse  this 
morning.  And  there  is  some  analogy 
between  that  old  debate  and  the  circum- 
stances in  which  I  speak  to  you.  For 
tliere  are  questions  debated  now  about 
that  very  system  of  things  which  was 
brought  into  controversy  in  the  book  of 
Job,  —  questions,  indeed,  concerning  na- 
ture and  life,  concerning  God  and  man, 
more  abstruse  and  scientific  than  those 
old  ones  ;  and  what  I  propose  to  naain- 
tain,  going  behind  all  these  questions, 
is,  that  righteousness,  whatever  else  be 


disputed  about,  is  inwrought  and  in- 
trenched in  the  very  nature  of  things,  in 
the  universe  of  things,  —  in  all  things,  I 
say,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  from 
man  to  the  whole  material  creation  be- 
low him.     In. man,  I  say,  and  in  nature. 

First,  in  man,  in  huinan  nature,  tliere 
is  a  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  Original, 
and  a  part  of  the  human  constitution, 
or  else  inevitably  developed,  there  is  a 
sense  of  right  and  wrong.  Language 
cannot  state  a  stronger  opposition  of 
thought  than  these  words  express.  We 
may  not  be  able  to  explain  it,  but  we 
feel  it.  The  right  is  right,  we  say,  and 
the  wrong  is  wrong.  But  look  into 
men's  faces  when  they  utter  these 
words,  and  they  will  expound  to  you 
the  great  fact  of  which  I  speak.  What 
fact  .''  Why,  the  fact  of  conscience.  I 
have  heard  it  argued  as  against  this 
fact,  that  men  differ  about  what  is  right, 
and  what  wrong.  But  this  makes  no 
difference  in  \\\€\x  feeling  towards  right 
and  wrong.  Differ  as  they  may,  though 
they  do  not  differ  essentially,  yet  what  a 
man  thinks  to  be  right,  he  approves  of, 
and  what  he  thinks  to  be  wrong,  he  con- 
demns. It  is  t\\\s  feelitig  that  I  insist 
upon;  and  it  is  incontrovertibly  human. 
All  men  have  it.  It  varies  in  development 
with  culture  ;  but  it  is  always  the  same 
feeling.  It  is  clearer  at  maturity  than  in 
childhood  ;  clearer  among  cultivated 
nations  than  among  rude  and  ignorant 
tribes  ;  but  it  is  everywhere  a  fact 
embedded  in  human  nature.  All  con- 
versation and  conduct,  all  that  men  say 
or  write  or  do,  all  literature,  all  insti- 
tutions, all  laws,  all  governments,  testify 
to  this  difference  which  men  make  be- 
tween right  and   wrong. 

And  this  furthermore  is  to  be  said, 
and  this  especially,  that  the  feeling  I 
am  speaking  of  exists  in  men  in  spite 
of  them.  How  glad  would  it  make  the 
liar,  the  knave,  the  base  sensualist,  to 
be  able  to  say  that  his  course  is  right  : 
that  what  the  world  calls  his  baseness, 
is  something  noble  and  beautiful  !  But 
he  cannot  say  it.  This  shows  a  Will 
speaking   through    him,  other  than  his 


666 


THE   TWO    GREAT    COMMANDMENTS. 


own  will.  It  shows  that  righteousness 
is  a  law  laid  down  for  him  in  the  very 
foundations  of  his  nature. 

There  are  two  contending  theories  of 
morals  ;  but  they  both,  in  this  respect, 
conduct  to  the  same  conclusion.  The 
Transcendentalist  says  that  the  sense 
of  right  is  intuitive  ;  that  it  belongs  to 
the  very  constitution  of  our  being:  and 
of  the  truth  of  this  theory  I  have  no 
doubt.  The  Utilitarian  says,  a  thing 
is  right  because  it  is  useful.  But  if 
such  is  the  constitution  of  things  that 
the  usefulness  of  certain  actions  sets 
them  up  as  right  and  binding,  then  we 
see  the  same  law  of  righteousness 
established  as  a  law  of  our  being ;  es- 
tablished not  by  ourselves,  but  by  the 
Power  that  has  placed  us  in  this  world. 

Turn  now  from  man  to  the  sphere 
beneath  him,  to  the  material  world. 

Put  two  men  upon  the  earth  to  test 
the  character  of  nature,  the  one  indo- 
lent, reckless,  given  over  to  sensual 
self-indulgence  ;  the  other,  industrious, 
heedful,  temperate,  conscious  of  duties 
to  be  performed.  Can  there  be  any 
doubt  to  which  nature  is  favorable  and 
friendly  ?  The  one  she  fights  against 
in  every  way.  She  will  not  allow  him 
competence  nor  comfort  nor  peace. 
She  says  to  him,  "  Beg,  wander,  starve  ; 
do  what  you  will :  I  will  not  help  you. 
Man  may  take  you  in,  shivering  at  his 
door  ;  but  my  cold  and  storm  will  not 
spare  you."  To  the  other  —  but  I 
need  not  report  what  she  says  to  the 
other.  Everywhere,  indeed,  nature  is  a 
teacher  of  truth  and  wisdom.  Every- 
where she  opens  a  book  more  wonderful 
in  its  contents  than  all  the  other  books 
in  the  world.  He  who  reads  therein, 
and  understands  it,  and  gathers  its 
beauty  into  his  soul,  will  be  a  wise  and 
good  man.  Such  is  the  system  of 
things. 

We  can  conceive  of  a  world  con- 
structed differently,  constructed  for  in- 
dulgence alone  ;  for  luxurious  ease,  for 
voluptuous  enjoyment,  for  revelling  and 
excess  ;  with  palaces  built  and  stored, 
with  soft   cushions  spread  all  around. 


and  fountains  of  maddening  stimulants 
bursting  from  every  hillside.  But  it  is 
not  so.  Nay,  nothing  but  resolute  and 
righteous  virtue  can  adjust  itself  to  the 
material  conditions  of  human  existence. 
Nay,  more  ;  not  only  does  nature  say, 
"  Be  right,  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
me,"  but  she  keeps  sharp  reckoning 
with  her  human  inhabitant.  Conscience 
itself  is  not  so  strict  with  him  as  she  is. 
She  will  not  pardon  idleness  nor  neg- 
ligence. She  rebukes,  she  repels  im- 
providence, slighting,  haste,  and  passion. 
Industry,  care,  and  fidelity,  ay,  regular 
and  regulated  industry,  nature  will 
have  J  and  Jias  it  too,  in  spite  of  all 
human  reluctance  and  wilfulness.  Hu- 
manity is  bound  up  in  this  moral  bond  ; 
without  which  all  would  go  to  wreck, 
without  which  it  could  not  exist  at  all. 

I  wonder  if  the  cultivators  of  the  soil 
often  think  of  this.  For  here  is  a  sys- 
tem cf  things  around  them,  framed  in 
rectitude  ;  which  favors  the  right,  and 
punishes  the  wrong.  And  this  is  true 
upon  the  largest  scale,  as  upon  the 
smallest ;  not  upon  farms  only,  but 
upon  continents.  Let  men  cut  off  all 
the  forests,  and  there  shall  be  drought 
and  dried-up  streams.  Let  the  marshes 
be  left  undrained,  and  there  shall  be 
miasma  and  fever.  Let  cities  be  filthy, 
and  there  shall  the  pestilence  walk  in 
darkness  and  destruction  waste  at  noon- 
day. Here  is  a  world  with  elements 
and  agencies  which  demand  fidelity  and 
obedience  as  strictly  as  if  they  were 
enacted  and  written  laws.  Nobody 
doubts  that  the  lawgiver  demands  rec- 
titude ;  equally  evident  is  it  that  nature 
does. 

Thus,  then,  it  is  manifest,  first,  that 
the  sentiment  of  the  right  is  wrought 
into  the  very  structure  of  our  being  ; 
and,  next,  that  there  is  a  teaching,  nay, 
and  a  bolstering  of  it,  in  the  very  frame 
of  nature. 

And  consider  what  would  have  be- 
come of  the  world  if  this  had  been 
otherwise.  Imagine  -that  the  law  of 
righteousness  had  not  thus  pressed 
upon  the  world.     Imagine  that  wrong- 


RIGHTEOUSNESS   THE   CENTRAL   LAW. 


667 


doing  had  comman.ded  the  homage  now 
given  to  right-doing ;  that  injustice, 
fraud,  intemperance,  everything  base, 
had  been  held  to  be  deserving  of  honor 
and  praise.  Not  only  vi'ould  it  have 
been  a  worthless  world,  but  it  could  not 
long  have  existed  at  all.  The  one  bad 
principle  set  up  in  place  of  the  good 
and  right  would  have  whelmed  the 
human  race  in  utter  ruin.  All  order, 
all  government,  all  public  law,  and  all 
private  virtue  would  have  gone  down 
before  it.  All  reposes  upon  the  sub- 
lime idea  of  the  right.  It  was  not  left 
to  any  human  conventions  to  establish 
it.  It  establishes  t/ient.  Far  deeper- 
founded  than  unstable  human  opinion, 
it  is  evidently  the  will  of  the  Power  that 
made  us. 

But  it  is  not  its  use  alone,  it  is  not 
its  political  or  social  necessity  alone, 
that  vindicates  it;  useful  or  not,  it  is. 
And  it  is  not  common-sense  alone  that 
receives  it,  but  alike  the  profoundest 
philosophy.  It  is  noteworthy  that  the 
greatest  speculative  thinker  we  have, 
the  German  Kant,  after  having  pushed 
his  searching  analysis  to  the  doubt  of 
everything  else,  settles  at  last  upon  this 
moral  sense  as  the  only  certainty  to 
build  upon.  This  was  his  "  categori- 
cal imperative,"  —  that  which  absolutely 
i07)imands  assent.  That  to  do  good 
to  others  is  right,  and  to  hate  and  hurt 
them  is  wrong,  this  is  a  certainty,  the 
contrary  of  which  cannot  be  entertained 
in  thesis  nor  in  thought.  This  is  a 
truth  for  all  ages ;  nay,  for  all  worlds. 
There  can  be  no  world  where  this  is 
not  a  truth.  Infinitude  cannot  swell 
beyond  it,  nor  eternity  waste  nor  wear 
it  out. 

And  now  if  any  who  hear  me  shall 
think  that  the  point  which  I  have 
li bored  to  establish  is  too  obvious,  too 
self-evident  to  make  it  worth  while 
to  insist  upon  it,  or  too  abstract  to  be 
of  any  practical  importance,  let  me  go 
on  to  say  something  of  what  it  has 
to  do  with  our  lives,  and  with  our 
thoughts,  on  the  greatest  subjects  of 
human  thought. 


There  is  in  the  material  universe  a 
law  of  gravitation.  It  holds  the  earth 
in  its  orbit,  and  it  holds  all  things  upon 
its  surface  to  the  centre  ;  so  that  neither 
winds  nor  waves,  nor  volcanoes  nor 
earthquakes,  can  break  the  great  bond 
nor  the  prevailing  order.  How  uncon- 
scious are  we  apt  to  be,  of  our  bless- 
ings !  I  never  heard  anybody  give 
thanks  for  the  law  of  gravitation  ;  yet 
in  this  stand  the  security  and  calmness 
in  which  we  hold  all  our  blessings.  In 
like  manner  there  is  a  moral  bond  laid 
upon  the  world  ;  and  no  upheavings  of 
human  violence,  no  struggles  of  wilful 
passion,  no  devices  of  the  crafty  nor 
tumult  of  the  people,  can  annul  the 
everlasting  law.  If  it  were  not  for  this, 
in  what  overwhelming  anxieties  would 
our  lives  be  passed. 

But  this  law  goes  yet  deeper  ;  it  goes 
deep  into  the  conduct  of  life ;  it  is  not 
only  security,  but  admonition,  serious 
and  weighty. 

Whoever  steps  upon  this  world,  who- 
ever in  his  youth  looks  out  upon  the 
path  before  him,  has  some  idea  of  what 
he  will  do,  and  how  he  will  do  it ;  what 
rule  he  will  walk  by.  What  shall  it 
be  ?  What  shall  he  do  ?  Right  and 
wrong  are  before  him.  Conscience 
commands  the  one.  Passion,  indul- 
gence, vice,  dishonesty,  draw  him  the 
other  way.  Which  shall  he  follow,  — 
the  right,  or  the  wrong  ?  Ah  !  what 
fatal  decision,  if  he  chooses  the  wrong, 
or  shall  let  evil  temptation  choose  it  for 
him  !  He  fights  against  heaven  and 
earth,  against  the  great  laws  of  his 
being  and  of  the  universe  around  him. 
Everything  is  against  him.  Out  from 
the  height  and  from  the  depth,  from 
sky  and  earth,  from  the  labor-field  and 
the  merchant's  wharf,  comes  the  ever- 
lasting cry,  "Woe,  woe  unto  him  that 
calls  evil  good ;  that  puts  darkness  for 
light !  " 

Is  it  not  so  }  What  man  ever  felt  it 
to  be  good  for  him  to  be  a  bad  man  ? 
For  an  hour  or  a  day  he  may  have 
exulted  in  a  bad  deed  ;  some  flush  of 
success,  some   delusion   of  maddening 


668 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


passion,  may  have  blinded  him.  What 
temporary  delusions  there  maybe  in  the 
human  heart,  in  that  unfathomed  mys- 
tery of  good  and  evil  struggling  to- 
gether, I  will  not  answer  for.  But  no 
man  ever  came  to  the  completion  of  this 
experiment,  to  the  end  of  a  long  life, 
on  which  manifest  wickedness  has  set 
its  stamp,  and  ever  thought  it  to  be  a 
satisfactory  or  happy  life.  No  mad  and 
self-willed  monarch,  like  Charles  XII. 
of  Sweden,  who 

"  Left  a  name  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale  ;  " 

no  Imperial  voluptuary  like  Nero  or 
Caligula,  ever  found  his  life  to  be  a 
happy  one.  And  even  where  secret 
selfishness  is  hidden  under  the  veils  of 
seeming  success  in  ambitious  schemes 
or  in  the  pride  of  ill-got  gain,  and  the 
man  persuades  himself  that  he  is  a  good 
man,  nay,  and  a  good  Christian,  yet 
that  secret  selfishness,  like  a  canker 
within,  eats  out  all  worth  and  welfare. 

In  evil  times,  like  those  upon  which, 
in  some  respects,  we  are  fallen,  when 
gigantic  dishonesty  both  in  public  and 
private  life  walks  abroad,  not  unrebuked, 
thank  God,  but  unblushing  ;  when  good 
men  sigh  almost  in  despair,  and  the  weak 
sink  in  the  struggle  with  the  strong; 
when  the  old  honesty  and  the  old  re- 
ligion together  are  called  in  question, 
and  success  seems  to  be  made  the  god 
of  this  world,  it  is  good  for  us  to  re- 
member that  there  is  a  hand  yet  ruling 
in  the  world,  stronger  than  any  man's 
hand.  Let  bad  men  succeed  ;  let  plot- 
ters prosper  in  their  devices  ;  let  volup- 
tuaries revel  in  guilty  pleasure  ;  let  vile 
politicians  sell  the  public  weal  for  place 
and  power;  let  all  go  down,  or  seem 
to  go  down  ;  let  truth  be  fallen  in  the 
streets,  and  its  great  confessors  be  led 
to  the  stake ;  and  earth  and  hell  rise 
to  embroil  the  order  of  the  world,  —  yet 
calm  and  strong,  yea,  unconquerable, 
omnipotent,  is  the  everlasting  right. 
The  feeblest  man  that  is  wronged,  the 
weakest  victim  that  is  broken  upon  the 
rack,  the  poorest  slave  dashed  bleeding 


to  the  earth,  may  lift  his  hand  to  Heaven 
and  take  hold  of  the  Almightiness  of 
Infinite  Rectitude.  God  is  for  him, 
tliough  all  the  world  be  against  him. 

Yet  more  than  a  resource  and  a  sup- 
port, more  than  a  rule  of  conduct,  is  this 
rectitude  ;  it  is  supreme  and  all-pervad- 
ing authority.     Men   are  apt  to  think, 
when  they  are  doing  something  which 
their  own  mind  condemns,  that  it  is  only 
their  own  little  conscience  that  they  are 
dealing  with  ;  and  they  turn  it  aside  or 
cast  it  down,  as  if  it  were  but  a  small 
obstacle  in  their  way.     They  reason,  or 
they  trifle  with  it ;  they  say,  perliaps.  that 
it  "  is  but  a  notion  ;  "  tJiey  would  have 
a  larger  liberty  ;  they  draw  a  defence,  for 
some  excess  or  license,  out  of  their  own 
peculiar  case  ;  they   are   sick  or  miser- 
able, or  torn  with  exceptionable  or  he- 
reditary passions ;  and  so  they  get  rid, 
and  are  glad   to  get  rid,  of  their  little 
scruples.     But   this   conscience    within 
them    is    the    expositor   of   an    Infinite 
Conscience,  that   pervades  heaven  and 
earth.     The  electric  spark  that  touches 
the    nerve   of  their   moral    sense,    from 
time   to  time,  is   part  of  the  lightning 
stream  that   flashes  from   one   side   of 
the   world  to   the   other.     I  remember 
that   James    Otis  —  one    of    our   great 
names  of  the  Revolution,  that  is  never 
to  be  forgotten  — desired,  in  his  declin- 
ing days,  to  die  by   lightning.     I   have 
stood  in    the    very   doorway  where    he 
stood,  gazing  upon  a  departing  thunder- 
storm, when  a  bolt  flashed  back,  as  if  to 
answer  his  wish,  and  laid  him  dead  upon 
the  threshold.      It  was  an  event  awful  to 
witness.     But  what  would  it  have  been, 
if  he  had  stood  there,  to  brave  and  defy 
the  power  that  struck  him  down  !     That 
is  what  every  man  does,  who  consciously 
and  obstinately  violates  his  conscience  ; 
who  does,  and  persists  in  doing,  what  he 
knows  to  be  wrong.      It  is  a  more  awful 
fkin^,  than   this  easy  and  worldly  con- 
science takes  to  heart,  to  consider.      Is 
it   not  to   withstand   the   righteous  law 
that  is  written  within  him  ?     Is  not  the 
voice  he  refuses  to  hear,  the  voice  of 
God.? 


I 


I 


RIGHTEOUSNESS   THE   CENTRAL   LAW. 


669 


But  is  it  tlie  voice  of  God  ?  /s  there 
a  God?— one  may  say.  The  grave 
controversies  of  the  day  venture  even 
upon  that  awful  question. 

I  go,  then,  to  a  further  application.  I 
have  said  that  the  all-pervading  right- 
eousness of  which  I  have  been  speak- 
ing has  to  do,  not  only  with  our  lives, 
but  with  our  thoughts,  on  the  greatest 
subjects  of  human  thought.  Let  us 
consider  it. 

The  universe,  we  say,  is  imbued,  in- 
terpenetrated with  the  element  of  right- 
eousness. It  is  as  manifest  as  the  power 
of  gravitation.  Not  more  certainly  is 
there  something  that  draws  and  holds 
us  to  the  earth,  than  there  is  something 
that  draws  us  to  an  approval  of  the 
right.  What  is  it  ?  We  say  that  ani- 
mal instinct  is  put  into  the  animal  na- 
ture for  its  guidance,  by  the  power  that 
made  it.  Is  it  not  equally  evident  that 
the  sense  of  right  is  put  into  moral  na- 
tures for  their  guidance,  by  the  power 
that  made  them.''  And  must  not  the 
power  that  has  laid  that  law  upon  them, 
itself  be  righteous  ? 

Consider  that  there  are  only  two 
kinds  of  power  that  are  conceivable 
—  matter  and  spirit,  thought  and  thing. 
Can  righteousness,  or  can  that  which 
creates  the  sense  of  righteousness,  be 
a  thing  ?  Can  any  form  or  force  ma- 
terial be  such  a  cause  ?  Can  leaf  or 
tree,  can  wind  or  wave,  can  flower  or 
star,  can  light  or  motion,  or  any  con- 
course or  action  of  all  these,  have  given 
birth  to  righteousness  ?  —  for  we  have 
materialists  who  say  that  everything 
comes  from  a  material  organization. 
But  does  not  this  conception  which  we 
have  of  righteousness  in  our  minds,  and 
have  it  in  spite  of  ourselves,  —  does  it 
not  imply  of  necessity  something  di- 
vine as  its  cause  ?  I  say,  of  necessity. 
For  this  idea  of  righteousness  is  as 
much  an  evolution  in  me  as  any  that 
the  scientist  finds  in  nature.  It  must 
have  come  from  somewhere  :  where  has 
it  come  from  ?  Dr.  Darwin  says  that 
everything  comes  in  the  form  of  evo- 
lution,—  evolution  of  plants,  of  animals, 


up  to  man  ;  it  is  a  law  of  nature  ;  it 
must  be  so.  But  so  is  conscience  an 
evolution.  Nay,  so  does  he  regard  it. 
And  this  is  the  way  in  which  he  traces 
it,  and  proposes  to  account  for  it.  Men 
see,  he  says,  that  certain  actions  pro- 
mote the  common  welfare.  Therefore 
they  favor  them.  Their  selfishness  leads 
them  to  do  so.  But  why  does  the  feel- 
ing arise  in  them,  which  is  not  selfish- 
ness, which  opposes  their  selfishness, — 
the  feeling  that  they  ought  to  perform 
those  actions  .''  That,  I  think,  is  what  he 
does  not  account  for,  nor  does  any  Utili- 
tarian theory.  That  sense  of  the  right, 
that  sense  of  righteousness,  lies  behind 
all  their  theories  ;  and  nothing  can  ac- 
count for  it  but  a  Cause  behind  all, 
which  has  produced  it.  It  is  the  voice 
of  God  in  the  soul. 

Let  us  look  at  it  in  the  soul  itself,  and 
ask  again,  —  what  is  it  .''  And  whence 
came  it  ?  Here  in  man  is  this  sense  of 
right,  this  feeling  that  it  is  a  duty  to  do 
it,  —  this  feeling,  not  merely  that  a  thing 
is  useful  and  best,  but  that  he  ought  to 
do  what  is  useful  and  best.  It  is  in  man  ; 
it  is  a  part  of  him  ;  it  is  laid  upon  him 
and  he  cannot  throw  it  off.  Man  would 
not  be  man  without  it.  Without  it  he 
could  not  live  with  his  fellows,  but  as 
a  beast  lives.  Let  any  man  say  that 
wrong  is  better  than  right,  hate  than 
love,  falsehood  than  truth  ;  and  you 
would  not  marry  with  him,  you  would  not 
trade  with  him,  you  would  not  have  him 
sit  upon  a  jury  ;  he  would  be  cut  off  and 
cast  out  from  the  race. 

What  is  this  sense  of  right,  then,  I 
still  say,  this  sense  of  righteousness, 
that  exists  in  the' human  soul .''  What 
has  made  it  ?  What  has  made  it  to  be 
in  us  ?  Is  it  the  human  will.''  It  exists 
in  spite  of  the  human  will.  Let  all  men 
unite  and  combine  to  put  it  down.  They 
cannot  do  it.  They  can  no  more  destroy 
it  than  they  can  destroy  any  power  or 
law  of  nature.  If.  therefore,  no  material 
force  can  have  given  birth  to  it,  and 
no  human  will  can  have  done  it;  if  it 
stands  as  an  everlasting  fact  in  the  very 
constitution  of  things  ;  then  it  must  be 


£/0' 


^'\ 


670 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


something  behind  all:  then  it  must  be 
the  all-originating  Cause  :  then  it  must 
be  an  Infinite  Righteousness.  And  an 
infinite  righteousness,  —  what  is  that? 
It  is  God  !  And  of  all  contradictions  in 
idea,  I  know  of  none  greater  than  this, 
—  to  suppose  this  grand  moral  law  of 
the  universe,  this  intense  moral  senti- 
ment, this  stupendous  meaning,  to  be 
everywhere,  without  any  one  to  originate 
or  mean  it ;  to  suppose  this  sublime 
order  and  authority  to  pervade  all  things, 
and  none  to  create  or  ordain  it. 

But  now  I  ask  a  further  question. 
Can  there  be  righteousness  without 
beneficence  ?  An  eminent  writer  speaks 
with  reiterating  confidence  "  of  that  in 
the  universe  which  makes  for  righteous- 
ness." It  is  his  shibboleth.  "A  Power,"' 
he  says,  "  which  makes  for  righteous- 
ness ;  "  he  is  sure  of  that.  But  why 
does  he  not  say  also  —  a  Power  that 
makes  for  beneficence  ?  Not  to  dwell 
upon  the  million-fold  evidence  of  its 
beneficence,  can  there,  I  ask,  be  right- 
eousness without  it  ?  Can  we  conceive 
of  a  Being  or  Power,  as  the  all-origi- 
nating, all-governing  Righteousness,  un- 
less it  be  good,  unless  it  wishes  well  to  all 
things,  to  all  creatures  ?  It  is  impossible. 
Then  the  way  is  open  for  a  profound 
piety,  for  unspeakable  gratitude  and 
love.  However  incomprehensible  is  that 
Infinitude  of  being,  if  in  the  centre  of 
all  is  an  infinite  love,  we  may  render  to 
it  the  homage  of  our  whole  soul,  and 
say,  "  Let  all  within  us  praise  it."  VVe 
may  be  swallowed  up  in  it  as  the  bless- 
ing, the  beatitude,  the  joy  of  our  lives. 
For  is  it  not  the  sublimest  joy,  to  know 
that  we  have  our  being  in  a  glorious 
system  of  things  which  rests  upon  this 
everlasting  foundation,  —  righteousness, 
and  an  all-loving  righteousness  ?  Mr. 
Tyndall,  in  common  with  some  of  the 
ancient  sages,  shrinks  from  all  words  as 
applicable  to  it ;  he  will  not  even  call 
it ''a  cause."  But  can  he  or  anybody 
else  doubt  that  there  is  manifested,  in 
this  universe,  a  preference  of  good  to 
evil?  Let  this  good  be  happiness,  or 
let  it  be  moral  good  ;  is  not  a  preference 


of  it  the  manifestation  of  an  all-lovinff 
righteousness  .•' 

Why,  my  friends,  do  I  labor  to  estab- 
lish this  primal  truth  of  all  religion  ?  It 
is  because  it  is  the  consecration  of  the 
universe.  It  is  not  because  a  belief  in 
it  is  necessary  to  salvation.  It  is  not 
because  creeds  declare  and  pulpits 
preach  it.  It  is  not  alone  because  all 
human  interests,  all  order  and  welfare, 
rise  or  fall  with  it.  But  it  is  because  of 
its  own  transcendent  glory  and  beauty  ; 
because  to  extinguish  it  would  be  to  put 
out  the  light  of  life,  to  darken  the  sun 
in  the  heavens,  to  disrobe  all  nature  of 
its  charm  and  loveliness.  Without  it, 
life  would  lose  its  sanctity,  and  the  mind 
its  centre :  all  its  loftiest  tendencies 
would  be  disowned,  all  its  highest  as- 
pirations crushed  down  ;  an  orphanage 
would  come  upon  the  world,  more  deso 
late  than  if  all  earthly  parents  were  cut 
down  at  a  blow,  —  orphanage  that  would 
cut  us  off  from  the  Father  in  heaven. 
It  would  be  treason  against  the  imperial 
grandeur  of  the  universe.  All  the  won- 
ders of  power  and  wisdom  and  benefi 
cence  that  fill  and- crowd  all  existence, 
from  the  minutest  point  on  earth  to  the 
majestic  stars  on  high,  demand  and  en- 
force this  religious  homage,  —  the  great- 
est that  man  can  render,  and  itself  his 
own  greatness;  and  a  homage  which  all 
greatest  souls  must  desire  to  render. 

And  therefore  it  is  that  some  men, 
who  have  been  called  Atheists,  were  not 
altogether  such.  Spinoza  was  not,  and 
Auguste  Comte  was  not,  and  Strauss  was 
not  altogether  such.  They  felt  that  there 
was  something  behind  all,  the  Cause  of 
all,  that  was  to  be  adored  and  worsh  ipped. 
They  thought  that  it  could  not  be  for- 
mulated in  any  human  speech  or  idea  ; 
that  was  the  amount  of  their  denial. 
But  they  all  felt,  I  think,  —  how  could 
they  help  it?-— that  there  was  some- 
thing, a  divine  glory,  shining  through 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  througii 
the  human  soul,  behind  and  above  the 
things  thetnselves. 

I  have  endeavored  in  this  discourse 
to  show  you  that.     The  celebrated  chem- 


REASONABLENESS   AND   GREATNESS   OF   DEVOTION. 


671 


<st,  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  said,  "  The 
greatest  blessing  that  I  know  or  crave 
in  life  is  a  firm  religious  faith."  1  think 
I  have  shown  you  the  ground  for  that. 
It  is  impregnable;  it  is  undeniable.  I 
have  known  men,  who  said  that  they 
were  .Atheists  ;  but  I  have  never  seen  the 
man  who  believed  in  an  infinite  malig- 
nitj-,  or  who  denied  that  rectitude  is  the 
law  of  all  men,  of  all  societies,  of  the 
universe  of  men  and  things.  Upon  that 
foundation  I  stand  in  this  discourse.  Do 
not  call  it  a  heathen  discoursing,  though 
it  goes  behind  Christianity.  I  believe 
in  Christianity.  I  accept,  I  welcome, 
that  great  teaching.  But  in  an  age  of 
doubts  and  speculations  I  deem  that 
it  is  good  to  see  that  there  is  a  divine, 
a  deep-founded,  an  everlasting  trtith  of 
thiiii^s,  on  which  all  religions  repose. 
That  which  is  right,  and  in  being  right 
is  good,  by  all  men's  admission  and  by 
all  nature's  testimony,  is  the  eternal  and 
all-holy  bond.  It  is  the  moral  gravita- 
tion of  the  world.  It  is  the  solidarity 
of  the  universe.  It  is  the  manifested 
will  and  wisdom  and  goodness  of  God. 
"  Now  unto  Him,  the  eternal,  immortal, 
invisible,  the  only  wise  God,  be  honor 
and  glory  for  ever  and  ever  :  amen." 


III. 


ON  THE  REASONABLENESS  AND 
GREATNESS  OF  DEVOTION. 

PsAi.M  Ixxiii.  25,  26  :  "  Whom  have  I  in  heaven 
but  Thee  ?  and  there  is  none  upon  earth  that  I  desire 
besides  Thee.  My  flesh  and  my  heart  faileth  :  but 
God  is  the  strength  ot  my  heart,  and  my  portion  for- 
ever " 

What  wonderful  language  is  this, 
to  burst  out  from  the  darkness  of  an- 
tiquity, from  the  depth  of  dark  and 
idolatrous  ages  !  Dismiss  all  reverence 
for  David  as  an  inspired  person,  and 
come  to  the  matter  as  a  mere  philoso- 
pher, and  what  a  phenomenon  is  pre- 
sented to  you  !  A  soul,  not  merely  rev- 
erent and  awe-struck  at  the  thought  of 
God,  like  that  of  Zoroaster  or  Confucius, 
not  alone  philosophically  and  calmly  con- 
templating the   Divinity,   like   Socrates 


or  Cicero,  but  penetrated  through  and 
through  with  affection  as  well  as  ven- 
eration; absorbed  into  the  love  of  this 
Infinite  Being;  finding  its  deepest  satis- 
factions and  resources  in  Him  ;  com- 
muning, pleading  with  Him  as  if  His 
favor  and  presence  were  the  only  light 
and  joy  of  life  ;  saying,  "  Whom  have  I 
in  heaven  but  Thee?  and  there  is  none 
upon  earth  that  I  desire  besides  Thee," 
—  this,  I  say,  is  a  phenomenon  in  human 
experience  with  which  there  is  nothing 
that  I  know  in  heathen  antiquity  to  bear 
any  comparison. 

To  exhibit  fully  this  phenomenon,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  present  a  pic- 
ture of  ancient  heathen  devotion,  and 
in  contrast  with  it  to  quote  large  por- 
tions of  the  entire  Psalms.  The  poems 
of  Homer,  for  instance,  are  nearly  con- 
temporaneous with  the  Psalms  of  David. 
Those  poems  are  full  of  prayers  and 
appeals  to  the  Deity ;  and  nothing,  cer- 
tainly, can  be  more  remarkable  than  the 
contrast  between  them  and  the  devo- 
tions of  the  king  of  Israel.  The  fer- 
vor and  tenderness  of  the  latter  seem 
like  —  what  they  are  —  the  breathings 
of  a  soul  divinely  touched  and  taught ; 
and  the  contrast  is  the  more  remark- 
able because  the  Homeric  prayers  are 
addressed  to  a  Deity  full  of  human 
passions  and  weaknesses,  —  whom,  on 
that  account,  it  might  be  thought  that 
man  could  more  easily  approach.  Yet 
how  cold,  stately,  formal,  and  distant 
they  are!  —  merely  asking  aid  in  war 
or  in  policy,  never  throughout  betray- 
ing for  once  the  remotest  approach  to 
David's  feeling  of  absorbing  interest  in 
the  Supreme  Being,  of  his  delight  in  the 
contemplation  of  God,  of  the  concen- 
tration of  all  his  powers  in  that  joy  and 
worship. 

"O  Jove,"  —  thus  runs  the  transla- 
tion of  one  of  the  sublimest  of  the 
Homeric  prayers,  — 

"  O  Jove,  most  great  and  glorious  !  who  dost  nile 
The  tempest,  —  dweller  of  the  ethereal  space  ! 
Let  not  the  sim  go  down,  and  night  come  on. 
Ere  I  shall  lay  the  halls  of  Priam  waste. 
With  fire,  and  give  their  portals  to  the  flames." 


6/2 


THE    TWO    GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


It  is  a  prayer,  you  perceive,  against 
enemies.  Hardly  to  be  found,  I  think, 
in  Grecian  or  Roman  antiquity  is  a 
prayer  of  anyone  for  his  own  soul, — 
for  his  spiritual  well-being ;  and  noth- 
ing approaching  to  the  feeling  that 
treasures  up  its  happiness  in  God. 

In  the  Zend-Avesta,  the  words  of  the 
old  Persian  religion,  is  a  prayer  which 
has  something  of  the  former  character, 
but  how  little  has  it  of  the  fervor  of 
David's  prayer  !  "  O  you  benign  Mas- 
ters," it  says,  "  who  reserve  for  men 
the  reward  they  merit,  remunerate  pub- 
licly the  suppliant  who  invokes  you. 
May  I  be  pure  in  this  world  and  happy 
in  the  next  ;  and  may  the  soul  of  Zoro- 
aster, the  pure  genius,  those  of  all  the 
servants  of  Ormuzd,  —  i.  e.,  of  the  good 
l^rinciple,  —  of  all  the  initiated,  of  all 
the  laborers,  of  all  the  artisans  of  the 
world,  come  to  meet  me  in  the  highest 
heaven,  the  seat  of  happiness.  May 
the  accursed  source  of  sin  and  evil  be 
banished  forever !  May  the  world  be 
pure,  the  heavens  excellent,  and  finally 
may  purity  and  holiness  prevail  !  " 

Scarcely  anything  can  be  more  beau- 
tiful, nothing  that  I  know  in  heathen 
antiquity  is  so  beautiful,  as  the  prayer 
of  the  Persian  poet  Saadi,  —  "O  God, 
have  mercy  upon  the  wicked  ;  for  thou 
hast  done  everything  for  the  good  in 
having  made  them  good." 

But  turn  now  from  all  this,  excellent 
as  it  is,  after  its  inanner,  to  the  lan- 
guage of  David  :  "  O  God,  Thou  art 
my  God ;  early  will  I  seek  Thee  :  my 
soul  thirsteth  for  Thee  ;  my  flesh  long- 
eth  for  Thee,  in  a  dry  and  thirsty  land 
where  no  water  is ;  to  see  Thy  power 
and  Thy  glory  so  as  I  have  seen  Thee 
in  the  sanctuary.  Because  Thy  loving- 
kindness  is  better  than  life,  my  lips 
shall  praise  Thee.  Thus  will  I  bless 
Thee  while  I  live ;  I  will  lift  up  my 
hands  in  Thy  name."  Again,  what  a 
touching  entreaty  was  that  of  David  ! 
"  Hear  my  prayer,  O  Lord,  and  let  my 
cry  come  before  Thee.  Hide  not  Thy 
face  from  me,  in  the  day  when  I  am 
in  trouble."     "  Bow  down  thine  ear,  O 


Lord,  hear  me  ;  for  I  am  poor  and 
needy.  Preserve  my  soul,  for  I  am 
holy,"  i.  e.,  consecrate  to  Thee  ;  "  O 
Thou  my  God,  save  Thy  servant  that 
trusteth  in  Thee.  Be  merciful  unto 
me,  O  Lord,  for  1  cry  unto  Thee  daily. 
Rejoice  the  soul  of  Thy  servant  :  for 
unto  Thee  do  I  lift  up  my  soul." 

But  this  feeling,  let  us  now  observe, 
is  not  peculiar  to  David.  His  language 
is  adopted  as  the  nearest  to  the  heart, 

—  the  more  than  native  language  of  a 
multitude  of  Christian  souls.  It  is  the 
language  of  to-day ;  it  never  wears  out ; 
it  is  fresh  forever  ;  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
only  language  of  antiquity  that  breathes 
in  the  deepest  heart  of  the  modern 
world.  You  are  aware  that  in  the  dia- 
ries of  many  religious  persons,  in  the 
secret  records  of  their  experience,  and 
also  in  the  teachings  of  the  pulpit  and 
in  the  public  utterances  of  prayer,  this 
sense  is  often  expressed,  not  merely  of 
the  supremacy,  the  majesty  of  God,  but 
of  the  soul's  supreme  interest  in  Him, 

—  this  sense  of  nearness  to  Him,  —  of 
His  felt  presence,  and  of  being- swal- 
lowed up  in  Him,  as  the  highest  satis- 
faction and  sufficiency.  I  am  afraid  lest 
I  express  myself  irreverently ;  but  I  sup- 
pose that  no  language,  however  strong, 
can  adequately  express  the  mind's  de- 
sire of  knowing  and  communing  with 
the  Infinite  Being,  —  and  this,  not  be- 
cause of  any  mystical  peculiarity  of  the 
affection,  but  because  of  the  Infinite 
Glory  and  Beauty  which  it  contemplates. 
It  was  with  this  feeling  —  not  to  escape 
evil  and  perdition  —  that  David  said, 
"My  soul  thirsteth  for  God,  for  the 
living  God;  when  shall  I  come  and  ap- 
pear before  God  ? " 

Now  there  is  a  question  upon  whicli 
I  would  respectfully  turn  the  attention 
of  those  who  hear  me,  and  that  is  upon 
their  own  view  of  this  highest  piety, — 
this  highest  aspiration  after  the  love  and 
the  life  of  God  in  the  soul.  I  would  fain 
know,  I  would  fain  have  it  considered 
with  ourselves,  what  is  the  thought  we 
entertain  of  this  particular  part  of  the 
experience  of  religious  and  devout  men. 


REASONABLENESS  AND  GREATNESS  OF  DEVOTION. 


^7Z 


What  tliink  we  in  this  respect  of  David 
and  Isaiah,  of  Paul  and  John,  and  of  the 
Christ  himself  ?  What  think  we  of  Fdne- 
lon  and  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Baxter  and 
Brainerd,  and  of  holy  men  among  our- 
selves, who  have  died  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity,  the  very  tones  of  whose  touch- 
ing prayers  yet  linger  in  our  ears  ?  I 
know  that  there  are  those  who  feel  all 
this,  or  who  at  least  sympathize  with 
it,  —  with  nothing  in  the  world  so  much. 
But  then,  there  is  another  class,  I  can- 
not be  mistaken  in  supposing,  who  look 
upon  all  tliis  with  a  distant  and  almost 
repelling  awe.  It  is  something  very 
holy,  they  suppose.  They  do  not  ven- 
ture to  call  .it  in  question  ;  they  sup- 
pose it  is  very  proper  for  certain  per- 
sons,—  they  admire  it  in  the  clergy  and 
in  saints  and  devotees,  —  but  for  them- 
selves, they  know  nothing  of  it.  They 
would  be  shocked  if  they  found  them- 
selves privately  adopting  as  their  own 
the  devout  language  of  David  —  or  of 
Brainerd  ;  this  kind  of  experience  is 
out  of  their  reach,  out  of  their  sphere. 
I  say  they  commend  it  in  the  clergy  ; 
but  are  there  not  those  who,  in  fact, 
regard  it  as  something  professional,  as 
something  unnatural  and  irrational,  as  a 
kind  of  pious  ecstasy  or  hallucination, 
as  a  certain  exalted  state  into  which 
some  men  work  themselves  up,  or  into 
which  their  feelings  flow  periodically, 
but  not  in  which  they  live  healthily  and 
habitually  ?  Perhaps  there  are  some 
persons  who  go  yet  farther,  and  say, 
"  What  so  much  need  is  there  of  these 
great  and  all-absorbing  thoughts  of 
God  ?  What  so  much  need  of  recog- 
nizing His  presence  and  communing 
with  His  perfection  ?  "  Perhaps  it  is  a 
pantheistic  tendency  ;  perhaps  it  is  the 
tendency  of  a  mind  from  which,  through 
worldliness  or  through  reaction  against 
superstition  or  sanctimony,  the  religious 
sentiment  has  died  out.  "  What  need," 
it  says,  "of  devotion  ?  I  have  all  that  I 
want  without  it.  For  my  sensitive  na- 
ture, here  is  a  world  of  bounty  ;  and  for 
my  aesthetic  nature,  my  taste,  here  is  a 
world  of  beauty ;  for  my  intellect,  sci- 


ence and  philosophy  ;  for  my  heart,  there 
are  beings  around  me  to  love.  What 
need  of  more  ?  I  could  go  on  forever 
so,  were  it  permitted  to  me.  1  could  go 
on  forever  so,  contented,  satisfied,  with- 
out worship,  without  ever  lifting  my 
thoughts  above,  without  any  need  ideal- 
ly of  God,  without  any  need  to  me  that 
there  be  a  God."  In  short,  a  man  may 
say,  "  I  understand  about  being  good ; 
I  grant  the  necessity  and  reasonable- 
ness of  that ;  but  as  to  religion,  piety, 
prayer,  I  do  not  know,  —  that  is  another 
thing." 

So  much,  indeed,  is  devotion  another 
thing;  so  little  does  it  stand  in  its  own 
right ;  so  little  is  its  natural  and  noble 
claim  felt,  that  I  much  fear  it  would  sink 
to  a  lower  place  than  it  now  holds  with 
many,  if  it  were  not  for  the  idea  that 
tlie  recognition  of  God  is  necessary  to 
save  them  from  perdition.  Dread  per- 
version !  by  which  the  idea  of  God,  in- 
stead of  filling  the  universe  with  light 
and  glory  and  joy, is  but  a  scourge  to 
drive  men  to  prayer  or  a  screen  to  shield 
them  from  destruction  !  How  many,  re- 
pelled by  such  superstitious  impressions, 
are  living  without  God  in  the  world  ! 
The  very  idea  they  have  of  the  Infinite 
Life  brings  death  into  their  soul ! 

Against  this  I  would  now  enter  my 
earnest  protest.  I  would  labor  to  sub- 
stitute the  rational  for  the  superstitious 
view  of  religion.  In  other  words,  I 
would  endeavor  to  vindicate  the  simple 
piety  of  David  and  of  all  the  communion 
of  saints  ;  to  show  that  it  is  founded  in 
the  deepest  nature  of  the  soul,  in  the 
deepest  reason  of  things,  and  is  justly 
productive  of  the  most  rational  as  well 
as  unspeakable  comfort  and  joy. 

The  point  we  are  to  consider,  let  me 
observe,  is  material ;  it  is  radical ;  it 
lies  at  the  foundation  ;  all  our  worship, 
prayer,  preaching,  holds  to  this,  or  to 
nothing.  It  is  the  point  of  departure 
and  the  point  of  return  for  everything 
in  our  religious  institution.  If  deep, 
affectionate  devotion  be  not  rational,  if 
pantheistic  dreaming,  if  a  distant,  mere 
awe-struck  superstition  can  rightly  oc- 


674 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


cupy  its  place,  I  must  take  my  leave  of 
all  religious  communion,  of  all  churches, 
this  day.  Some  kind  of  moral  lecture- 
ship might  remain  here,  —  no  more. 
That  which  is  indeed  infinite,  the  Infi- 
nite Glory,  Beauty,  Life,  must  be  infi- 
nite to  me,  or  nothing.  There  is  no 
middle  ground,  though  upon  such  mul- 
titudes attempt  to  stand.  "  Whom  have 
I  in  heaven  but  Thee?"  says  the  enrap- 
tured Psalmist,  "and  there  is  none 
upon  earth  that  I  desire  beside  Thee." 
Is  this  profoundest  truth,  though  it  pre- 
sents but  one  side  of  the  deepest  truth, 
—  tor  humanity,  too,  is  to  have  its  place 
in  our  regards,  —  is  the  Psalmist  rational 
as  well  as  enraptured  ?  Let  me  attempt 
to  answer. 

First,  then,  in  my  deepest  nature,  in 
the  very  nature  of  my  soul,  there  is  a 
necessity  —  bond,  strong  as  my  life, 
strong  as  my  being  —  that  connects  me 
with  Him  who  made  me.  I  hardly 
know  how  to  express  this  feeling.  It 
seems  to  me  like  a  revelation  ;  and  yet 
I  believe  that  it  is  a  part  of  human 
nature.  And  I  am  not  now  considering 
the  proof  of  the  being  of  a  God,  but  only 
tiie  necessity  of  His  being  to  my  m.ind. 
The  thought  of  Him  is  counterpart  to 
every  thought  I  have.  Everything  in 
me  bears  reference  to  him:  mind  in  me, 
to  an  Infinite  Mind  ;  power  in  me,  to  a 
Power  without  me  ;  conscience  in  me, 
to  a  Conscience  all  around  me.  The 
silent  air,  the  solemn  infinitude  of  space, 
the  boundless  heavens,  seem  to  me  full 
of  that,  —  that  Infinite  Presence.  Like 
gravitation  in  the  material  world,  so  is 
the  thought  of  God  in  the  universe  of 
mind.  It  is  supposed  ;  it  is  implied  ; 
it  is  the  inevitable  basis  and  bond  of 
everything.  That  centre  in  the  circle  of 
thought  gone,  and  everything  is  gone. 
That  bond  broken,  and  all  things  rush 
into  disorder,  into  chaos.  If  a  man 
says  that  he  does  not  feel  this,  I  an- 
swer, neither  does  he  consciously  feel 
many  things  that  are  true.  There  are 
many  that  never  heard  of  first  truths,  of 
intuitive  truths,  and  that  have  no  dis- 
tinct consciousness  of   them  ;    and   yet 


thinking  men  know  that,  for  all  minds, 
there  are  such  truths.  And  so  the  think- 
ing, the  fully  developed,  man  knows  that 
the  thought  of  God  is  inwrought,  by  a 
thousand  penetrating  ties,  into  the  very 
frame  and  foundation  of  his  being.  It 
were  as  easy  to  deny  the  social  ten- 
dency in  man  as  to  deny  this  religious 
tendency.  Place  a  man  in  a  situation 
that  ministered  everything  possible  to 
his  solitary  pleasure,  in  the  most  splen- 
did palace,  in  the  fairest  garden,  and  let 
him  dwell  there  alone;  and  in  sadness 
and  misery  he  would  sigh  for  compan- 
ionship. Nothing  but  the  extinction  of 
his  social  nature,  nothing  but  social  in- 
sanity, could  save  him  from  this  misery. 
And  so  if  you  place  a  man,  a  large- 
thinking  and  fully  developed  man,  in 
this  glorious  universe,  and  blot  out  for 
him  the  thought  of  God,  and  he  would 
be  miserable  ;  there  would  be  an  awful 
chasm  without  him  which  nothing  could 
fill;  a  preying  want  within  him  which 
nothing  could  appease.  Nothing  but 
spiritual  death  or  spiritual  insanity  could 
save  him  from  a  feeling  of  orphanage 
more  gloomy  than'  the  loss  of  parents, 
of  all  friends,  of  all  the  world  be- 
side. 

In  the  next  place,  look  at  the  nature 
of  things.  And  is  there  not  a  nature 
of  things,  —  something  beside  the  things 
themselves  ?  If  the  universe  were  an 
infinite  mass  or  congeries  of  mere  ob- 
jects, without  any  thought  or  soul  dwell- 
ing in  them  and  shining  through  them, 
it  could  possess  no  interest  for  us;  for 
us,  i.  e.,  as  reasonable  beings.  Food 
for  the  appetite  there  might  be,  and 
color  and  form  for  the  eye,  and  sound 
for  the  ear,  and  relish  for  the  palate. 
These  things  in  nature  meet,  doubtless, 
and  gratify  certain  sensitive  needs.  But 
for  the  mind  that  thinks,  for  the  moral, 
soul  that  feels,  there  must  be  something 
more  in  nature  than  food  and  form  and 
sound.  There  is  a  tneaning,  an  inform- 
ing soul,  an  all-pervading  wisdom,  an 
interpenetrating  love,  without  which 
philosophy  itself  would  be  barren,  and 
faith  de.id,  and  communion  with  nature 


REASONABLENESS  AND  GREATNESS  OF  DEVOTION. 


6/5 


a  senseless  phrase,  and  the  universe, 
with  ail  its  visible  glories,  a  dreary 
blank.  And  if  I  were  contending  here 
for  tlie  being  of  a  God,  I  might  say  that 
this  clearly  adapted,  this  spiritually  re- 
ceptive faculty  of  the  soul  is  itself  a 
Dowerful  argument.  When  you  examine 
the  structure  of  the  eye,  you  say,  without 
doubt,  this  is  an  organ  for  light :  the  tele- 
scope is  not  more  evidently  made  for 
light  than  is  the  eye.  If  all  were  brood- 
ing darkness  yet,  —  and  while  in  fact  all 
is  brooding  darkness  to  the  unborn, — 
still  you  say  this  organ  was  made  for 
light :  light  is  to  come  ;  somewhere 
there  is  light.  Not  less  clearly  is  the 
soul,  in  its  essential  structure,  an  or- 
ganization adapted  to  spiritual  light,  to 
moral  beauty,  to  the  contemplation  of 
the  Divinity.  A  teacher  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb  once  told  me  that  he  always  found 
that  faculty,  that  adaptation  of  the  soul, 
ready  to  receive  and  welcome  the  idea 
of  God  when  first  communicated.  The 
soul  may  be  very  blind  yet;  its  powers 
may  yet  be  but  slightly  developed  ;  but 
somewhere  there  must  be  a  spiritual 
glory  for  it  to  behold. 

And,  indeed,  our  argument  for  its 
action^  \.  e.,  for  devotion,  springs  natu- 
rally from  this  consideration  of  its 
structure.  The  argument,  too,  is  as 
clear  as  that  from  our  social  nature  to 
social  affection.  And  we  must  remem- 
ber, to  make  the  parallel  complete,  that 
man,  the  essential  man,  man  in  his 
essence,  is,  amidst  all  the  crowded  life 
around  us,  as  invisible  as  God.  Now, 
if  we  regarded  men  as  mere  facts,  mere 
forms  ;  if  we  recognized  no  soul  in 
ihem,  and  felt  no  soul  in  ourselves  flow- 
ing out  to  them,  society  would  be  mere 
mechanism.  Social  affection,  social 
communing  it  is,  that  spreads  over 
human  intercourse  its  inexpressible 
charm.  And  so  if  the  forms  of  nature 
were  mere  forms  or  mere  mechanical 
combinations  ;  if  there  were  no  soul  in 
them,  and  no  soul  in  us  flowing  out  to 
it,  the  universe  would  be  disrobed  of  all 
its  charm ;  the  world  would  not  be  a 
home  ;    and  without  Father,  Guardian, 


or   Guide,    we  should    wander  through 
the  earth  as  outcasts  and  orphans. 

But  let  us  commune  with  God  in 
nature  ;  let  the  mountain  heights  be 
altars  of  prayer,  and  the  ocean  waves 
murmur  hymns  of  thanksgiving  ;  let 
the  glory  of  setting  suns  be  the  shrine 
of  devotion,  and  the  silent  invisible  air 
the  breathing  of  God's  presence,  and 
the  boundless  light,  the  shining  out 
of  the  infinite  love  and  beauty  ;  and 
then  no  language  can  tell  the  blessing 
and  joy  of  that  beatific  vision.  A 
thousand  worlds  coined  into  gold  and 
cast  at  our  feet  would  be  as  mere  peb- 
bles upon  the  seashore  compared  with 
that  vision.  What  is  matter  to  me, 
but  for  that  which  it  manifests  ?  Dead, 
inert,  useless,  till  I  see  in  it  the  Life 
divine.  That  seen,  an  infinite  treasure 
is  found,  a  boundless  joy  felt,  but 
never  before.  What  is  matter,  I  re- 
peat, but  for  its  uses  ?  Why,  even  the 
voluptuary  says,  the  cup  is  nothing,  but 
for  the  relish  of  it.  But  there  are 
higher  souls,  that  drink  a  richer 
draught  from  the  cup  of  nature,  — 
brimming  to  its  golden  rim  of  the  hori- 
zon round,  with  God's  bounty  and 
loveliness.  Is  it  not  for  this  chiefly 
that  nature  is  to  be  valued  .^  What 
deep  things,  indeed,  are  there  in  nature  ! 
What  depths  yet  unfathomed  of  wi^lom 
and  love  and  beauty !  What  deep 
things  are  there  in  our  souls,  too  ; 
things  of  wonder  and  mystery,  of  "pas- 
sion and  glory  "  and  sorrow  and  aspira- 
tion !  What  depths  does  music  open 
within  us, — realms  through  which  no 
criticism  has  ever  yet  travelled  !  What 
deep  chords  in  us  are  struck  by 
the  wonder-inspiring  tones  of  poetry 
and  uttered  human  speech,  sounding 
through  lower  deeps  that  never  yet 
found  tongue  or  pen  to  utter  them  ! 
These  all  point  to  the  infinite,  ineffable, 
all-encompassing  grandeur  and  loveli- 
ness. Out  of  these  depths  does  the 
soul  "  cry  out  for  God,  for  the  living 
God."  I  have  seen  that  passion  in 
great  souls  ;  and  sometimes  thought 
they  pressed  too  far,  or  rather,  I  should 


6/6 


THE  TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


say,  with  unwise  assumption,  as  to  what 
they  can  reach  ;  but  it  is  the  grandest 
passion  of  humanity  ;  and  its  satisfaction 
the  grandest  that  humanity  can  know. 

In  the  third  place,  and  finally,  —  not 
only  is  a  humble  and  devout  commun- 
ion with  God  the  soul's  instinctive  and 
primal  need,  and  nature's  grandest  min- 
istration, but  it  is  to  the  heart  a  comfort 
and  reliance  indispensable.  "  My  flesh 
and  my  heart  faileth,"  says  the  Psalm- 
ist ;  "  but  God  is  the  strength  of  my 
heart,  and  my  portion  forever." 

Comfort  is  a  word  sufficiently  utili- 
tarian ;  all  men  would  find  comfort. 
But  can  the  softest  clothing,  the  most 
luxurious  ministration  to  the  appetites, 
the  warm  fireside  and  the  folding  cur- 
tains and  cushions  of  ease  and  luxury, 
minister  all  that  we  want  of  comfort.'' 
In  the  business  and  hurry  of  life  the 
mind  is  indeed  occupied,  but  not  com- 
forted :  far  otherwise,  as  you  well  know  ; 
vexed  and  wearied  rather.  But  when 
the  day's  care  is  ended  and  the  mind 
sinks  to  repose,  when  the  solitary  and 
silent  hour  cometh,  in  that  silence  and 
solitude  of  thought,  does  not  the  mind 
feel  the  need  of  a  resource  beyond  all 
that  business  and  success  and  fortune 
and  worldly  .splendor  can  impart  ?  And 
can  society  or  family  or  friends  fill  the 
mind's  thought,  need,  or  desire?  It  is 
a  question  of  experience.  If  there  be 
those  who  can  say  that  the  social  min- 
istration is  enough,  with  them  my  argu- 
ment, or  this  part  of  it  at  least,  fails. 
But  who  can  say  it  ?  Whose  mind 
does  not  soar  above  all  things  finite, 
for  its  rest  and  sufficiency  .''  Whose 
thought  does  not  penetrate  where  the 
outstretched  arms  of  human  friendship 
cannot  follow  nor  support  it,  —  into  the 
realm  of  death,  into  the  regions  of 
immortality;  into  depths  of  need,  into 
heights  of  aspiration,  which  only  infi- 
nite goodness  can  fill  ? 

Nor  is  it  in  solitude  alone  that  this 
is  felt  ;  but  yet  more,  if  possible,  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  earthly  joy  and  glory. 
When  I  stand  upon  the  top  of  the 
world,  then  it  is  that  I  look  beyond,  — 


to  God  and  to  eternity.  And  when 
touched  with  all  the  ministering  powers 
of  this  universe  to  me ;  when  the 
trances  of  vision  and  sound  steal  over 
me  ;  and  the  breath  and  fragrance  of 
summer  fields,  and  the  soundless  ocean 
of  light  and  beauty  above,  bathe  me  in 
their  mysterious  life  ;  and  I  hope  and 
long,  in  such  "  high  hour,"  that  this 
universe  shall  yet,  as  a  divinely  attuned 
instrument,  become  harmonized  to  my 
being  and  sing  eternal  anthems  in  mine 
ears,  —  in  what  can  my  hope  seek  ful- 
filment and  fruition  but  in  God?  He 
to  whom  that  high  path  of  thought  is 
opened  must  desire  to  pursue  it  for- 
ever ;  and  when  he  sees  the  dark 
barrier  of  the  grave  before  him,  what 
joy  is  it  for  him  to  be  enabled  to  say. 
"  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death.  Thy  rod  and  Thy 
staff,  they  shall  comfort  me." 

"  My  flesh  and  my  heart  faileth," 
says  the  Psalmist :  and  they  often  do 
fail,  even  in  these  high  meditations. 
But  they  fail  too,  and  that  utterly, 
beneath  many  a  crushing  blow  that 
falls  upon  us  in  this  world.  And  under 
such  infliction  the  sinking  heart  cries 
out  for  help  divine,  for  help  beyond  all 
mortal  help,  as  naturally  as  the  frail, 
suffering  infant  cries  out  for  its  mother's 
arm.  I  speak  not  of  lighter  griefs  now, 
which  may  be  smothered  in  worldly 
engagements  or  pleasures  ;  the  deep 
and  desolate  sorrow  of  bereavement  is 
another  thing  ;  and  it  feels  that  nothing 
but  God,  nothing  but  a  power  beyond 
itself  and  beyond  the  world,  can  help  it. 
K  faith,  ?L  faith  in  God,  is  the  one  only 
thing  that  it  wants  and  seeks  and  prays 
for  tJieii.  And  when  that  faith  comes  ; 
when  the  heart  that  God  had  suffered 
to  be  broken  that  it  may  open  to  receive 
the  infinite  treasure,  —  when  that  heart 
says,  "  It  is  my  Father's  hand  ;  not  evil 
but  good  does  it  intend  for  me  ;  I  am 
surrounded  and  embosomed  in  infinite 
love  :  "  that  is  a  revelation,  that  is  a 
support  and  comfort,  compared  with 
which  all  the  treasures  of  the  world  are 
as  nothing;. 


REASONABLENESS  AND  GREATNESS  OF  DEVOTION. 


6tj 


I  have  thus  attempted,  feebly  I  know, 
to  vindicate  the  reasonableness  and 
o-randeur  of  devotion  ;  to  set  forth  this 
o-reat,  inspired  idea  of  the  knowledge 
and  love  of  God  as  entitled  to  the  most 
rational  confidence  and  acceptance. 
Ikit  alas  !  this  is  not  the  ordinary  expe- 
rience ;  rather  do  we  hear,  on  every 
hand,  complaints  of  coldness  and  dead- 
ness  in  this  particular  relation.  This 
fact  justifies,  I  conceive,  the  frequency 
with  which,  in  our  discourses  from  the 
pulpit,  we  return  to  the  theme  on  which  I 
have  now  been  meditating,  — the  knowl- 
edge and  love  of  God.  To  my  thought 
this  is  no  arbitrary  condition  of  salva- 
tion, but  the  natural  and  necessary  law 
of  our  highest  welfare.  Just  as  1  should 
say, — without  refinement,  without  a 
cultivated  mind  and  taste,  without,  at 
least,  an  admiration  and  enthusiasm 
for  the  high,  heroical,  and  beautiful  in 
character,  you  cannot  attain  to  an  ele- 
vated happiness  ;  so,  and  only  far  more, 
should  I  say,  — without  the  love  of  God, 
you  cannot  reach  the  height  of  joy,  of 
beatitude,  for  which  your  nature  was 
made.  Just  as  I  should  lament  over 
one  who  had  no  feeling  for  music,  for 
art,  for  the  beauty  of  nature  or  for  the 
beauty  of  human  genius  or  virtue  ;  so, 
and  only  the  more,  must  I  lament  over 
him  who  has  no  feeling  for  the  divine 
majesty  and  loveliness  that  shine  through 
all  the  beauty  of  nature  and  humanity, 
and  through  all  supernal  natures  and  all 
the  glory  of  the  heavenly  worlds.  Is  he 
to  be  pitied  who  never  gazes  with  emo- 
tion upon  a  glorious  sunset  ;  whose 
plodding  eye,  ever  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  never  sees  it  ?  And  what  then 
shall  we  think  of  him  who  never  sees 
and  never  adores  the  Glory  that  is 
enshrined  in  the  tabernacle  of  parting 
day,  in  the  splendors  of  morning  and 
in  the  awful  depths  of  the  noontide 
heaven  .'' 

Why,  — let  me  say  to  those  who  com- 
plain of  the  coldness  and  deadness  of 
their  devout  affections, —  why  do  you 
not,  putting  away  all  superstition,  look 
at    this  subject  in   the  light   of  simple 


reason  ?  You  do,  from  time  to  time, 
unless  you  are  an  utterly  stupid  and 
earth-born  soul,  —  you  do  admire  the 
things  which,  elevated  and  purified,  are 
the  very  idea  of  God.  You  look  at  the 
beauty,  the  glory  of  a  gorgeous  sunset, 
and  it  fills  you  with  rapture.  You  ga^.e 
at  a  picture  of  moral  loveliness  and 
grandeur,  hero,  saint,  or  martyr,  and 
you  '  are  melted  into  tears  before  it. 
You  behold  the  loveliness  of  living  hu- 
man virtue  ;  you  read  of  noble  disin- 
terestedness ;  you  read  of  those  ■  who 
die  for  their  country  or  for  mankind,  — 
of  those  who,  touched  with  pity  for 
human  sorrows,  wear  out  their  lives  to 
relieve  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  mis- 
erable, the  outcast,  tiie  wandering,  and 
the  insane  ;  and  your  gushing  sympathy 
and  admirauon  testify  that  you  feel  all 
this.  But  ail  this,  and  all  that  you  can 
admire  and  love,  refined  from  all  earthly 
imperfection  and  elevated  above  all 
human  grandeur  and  loveliness,  is  the 
very  idea  of  God.  The  separate  traits 
of  mercy  here  collect  into  one  infinite 
Goodness.  The  scattered  rays  ol 
light  here  gather  into  one  infinite  splen- 
dor. That  Light  and  Love  are  not 
withdrawn  from  us  to  an  immeasurable 
distance,  but  visit  us  and  beam  and 
breathe  upon  us  in  sacred  and  tender 
pity.  The  Infinite  Goodness  is  not 
far  oi¥,  but  near  us  ;  it  compasses  our 
path  and  our  lying  down,  and  is  ac- 
quainted with  all  our  ways.  The  evening 
shade,  the  guarded  sleep,  the  morning 
resurrection  ;  the  clothing  air  and  the 
cheering  light;  every  bounty  that  falls 
from  heaven  ;  every  bounty  that 
springs  from  earth  ;  every  loving  heart 
that  blesses  us  ;  every  sacred  example 
that  wins  us  ;  every  holy  page  that 
teaches  us  ;  holy  men,  blessed  apostles, 
heroic  martyrs,  the  Son  of  God  himself, 
"the  brightness  of  God'"  orlory  and  the 
express  image  of  His  person," — all 
these  are  the  revelation,  the  presence, 
the  manifested  love  of  the  One,  all-holy, 
all-perfect,  ever-blessed,  the  incompre- 
hensible, the  ineffable  ;  whom  to  know 
is  life,  whom  to  resemble  is  perfection, 


6/8 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS 


whom  to  love  is  the  divinest  bhss. 
Of  Him,  what  less  can  we  say  than  this  : 
"  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  thee  ?  and 
there  is  none  upon  earth  that  I  desire 
beside  thee.  My  flesh  and  my  heart 
faileth  :  but  God  is  the  strength  of  my 
heart,  and  my  portion  forever." 


IV. 


THE   ALTERNATIVE. 

I  Cor.  XV.  32:  "  If  after  the  manner  of  men  I 
have  fought  with  beasts  at  Ephesus,  what  advan- 
tageth  it  me,  if  the  dead  rise  not  ?  Let  us  eat  and 
drink;    for  to-morrow  we  die." 

The  alternative  here  presented,  I  pro- 
pose, in  this  discourse,  to  consider  ;  and 
that  in  regard,  not  alone  to  the  particu- 
lar points  specified  in  the  text,  but  in 
general  to  the  great  fundamental  truths 
of  religion.  If  we  do  not  accept  them, 
what  then?  The  alternative,  I  say; 
this  is  the  point,  and  may  be  the  title 
of  my  discourse.  Religion  in  its  ground 
principles,  or  no  religion  ;  a  firm  and 
happy  faith,  or  the  great  dread  waste 
and  blank  of  unbelief;  this  is  the  alter- 
native. 

Let  us,  then,  I  say,  take  our  stand  de- 
cidedly on  one  ground  or  the  other.  If 
this  world  is  our  only  world,  let  us  oc- 
cupy it  as  such.  If  the  senses  are  the 
only  sources  of  enjoyment,  let  us  use 
them  as  such.  But,  on  the  contrary,  if 
there  is  a  life  above  sense  and  beyond 
the  world,  let  us  act  upon  that  convic- 
tion ;  fighting  the  good  fight  of  faith 
manfully,  meeting  toil,  trial,  conflict, 
martyrdom,  with-  courage.  Such  alter- 
native it  is,  that  for  certain  ends  in  our 
religious  meditation  I  wish  to  present 
to  you. 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  preacher  to  con- 
tribute what  he  can  to  the  amount  of 
human  happiness  ;  to  do  what  he  can 
to  conduct  men's  minds  to  wise  con- 
clusions and  to  just  principles  of  living. 
And  especially  is  it  his  duty,  when  the 
mental  culture  of  the  world  is  running 
to  discontent,  to   anxiety,  and  to  that  1 


miserable  incertitude  which  arises  from 
the  breaking  up  of  old  faiths  or  old 
modes  of  reasoning,  without  the  defi- 
nite settling  of  new  ones.  This,  I  think, 
is  the  condition  of  many  at  the  pres- 
ent day.  There  are  many  minds,  I  con- 
ceive, which  are  not  grounded  upon  any 
system  either  of  belief  or  of  unbelief  ; 
which  are  practically  settled  neither  up- 
on Thei.sm  nor  Atheism  ;  neither  upon 
Providence  nor  chance ;  neither  upon 
Bible  ground  nor  upon  infidel  ground; 
neither  upon  this  life  nor  another  life  ; 
but  are  in  a  middle  region,  between  the 
two,  wandering  in  shadows,  seeing  noth- 
ing clearly,  feeling  nothing  distincdy  ; 
in  a  position,  in  short,  alike  false  to  rea- 
son and  painful  to  experience. 

Now,  I  do  not  propose  to  deal  at 
large  with  this  vague  and  unsettled 
way  of  thinking;  I  desire  to  bring 
everything  here,  to  a  single  point. 
And  the  point  is  this,  —  that  but  one 
of  the  two  great  opposing  ideas  about 
religion  can  be  true  ;  that  from  any  just 
conduct  of  the  understanding  it  will 
follow  that  one  or  the  other  of  them 
must  be  adopted.  And  then, 'having 
stated  this  point,  I  wish  to  inquire 
whether  some  important  practical  prin- 
ciples would  not  follow  from  such 
decision. 

I  say,  then,  that  of  the  two  opposing 
theories,  the  theory  of  religion  and  the 
theory  of  no  religion,  but  one  can  be 
true.  In  regard  to  the  minor  points  of 
creeds,  there  may  be  selection  and  com- 
bination, a  spiritual  eclecticism  ;  but  we 
cannot  deal  so  with  the  foundation  doc- 
trines. We  cannot  take  something  from 
Atheism  and  something  from  Theism, 
something  from  the  doctrine  of  Provi- 
dence, and  something  from  the  doctrine 
of  chance,  and  so  compound  one  sys- 
tem. This  is  impossible.  We  are 
obliged  to  make  our  election,  and  to 
abide  by  it.  A  God  we  must  believe  in, 
or  no  God  ;  a  Providence  or  no  Provi- 
dence,—  no  power  ruling  the  world,  no 
sovereign  will,  no  controlling  order  ;  in 
a  future  life  where  the  blessed  shall 
be  forever,  or  no   future   life,  no  hope 


THE   ALTERNATIVE. 


679 


beyond  the  grave.  To  one  or  other  of 
these  creeds  we  are  in  reason  distinctly 
bound.  In  reason  we  cannot  be  hover- 
ino-  between  them.  This  is  not  a  case 
of  more  or  less  true  or  false,  but  of 
absolute  truth  or  falsehood.  It  cannot 
be  partly  true  that  there  is  a  God,  a 
Providence,  a  future  life;  it  is  alto- 
gether true  or  altogether  false. 

I.  This  being  stated,  the  first  obser- 
vation I  have  to  make  is,  in  the  spirit  of 
tlie  apostolic  alternative,  —  which  is  in- 
deed the  keenest  irony, —  that  from  either 
of  these  grounds  firmly  taken  I  could 
draw  more  tranquillity  and  more  com- 
fort, as  it  appears  to  me,  than  most  men 
do  from  their  half-way  belief.  For  sup- 
pose there  were  no  personal  Divinity, 
who  careth  for  us,  and  no  future  life. 
Our  being,  then,  is  but  the  chance  evo- 
lution of  infinite  motion  ;  the  ephemera 
of  a  day  in  the  eyes  of  eternity.  Matter 
and  mind  strangely  resolved  themselves 
into  this  compact  form,  this  breathing 
frame ;  and  soon  it  shall  be  unbound 
again  from  the  golden  chain  of  exist- 
ence, and  we  shall  no  more  belong  to 
the  living  universe.  It  is  indeed  a  blank 
and  barren  scepticism  ;  but  even  from 
this  might  be  obtained  the  tranquillity 
of  apathy.  Why  shouldst  thou  care 
much  for  anything,  if  this  breath  of 
life  is  all ;  if  it  is  to  be  extinguished 
soon  and  forever,  and  may  be  at  any 
moment  ?  "  Let  us  eat  and  drink,"  says 
the  Apostle,  "  for  to-morrow  we  die." 
Let  us  idle  or  trifle  away  the  time  ;  for 
it  is  not  worth  a  deeper  thought.  As  a 
theory,  to  be  sure,  this  is  dreadfully  un- 
satisfactory; and  its  unsatisfactoriness 
is  an  argument  for  something  better. 
But  if  that  better  be  firmly  rejected  ;  if 
man's  being  is  but  the  accident  of  an 
hour ;  if  his  fortunes  are  but  bubbles 
on  the  ever-flowing  stream  ;  if  his  life 
is  but  as  the  life  of  animal,  bird,  or  in- 
sect, let  him  sport  it  away  as  they  do. 
Let  him  derive  his  wisdom  from  the 
conditions  of  his  being.  His  being  is, 
indeed,  on  that  supposition,  but  "  a 
fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms  ;  "  and 
his  wisdom  is,  to  think  deeply,  to  care 


deeply  for  nothing.  The  supineness 
and  levity  consequent  on  such  a  theory 
would  indeed  be  shocking  to  reason 
and  to  faith  ;  but  to  the  theory  itself 
they  would  not  be  shocking.  They  are 
the  proper  and  natural  state  of  utter 
scepticism.  Whether  there  are  not  ele- 
ments in  humanity  which  such  a  scepti- 
cism cannot  satisfy,  is  another  question  ; 
but  that  a  life  of  apathy  and  vanity  is 
all  that  such  scepticism  would  naturally 
lead  to,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

But  if,  on  the  contrary,  a  reasonable 
faith  be  accepted  as  the  mind's  reliance  ; 
if  there  is  a  God  who  "  ruleth  all  things," 
and  if  this  world  and  all  worlds  are 
under  the  dominion  of  His  good  provi- 
dence ;  if  it  is  among  the  ordinances 
of  His  mercy,  that  we  shall  surely  live 
hereafter ;  if  there  is  another  life  in 
whose  bright  and  boundless  regions  we 
may  wander  forever,  —  there  finding  our 
lost  treasures,  there  gathering  the  lost 
ones  of  earth  ;  then,  —  what  then  ?  Oh  ! 
is  it  much  that  cloud  and  darkness,  for 
a  moment,  fall  upon  the  path  that  is 
leading  to  everlasting  brightness  ?  I 
speak  not  to  the  case  of  bodily  pain  now, 
but  only  of  the  mind's  sorrow  and  con- 
flict ;  and  1  suppose  a  good  mind,  a 
mind  intending  and  striving  to  be  right ; 
and  this  being  supposed,  I  say,  this 
scene  is  soon  to  close,  and  an  eternal 
one  is  about  to  open  before  us  ;  why 
shall  we  be  perturbed,  restless,  or  anx- 
ious about  the  present?  It  is  only  a 
night's  trouble  before  the  everlasting 
day  that  is  about  to  break  around  us.  If 
a  day's  travel  were  to  take  us  to  our 
home,  or  to  some  blessed  country  where 
we  were  to  dwell  in  peace  and  gladness 
forever,  should  we  think  much  of  that 
day's  annoyances  and  cares?  Let  us 
only  believe  what  we  say  we  believe,  — 
that  God  is  our  keeper  and  guide,  and 
will  one  day  conduct  our  feet  to  the  ever- 
lasting abodes  ;  and  then,  although  life's 
trouble  and  death's  change  must  be  felt, 
and  must  be  feared  in  a  measure,  yet 
will  they  be  swallowed  up  in  the  over- 
ruling sentiment  of  trust,  in  the  over- 
ruling sentiment  of  the  future.     Let  me 


68o 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


believe,  and  not  merely  say  I  believe. 
Let  God's  presence  be  an  abode  with 
me,  and  heaven  a  reality,  the  home  of 
my  hope  ;  and  then  I  can  be  strong  and 
patient  and  cheerful  and  victorious  in 
that  all-conquering  faith. 

11.  In  the  next  place,  of  these  two 
theories,  what  are  the  comparative  moral 
tendencies  ?  which  is  the  best  theory  ? 
which  is  the  noblest  1  which  is  fitted 
to  make  the  best  and  noblest  men .? 
You  would  hardly  have  patience  with 
me,  if  I  were  to  discuss  this  question 
seriously,  or  at  length.  I  have  said  that 
the  theory  of  utter  scepticism  might  lead 
to  the  calm  of  utter  indifference  ;  but 
that,  I  think,  is  all  that  it  can  do,  which 
wears  any  appearance  of  benefit  to  man. 
Certainly,  no  lofty  virtues  could  spring 
from  it.  Nay,  I  believe  it  is  universally 
admitted  that  the  absolute  denial  of  a 
providence  and  a  future  life  would  whelm 
the  world  in  utter  moral  ruin.  I  think 
that  every  man  must  be  conscious  for 
himself,  that  to  his  own  virtue  such 
scepticism  would  be  a  terrible  if  not  a 
fatal  shock.  But  at  any  rate,  however 
the  virtue  formed  by  religious  convic- 
tions might  stand  for  a  while,  after  the 
convictions  failed,  it  is  clear  that  it 
would  be  altogether  impossible  to  train 
up  the  human  race  to  any  lofty  improve- 
ment, to  any  self-restraint,  or  self-sacri- 
fice, to  any  noble  achievements,  public 
or  private,  under  a  system  that  had  ex- 
pelled from  the  world  all  faith,  wliether 
in  God,  or  providence,  or  futurity,  — 
under  a  system  that  made  this  earth  the 
product  of  chance,  and  this  life  the  end  of 
human  existence.  In  such  a  case  human 
history  had  not  been  worth  writing,  and 
human  life  had  not  been  worth  living. 
The  human  race  would  have  sunk  down 
to  brutish  sense  if  it  ever  rose  for  a 
moment  above  that  grade.  And  can 
there  be  any  serious  doubt  in  a  case 
like  this  ?  One  theory  would  make 
brutes,  and  the  other  men ;  one,  a  his- 
tory, and  the  other  no  history,  nothing 
to  tell  of  the  world  worth  telling  ;  one, 
poetry,  art,  beauty,  inspiration,  the  other, 
nothing  but  granaries  and  money-vaults  : 


can  there  be  any  doubt  ?  For  it  really 
comes  to  this  ;  whether  we  are  to  hold 
the  loftiest  and  noblest  sentiments  in  the 
world  to  be  illusions,  and  the  lowest  and 
most  worldly  sentiments  to  be  the  only 
stable  realities. 

Now  I  have  only  to  ask  one  further 
question.  Not  which  is  noblest,  merely, 
but  for  which  do  you  judge  that  human 
nature  was  made,  —  for  vice,  or  for  vir- 
tue ;  for  evil,  or  for  good ;  for  brutish 
indulgence,  or  for  sacred  purity ;  for 
ferocious  cruelty,  or  for  gentle  pity  and 
love  ;  for  violence  and  ruin,  in  short,  or 
for  order,  improvement,  and  happiness  ? 
Judge,  I  say,  between  these  ;  for,  as  you 
choose,  so  must  you  adopt  either  the 
system  of  faith  or  the  system  of  no 
faith.  If  you  take  vice,  evil,  brutality, 
ferocity,  ruin,  for  your  choice,  lo  !  here 
is  the  very  instrument  for  their  produc- 
tion, fitted  to  your  hand-,  scepticism,  a 
thorough  conviction  that  there  is  noth- 
ing beyond  the  senses  to  live  for  or  hope 
for,  —  this  will  inevitably  produce  all 
these  results.  But  if,  on  the  contrary,  you 
believe  that  virtue,  good,  purity,  love, 
well-being,  are  the  ends  for  which  the  hu- 
man soul  was  made,  then  your  part,  your 
inevitable  choice,  is  faith  ;  faith  in  God, 
in  providence,  in  immortality.  Judge, 
I  say.  But  you  have  judged  already. 
Every  institution  of  government,  every 
court  of  law,  every  school-house,  not  to 
say  every  church,  is  standing  evidence 
of  your  conviction,  that  man  is  made  for 
improvement  and  well-being,  and  not  for 
deterioration  and  destruction. 

And  if  all  this  be  true,  into  what  a 
strange  and  horrible  supposition  must 
the  sceptic  be  thrown  !  I  do  not  know 
that  I  am  speaking  to  one  such  sceptic  ; 
but  I  wish  to  show  to  you  who  believe, 
yet  all  too  feebly  believe,  how  strong  is 
the  ground  for  faith.  For  I  say,  into 
what  a  strange  and  horrible  supposition 
is  the  sceptic  thrown  !  It  is  even  this  ; 
that  the  welfare  of  the  world  is  made  to 
depend  on  a  lie.  That  welfare,  it  is  cer- 
tain, depends  on  faith  ;  and  faith,  he 
holds,  is  all  a  delusion,  a  falsehood,  a 
lie.     Surely,  the  mind  that  has  coine  to 


THE   ALTERNATIVE. 


68 1 


that  point  touches  on  chaos  ;  the  moral 
elements  of  the  universe  must  seem  to 
it  to  be  whirling  about  in  wild  confusion  ; 
and  for  my  own  part,  I  know  of  nothing 
that  would  so  make  me  feel  as  if  I  had 
come  to  the  very  verge  of  insanity,  as 
that  tremendous  disorder  of  my  reason 
within  me,  and  of  the  universe  around 
me. 

III.  But  I  go  farther;  and  I  ask  now  if 
it  is  possible  for  human  experience  to  do 
without  religion,  and  faith  in  religion. 
Let  the  elements  of  human  nature  be 
developed  into  whatsoever  forms  they 
will, —  into  whatsoever  apathy,  or  levity, 
or  recklessness,  or  passion,  or  excess,  or 
violence  ;  is  it  possible  that  they  can  be 
wrought  into  any  satisfactory  combi- 
nation with  unbelief  ?  On  that  barren 
rock,  can  the  hardest  human  bosom  lean 
and  find  repose  ?  The  question  is  not 
now,  can  this  theory  make  human  na- 
ture good  ;  but  can  human  nature  bear 
it ;  can  it  endure  such  a  theory  ? 

When  I  ask  this  question,  my  breth- 
ren, a  large  range  of  experience  comes 
within  my  view  ;  of  experience,  natural, 
indeed,  but  strong,  nay,  wild  and  fearful 
too,  and  mixing  itself  up  with  a  troubled 
scene  of  events.  We_^  are  made  with 
undying  affections.  Erring,  lawless, 
wild  as  they  may  be,  yet  they  are  un- 
quenchable. Do  what  we  will  to  our- 
selves, we  cannot  annihilate  ourselves  ; 
and  we  cannot  smother  the  inward 
yearnings  of  our  souls.  This,  that  I 
say,  is  not  a  matter  of  sentiment,  but  a 
matter  of  fact.  So  are  we  made.  To 
desire,  to  fear,  to  hope,  to  love,  is  a 
necessity.  In  apathy,  that  grave  of  the 
soul,  we  may  bury  our  affections,  and 
think  they  are  dead  ;  but  to-morrow  they 
will  rise  again,  with  renewed  and  im- 
mortal vigor.  And  now,  such  a  nature 
as  this,  —  where  is  it  put  to  act  its  part  ? 
Into  a  world  of  change,  decay,  dissolu- 
tion !  The  beings  whom  our  affections 
grasp,  as  if  forever,  lo !  they  die  !  — 
they  vanish  !  What  a  change  !  One 
moment  before,  my  friend  was  here  ;  the 
fullest  circle  and  measure  of  reality  was 
here  with  me  ;  a  presence  that  filled  the 


surrounding  space  with  light, — a  pres- 
ence that  made  the  very  air  breathe  and 
throb  as  with  living  pulses  ;  and  now  in 
his  place  is  —  nothing  !  and  the  breath- 
less wonder  of  the  bereft  one  can  only 
shriek  or  sigh  in  the  awful  void,  —noth- 
ing !  And  yet,  though  the  undying 
thought  is  thus  bound  to  the  dying  ob- 
ject, yet  can  it  never  learn  its  lesson  ; 
never  can  it,  so  to  speak,  adjust  itself  to 
death  ;  but  ever  since  the  first  pall  was 
spread  over  the  face  of  man,  the  same 
tears  have  been  poured  out  upon  it,  the 
same  shudderings  have  shaken  mortal 
hearts  as  they  bent  over  it :  and  the 
same  wild  and  distracted  affections  have 
rushed  to  the  barriers  of  time,  and  de- 
manded of  eternity  their  lost  treasures. 
Oh  !  if  there  were  no  answer,  —  if  there 
were  no  hereafter,  might  we  not  bow 
before  the  dread  Author  of  our  being, 
and  say,  why,  —  why  hast  thou  made  us 
thus  .''  Why  could  we  not  forget,  as  the 
bird  its  young,  or  the  hare  its  mate  ? 
Why  must  our  affections  linger  on  in 
living  death,  and  wear  and  waste  us  to 
the  grave,  if  they  are  not  the  harbingers 
of  something  beyond  the  grave  1 

And  then,  again,  how  naturally,  how 
irresistibly  do  our  thoughts  break  forth 
beyond  the  bounds  of  tliis  world,  into 
the  regions  of  the  everlasting  and  the 
mfinite  !  I  have  said  that  on  the  scep- 
tic's theory  man  should  be  content  with 
earth,  and  think  of  nothing  beyond  ;  but 
can  he  keep  his  thoughts  bound  to  earth  } 
No,  he  cannot.  There  is  ever  a  wave 
beneath  him,  coming  from  eternity  and 
going  to  eternity,  sweeping  him  on  ;  and 
his  soul  can  never  take  root  in  the  visi- 
ble realities  of  the  present  hour.  Or 
he  is  as  one  who  builds  his  house  on 
an  isthmus  between  two  rushing  seas. 
While  they  are  wearing  away  the  foun- 
dation, his  thought  embarks  itself  upon 
those  boundless  floods,  unknowing  where 
they  roll,  or  what  distant  shores  they 
lave.  On  this  narrow  strip  of  earth  man 
does  not  walk  as  the  grazing  ox  or  the 
draught-horse,  but  rather  as  one  that 
walketh  in  dreams.  Less  like  the  ani- 
mal is  he,  at  the  worst ;  and  more  like 


632 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


the  ruined  archangel  of  Milton's  imagi- 
nation, treading  the  uncertain  soil  of 
the  world  on  which  he  is  fallen,  and  ex- 
ploring, on  every  side,  the  dim  regions 
of  undefined  possibihty.  What  an  ex- 
ploring that  is,  what  a  sighing  for  light, 
the  wide  spread  of  spiritualism,  or  spir- 
itism, proves.  No,  this  is  not  an  imagi- 
nary being  of  whom  I  speak;  it  is  you, 
my  friend  ;  it  is  myself.  1  might  say, 
perhaps,  that  in  right  of  our  thought, 
we  feel  that  we  belong  to  other  worlds 
than  this  ;  that  a  little  more  or  less  of 
distance  is  not  material ;  that  as  the 
earth  is  ours,  alike  is  the  solar  system, 
is  the  sidereal  heaven,  ours.  But  this 
much  I  may  certainly  say  ;  that  this 
world  can  no  more  content  us  than  any 
one  field  in  it  could  content  us  ;  and 
that  for  the  same  reason  ;  because  we 
see  beyond  it,  —  far,  far,  infinitely  be- 
yond it. 

Bound,  now,  the  prospect  by  the 
dreary  negations  of  the  sceptic  school ; 
no  God,  no  providence,  no  life  here- 
after. I  can  conceive  a  mind  so  con- 
stituted as  to  be  really  flung,  sometimes, 
upon  this  resort.  I  can  conceive  of  a 
mind  that  may  say,  "Well,  since  it  is 
my  sad  fortune  to  be  certain  of  nothing 
in  the  spiritual  realm,  I  will  stretch  my- 
self on  this  narrow  ground  of  visible 
reahty,  and  see  what  relief,  what  com- 
fort I  can  find  there.''  What  can  he 
find  ?  Despair  !  —  for  all  the  greatness 
and  the  great  hope  of  his  nature,  noth- 
ing but  this,  —  dark,  desolate,  brooding 
despair !  The  transparent  skies  fold 
themselves  into  a  heavy  and  impene- 
trable veil  around  him  ;  the  earth  is 
a  tomb  ;  the  stars  are  but  lights  of  a 
gloomy  sepulchre.  "But  no,"  it  may 
be  said,  "  even  to  the  sceptic  it  still  is 
a  fair  world;  it  is  a  bright  world;  and 
bright  is  the  hour  of  life  that  is  passed, 
upon  it."  Extract  from  human  nature 
certain  elements, —  the  undying  affec- 
tion, the  infinite  desire,  the  longing 
after  something  above  and  beyond  ; 
make  it,  in  other  words,  an  animal  na- 
ture, —  and  all  this  is  true.  But  so  long 
as  this    nature  is  human,  it  must  have 


aspirings,  needs,  ay,  and  conflicts,  cross- 
es, sorrows.  Events  cannot  pass  over 
us  like  summer  clouds.  The  earth  can- 
not be  to  us  a  bosom  of  repose.  We 
must  fight  our  battle  ;  and  in  that  bat- 
tle the  soul  must  rise  to  victory,  or  it 
must  sink  to  despair.  But  how  can  it 
fight  on  the  sceptic's  field  .^  All  its  as- 
pirations denied,  all  its  hopes  crushed, 
all  its  ambition  mocked  ;  no  end  for  it 
but  a  grave  ;  no  monument  but  a  tomb  ; 
no  guerdon  but  annihilation  ;  where  can 
it  find  courage  for  its  conflict?  No- 
where. It  is  sent  to  do  that  which  it 
cannot  do.  It  is  sent  to  do  that  which, 
by  supposition,  it  has  no  motive  nor 
means  for  doing. 

I  say  it  fearlessly  ;  no  greater  incon- 
gruity was  ever  conceived  of,  than  that 
which  would  exist  between  such  a  na- 
ture and  such  a  fate.  Beneath  the  heav- 
ens, through  all  the  range  of  nature,  was 
never  found  such  an  incongruity.  If 
you  saw  a  noble  bird,  fallen  by  some 
mischance  into  a  quicksand,  and  there 
vainly  struggling  till  it  sank  and  per- 
ished, you  would  look  on  with  pity  and 
say,  "Ah  !  poor  denizen  of  air  and  sky, 
thou  wast  never  made  to  strive  with  an 
element  like  that."  If  you  saw  a  whole 
tribe  of  winged  creatures,  involved  by 
an  ordinance  of  nature  in  a  fate  like 
that,  you  would  stand  aghast.  You 
know  that  in  the  whole  round  of  nature 
no  such  teirible  solecism  can  be  found. 
And  is  there  a  being,  and  a  whole  race 
of  beings,  made  in  aspiration  to  soar  to 
heaven,  to  spread  the  wing  over  the  in- 
finite depths,  to  stretch  its  flight  through 
the  boundless  ages,  and  is  this  race 
doomed,  in  successive  millions,  to  strug- 
gle with  the  gross  elements  of  earth,  to 
struggle  in  vain,  and  to  sink  at  last,  the 
hapless  victims  of  some  stupendous  mis- 
creation  .''  Is  this  fair  earth,  then,  but 
the  disastrous  gulf  of  wrecked  genera- 
tions ?  Have  they  come  out  from  the 
bosom  of  the  infinite,  —  those  troops  and 
myriads  of  souls,  instinct  with  thoughts 
divine  and  hopes  immortal,  only  to  perish 
on  this  shore  of  dark  and  dread  mis- 
chance ?     Forbid    it,    reason,    religion  ! 


THE   ALTERNATIVE. 


68- 


Earth,  heaven,  forbid  it!  It  were  an 
intolerable  fate.  The  supposition  is 
intolerable. 

My  friends,  I  have  tlius  endeavored 
to  strengthen  in  you  and  in  myself  those 
great  reliances  in  which  are  all  our  sta- 
bility and  consolation.  For  this  pur- 
pose I  have  thought  it  good  to  throw 
the  mind  upon  the  only  alternative; 
and,  by  showing  the  intolerableness 
both  to  reason  and  experience  of  that 
alternative,  to  bring  new  support  to  the 
great  principles  of  our  faith. 

It  appears  to  me  that  both  our  temp- 
tations and  afflictions  are  doubled  by 
the  want  of  decision  about  those  prin- 
ciples. Let  the  tempted  man  think  of 
it.  If  over  the  place  of  threatened  dere- 
liction, political,  social,  or  sensual,  —  if 
over  that  spot  bends  the  eye  of  all-wit- 
nessing God  ;  if  the  infinite  Authorit}', 
tlie  infinite  Sacredness,  is  there,  forbid- 
ding the  deed,  canst  thou  do  it  ?  Is  it 
there,  or  is  it  not  there  ?  Settle  that ; 
for  thou  must  act  accordingly.  Let  the 
sufferer  think  of  it.  Say,  my  friend,  if 
there  is  a  God  ;  if  he  is  good ;  if  all  the 
events  of  life  are  the  ordinances  of  his 
wisdom  and  goodness  ;  if  all  is  good,  if 
all  is  best  J  if  we  are  convinced  that  it 
is  best,  that  sickness  and  pain  and  death 
should  be  here,  even  though  we  cannot 
altogether  see  why;  and  if  we  assuredly 
believe  that  when  this  dream  of  life  is 
over,  the  broken  ties  of  earth  shall  be 
knitted  up  again,  and  the  families  of 
earth  shall  walk  together  in  the  regions 
of  heaven,  —  say,  if  all  this  is  true,  can 
we  not  lift  up  our  heads  from  every  pros- 
trating blow .'  Can  we  not  smile  through 
our  tears?  Can  we  not  hold  our  hearts 
firm  in  good  hope  and  cheerful  trust  ? 

IV.  But,  in  any  case  and  upon  either 
theory,  I  say,  in  the  last  place,  that  this 
life  is  not  worth  the  anxieties  which  we 
give  it ;  that  this  life  ought  not  to  be 
clothed  about  with  wasting  solicitudes. 
Hov.'  long  it  shall  last,  wiien  or  how  it 
shall  end,  is  of  less  importance  than 
we  make  it.  It  is  of  less  importance  in 
the  all-wise  account ;  why  shall  we  not 
strive  to  make  it  so  in  ours  1 


But,  any  rate,  the  very  uncertainty  of 
life,  the  very  insecurity  of  its  posses- 
sions, is  an  argument  for  indifference  on 
the  one  hand,  or  for  all-concjuering  faith 
on  the  other.  Hast  thou  not  lost  a 
parent,  a  child,  or  a  friend,  dearer  than 
life  ?  Last  week,  last  month,  did  not 
thine  acquaintance  die,  —  as  good,  as 
strong  as  thou  ?  Dost  thou  not  see  all 
things  goodly  and  fair  on  earth  swept 
away  as  summer  clouds  ?  If  thou  art 
but  as  one  of  these  transitory  and  van- 
ishing shadows,  then  take  thy  lot  with 
appropriate  indifference  ;  thy  being  is 
not  worth  a  further  thought  or  care.  If 
God  careth  not  for  it,  why  shalt  thou 
care  .''  Or,  if  there  is  no  God,  why  shalt 
thou  care  for  anything  ?  But  if  thou 
art  the  child  of  Heaven,  if  thou  art  as 
one  who  shall  triumph  over  all  that  is 
frail  and  mortal,  and  live  forever,  then 
tread  the  things  of  earth  beneath  thy 
feet,  and  stand  girded  and  hoping  in  the 
immortal  paths. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  long  striven 
to  adjust  my  mind,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself,  to  this  great  event  of  death.  I 
do  not  say  that  I  have  succeeded.  But 
this  is  what  I  am  disposed  to  say,  as  the 
result  of  my  present  thinking.  Let  us 
see  each  death,  more  than  we  do,  as 
coming  under  the  general  ordinance. 
Should  it  seem  a  strange  or  shocking 
thing  that  one  dieth  ?  Why,  ail  men 
are  dying.  It  is  the  tale  of  ages  ;  it  is 
the  experience  of  thousands  this  hour  ; 
even  while  I  have  been  speaking,  thou- 
sands have  departed  from  this  life  ;  it  is 
what  shall  soon  be  your  lot  a,nd  mine  ; 
it  shall  in  a  few  years  sweep  away  the 
whole  living  generation.  That  great 
course  of  nature,  that  transition  which 
is  passing  upon  the  whole  living  universe, 
should  it  be  a  shock,  a  catastrophe  as  it 
were,  to  rend  the  world  ?  Ought  it  to 
be  so,  that  distraction  and  agony  should 
wait  around  this  great,  all-comprehend- 
ing ordinance  of  divine  wisdom  ?  Would 
the  good  God  have  appointed  it,  if  it 
had  been  for  anything  but  good  ?  If 
it  be  good,  should  we  reject  it  ?  And  if 
it  were  evil,  can  we  resist  it  ?     Even 


684 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


then  would  I  yield  to  no  unmanly  weak- 
ness. Even  then  would  1  welcome  the 
stoic's  firmness,  or  the  sceptic's  apathy. 
If  I  could  say  nothing  better  when  the 
hour  came,  I  would  say  with  Mirabeau, 
to  his  surrounding  friends  :  "  To-day  I 
shall  die;  nothing  remains  but  to  be 
enveloped  with  perfumes,  to  be  crowned 
with  flowers,  to  be  surrounded  with 
music,  and  so  to  enter  peaceably  into 
the  eternal  sleep."  But,  thanks  be  to 
God  !  for  us,  believers,  there  is  a  better 
hope.  In  that  better  hope,  shame  were 
it  for  us,  if  we  have  not  a  better  calm- 
ness, a  better  courage.  When  others 
die,  then,  let  us  not  mourn  as  those  who 
have  no  hope  ;  but  let  us  still  feel  that 
we  may  hold  them  dear,  and  hold  them 
for  our  own,  in  the  great  faith  of  God 
and  of  immortality.  And  when  our  own 
time  is  come,  let  us  calmly  wrap  the 
mantle  of  death  about  us,  and  say,  in 
the  words  of  our  great  Master  and  Fore- 
runner,—  "Father,  the  hour  is  come; 
and  we  come  to  Thee.  To  Thee,  all 
Goodness,  all  Wisdom,  —  to  Thee,  O 
Thou  Infinitude  of  life  and  love,  we 
come  ;  and  in  peace,  in  prayer,  and  in 
faith,  yield  ourselves  to  Thy  will." 


V. 

TRUTH   IN   ALL   RELIGIONS. 

MicAH  vi.  6,  7,  8  :  "Wherewith  shall  I  come  be- 
fore the  Lord,  and  bow  myself  before  the  high  God  ? 
Shall  I  come  before  him  with  burnt  offerings,  with 
calves  of  a  year  old  ?  Will  the  Lord  be  pleased  with 
thousands  of  rams,  or  with  ten  thousands  of  rivers  of 
oil  ?  Shall  I  give  mv  first-born  for  my  transgression, 
the  fruit  of  my  body  for  the  sin  of  my  soul?  He  hath 
showed  thee,  O  man,  what  is  good  :  and  what  doth 
the  Lord  require  of  thee,  but  to  do  justly,  and  to  love 
mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly  with  thy  God  ?  " 

The  questions  here  asked  concerning 
Religion,  and  the  comprehensiveness  of 
the  answer,  seem  to  me  to  make  a  fit 
introduction  to  the  kind  of  discourse 
v.'hich  I  propose  to  you  this  morning. 
It  is  a  time  of  tnatiy  questions  about 
relii^ton,  the  time  we  live  in  ;  and  it  nat- 
urally leads    us   to   wish   to   settle  our 


minds  upon  the  great  subject  as  far  as 
we  can,  by  positive  and  comprehensive 
statements  ;  to  look  at  religion,  with  the 
largest  view,  as  root,  and  growth,  and 
branch,  and  fruit:  and  by  fruit,  I  mean 
the  result  and  outcome  of  the  whole 
matter.  For  in  any  interest,  whether  for 
thought  or  action,  which  is  vital  and 
fundamental  with  us,  and  religion  is 
both,  we  must  begin  with  the  roots  and 
grounds  of  it;  then,  we  naturally  pro- 
ceed to  its  springing  up,  to  its  unfolding, 
—  how  it  grew,  and  by  what  means  : 
then  to  its  modifications,  or  branches. 
and  the  fair  view  and  construction  of 
them  ;  and  finally  to  the  fruit  of  all,  the 
product  and  end  to'  be  sought,  from  all 
these  diversities  of  human  opinion  and 
institution. 

I.  First,  then,  I  find  the  roots  of  all 
religion  in  human  nature,  —  set  there  by 
the  hand  that  made  it.  I  need  not  dwell 
upon  this  point,  for  I  think  it  is  very 
well  understood  among  us,  though  per- 
haps not  often  enough  recognized.  I 
believe  in  primal  intuitions  of  truth,  of 
right,  of  religion.  Without  this  foun- 
dation no  religion'  could  be  built  up  in 
the  human  soul.  Without  these  original 
intuitions  no  word  about  religion  could 
ever  be  understood.  What  do  the  words 
good,  just,  right,  religious,  mean  ?  Take 
away  the  interpreting  conscience  and 
nobody  would  know.  You  might  as 
well  speak  them  to  the  horse  or  the  o.\. 
It  is  with  religious  culture  in  inan  as 
with  all  other.  Take  away  the  original, 
intuitive  axioms,  and  there  could  be  no 
geometry.  Take  away  the  fundamental 
perceptions  of  beauty,  and  there  could 
be  no  art.  Take  away  first  truths'from 
our  moral  reasonings,  and  there  could 
be  neither  ethics  nor  philosophy.  In 
all  nature  there  are  germs  of  growth, 
and  so  there  are  in  human  nature.  But 
this  is  too  plain  to  insist  upon. 

II.  In  the  second  place,  the  devel- 
opment of  religion,  its  unfolding  and 
growth,  have  appeared  under  various 
systems  of  thought,  of  culture,  and, 
ritual  in  successive  ages  ;  but  I  wish 
now   to    say    that    the    unfolding    has 


TRUTH   IN   ALL   RELIGIONS. 


685 


appeared  particularly  in  written  rec- 
ords, in  books,  which  may  be  called  the 
Bibles  of  the  ages,  as  the  Vedas  and  the 
Koran  ;  and  notably  in  our  holy  Scrip- 
tures, both  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment. In  these  are  found,  I  believe, 
the  greatest  religious  utterances  that 
have  ever  been  heard  in  the  world. 

The  old  Hebrew  Spiritualism,  first, 
in  the  devotions  of  David  and  the  sub- 
limity of  Isaiah,  surpasses  everything 
that  appeared  in  their  time.  And  I 
know  of  nothing  in  antiquity  that  com- 
pares with  the  ideas  of  polity,  of  justice 
and  kindness,  which  the  statutes  of 
Moses  disclose,  —  restraining  despotic 
power,  mitigating  slavery,  requiring  len- 
ity to  strangers,  consideration  for  the 
poor  that  gleaned  the  harvest-fields, 
and  merciful  treatment  of  animals  even, 
and  tlie  like,  —  or  that  equals  in  tender- 
ness and  pathos  the  stories  of  Joseph, 
of  Esther,  and  of  Ruth. 

Not  that  eT'erjthing  in  these  records 
of  the  Hebrew  religion  is  to  be  ac- 
cepted. The  cosmogony,  i.  e.,  the  origi- 
nation of  things,  cannot  be.  The 
historic  verity  cannot  be  :  nor  even 
the  morality  always  ;  as,  for  instance, 
the  war-spirit  and  practice  of  the  con- 
querors of  Canaan.  Nor  is  it  to  be 
supposed  that  God  gave  his  sanction  to 
everything  that  the  Hebrew  people  did 
or  said  or  wrote  in  the  Old  Testament. 
There  is  a  popular  mistake  about  that 
phrase, — "Thus  saith  the  Lord."  It 
simply  expressed  the  Leader's  or 
Prophet's  conviction  that  he  acted  or 
spoke  in  accordance  with  the  divine 
Will.  In  that  grand  chapter,  the  ist  of 
Isaiah,  when  the  prophet  says,  "Your 
new  moons  and  your  appointed  feasts 
my  soul  hateth  ;  they  are  a  trouble  unto 
me  ;  I  am  weary  to  bear  them  :  "  this  is 
not  to  be  taken  as  the  language  of  God, 
but  the  prophet's  own  highly  figurative 
language,  in  which  he  sets  forth  God's 
displeasure  at  the  empty  ceremonies 
and  hypocrisies  of  the  people.  And 
that  everything  in  the  moral  notions 
inculcated  is  not  right,  must  be  re- 
garded by  Christians   as  evident  from 


the  fact  that  Jesus  contradicted  and 
superseded  those  old  Hebrew  ideas 
about  hating  enemies,  —  about  "an  eye 
for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth." 
But  I  lay  down  for  you  a  better  law,  — 
is  what  he  says. 

And  yet  while  these  concessions  are 
to  be  made,  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to 
see  what  grandeur,  what  beauty  there 
is  in  these  old  Bible  records.  There  is 
nothing  more  difficult  for  the  highest 
genius,  taste,  and  piety  combined,  than 
to  write  a  book  of  prayer  and  praise. 
David  wrote  his  Psalms  more  than  two 
thousand  years  ago,  and  they  have 
sufficed  for  the  most  cultivated  nations 
and  ages  ever  since  ;  they  are  read  and 
chanted  in  ten  thousands  of  churches  this 
day  ;  and  nothing  has  ever  surpassed 
or  equalled  them.  Is  this  marvel,  thus 
standing  out  in  the  eyes  of  all  men,  to 
be  slurred  over  by  criticisms  upon  some 
of  his  language.?  The  imprecations  of 
David  are  often  referred  to  as  a  blot 
upon  his  writings  ;  but  I  confess  that 
I  am  not  disposed  to  give  them  up  to 
the  common  unqualified  disparagement. 
Why  shall  not  a  man  /i-e/  the  causeless 
wrong  that  is  done  him  .''  Why  may 
he  not  wish  that  it  shall  be  visited  with 
the  evil  that  it  deserves  ?  Why  not  that 
it  shall  be  punished  ?  It  ts  punished. 
God  punishes  it.  Shall  we  assume  to 
be  more  merciful  than  God  ?  There 
is  a  place  for  justice  as  well, as  mercy, 
for  indignadon  as  well  as  pity.  Jesus, 
whose  glorious  hyperboles  in  behalf 
of  mercy  were  not  meant  for  literal 
teachings,  —  Jesus  himself  once  looked 
round  about  him  with  indignation,  and 
at  other  times  denounced  the  heaviest 
woes  upon  his  enemies,  the  hypocriti- 
cal Pharisees.  And  Paul,  when  he 
stood  a  bound  and  helpless  prisoner 
before  the  Jewish  Council,  and  the  high 
priest  commanded  them  that  stood  by 
to  smite  him  on  the  mouth,  —  Paul 
said  unto  him,  "God  shall  smite  thee, 
thou  whited  wall."  I  don't  think  that 
was  amiably  said  ;  and  I  respect  him 
the  more  for  his  feeling,  and  for  express- 
ing his  feeling,  at  such  an  indignity. 


686 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


Turn  now  from  the  great  Psalmist  of 
Israel  to  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and  see 
what  men  these  were.  No  such  men 
ever  stood  up  in  any  other  nation  or 
age  of  the  world.  Their  appearance  is 
positively  a  phenomenon  in  history. 
But  look  at  them,  I  say,  not  as  phe- 
nomenal persons  only,  not  merely  as 
inspired  prophets,  but  as  7Hefi,  rising 
up  to  challenge  every  wrong,  public  or 
private,  loving  their  country,  pleading 
with  God  and  man  for  its  good  ;  but 
speaking,  in  the  face  and  in  peril  of 
kingly  wrath  and  popular  indignation, 
in  tones  of  unsparing  rebuke.  They 
were  the  real  kings  of  that  old  Hebrew 
time.  Think  of  men  rising  up  among 
ns,  to  speak  to  president  and  people, 
in  the  way  they  did  ;  ay,  speaking  to 
the  people  of  Boston  or  New  York, 
as  they  did  to  Jerusalem  and  its  priests 
and  rulers  !  Not  everything  that  they 
said  is,  indeed,  of  interest  to  us  now  ; 
but  they  have  left  their  mark  upon  the 
religious  history  of  the  world. 

Other  ancient  teachers,  the  Brahmins 
and  Buddhists,  spoke,  indeed,  grand 
words  and  fine,  for  truth  and  righteous- 
ness. Admirable  sentences  may  be 
quoted  from  them.  Yet  I  find  them 
generally  to  be  abstract  and  vague. 
But  the  Hebrew  prophets  struck  down 
deep  into  the  conscience,  into  daily  life, 
into  the  sins  and  backslidings  of  the 
people.  And  when  you  read  what 
the  Hebrew  seers  said  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  think  what  it  was  !  They  broke 
down,  with  one  blow,  the  whole  system 
of  Idolatry,  and  set  up  instead,  without 
idol  or  image,  the  sublime  idea  of  one 
sole,  sovereign,  immaterial,  and  invisible 
God  !  It  was  a  wonderful  revelation  to 
the  old  idolatrous  ages. 

But  when  we  come  to  the  Christian 
development  of  religion,  a  far  higher 
and  wider  range  of  ideas,  duties,  and 
hopes  is  opened  to  us.  It  is  not  the 
unity  or  spirituality  of  God  alone  ;  it 
is  not  merely  kindness  to  men ;  but 
God  our  Father,  all  men  our  breth- 
ren, —  immortalit}',  from  vague  dreams, 
brought  to  light  ;  and  Jesus,  the  most 


perfect  being,  standing  before  the  world 
in  such  loveliness  as  no  other,  in  my 
eyes,  ever  stood.  It  is  remarkable  that 
amidst  all  the  question  and  doubt  about 
him  that  there  has  been,  and  is  now, 
among  men,  no  one  has  ever  denied 
him  this  transcendent  glory.  Even 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau  admitted  it. 
Voltaire  says,  "  I  take  the  part  of  the 
real  Jesus  against  the  errors  of  the 
Church  about  him."  Rousseau  cele- 
brates, in  a  well-known  passage,  the 
almost  miraculous  beauty  of  his  teach- 
ing and  life.  The  remarkable  contribu- 
tions of  recent  authorship  to  this  theme 
all  bear  the  same  stamp.  The  writers 
of  the  books  entitled  "Jesus  and  his 
Biographers,"  and  "  The  Veil  Partly 
Lifted,"  of  "  Ecce  Homo  "  and  "  Ecce 
Deus,"  and  Strauss  and  Kenan,  the 
most  of  them  not  orthodox,  and  some 
of  them  very  sceptical,  yet  all  unite  in 
pouring  out  homages  at  his  feet,  —  at 
the  feet  of  the  divinest  man. 

III.  Let  me  now  say  something,  in 
the  third  place,  of  the  modifications, 
the  various  forms  into  which  religion 
has  branched  out  in  its  growtli,  and  of 
the  view  which,  I  think,  is  to  be  enter- 
tained of  them. 

In  taking  this  survey,  I  stand — or 
at  least  in  this  discourse  I  propose  to 
take  a  position  —  above  all  forms,  all 
dogmatic  faiths,  all  sects.  In  theology, 
I  differ  from  others  ;  all  men  must  dif- 
fer, more  or  less,  one  from  another.  In 
theology,  I  dispute  ;  I  accept  or  I  re- 
ject this  or  that.  But  in  a  larger  phi- 
losophy, taking  the  broadest  view  of 
religion,  I  think  a  man  might  say,  with- 
out any  undue  assumption,  —  I  compre- 
hend all  ;   I  quarrel  with  none. 

When  I  look  even  at  heathenism  in 
religion,  and  when  I  see  that,  at  the 
time,  there  could  be  no  better  ;  that 
men's  minds  could  reach  to  nothing 
higher,  —  I  say,  I  am  glad  there  was  that. 
I  do  not  scorn  it,  nor  brand  it  as  utterly 
bad.  I  find  something  to  sympathize 
with,  in  the  religion  of  the  darkest  ages, 
—  the  ultimate  intent,  the  looking  up  to 
heaven  with  dim  and  awe-struck  gaze. 


TRUTH    IN   ALL   RELIGIONS. 


687 


The  miner  welcomes  any  shining  grains 
of  golden  ore,  however  incrusted  with 
rust  and  rubbish.  As  ciiildhood,  in  its 
ignorance,  its  errors  and  crudities  of 
conception,  is  to  be  regarded  with  ten- 
derness and  forbearance,  so  is  heathen- 
ism. 

For,  let  it  be  more  distinctly  consid- 
ered that  all  men's  religion,  every  man's 
religious  system,  is  of  necessity  the  best 
that  he  knows  or  can  conceive  of.  It  is 
not  in  human  nature  to  accept  an  infe- 
rior thing  when  it  sees  that  which  seems 
to  it  better.  The  rudest  barbarians,  if 
better  things  are  offered  to  them  than 
they  have,  and  which  they  know  to  be 
better,  —  better  arms  to  fight  with,  better 
contrivances  for  hunting,  trapping,  or 
tillage,  could  not  help  adopting  them. 
Nay,  and  the  better  things,  too  suddenly 
put  into  their  hands, — exploding  guns 
instead  of  bows  and  arrows,  steel  traps 
instead  of  gins  and  snares,  — might  only 
injure  them,  or  tear  them  to  pieces. 
And  so  with  faiths.  And  so  it  seems  to 
be  a  part  of  the  Providential  order,  that 
nations  and  communities  in  their  re- 
ligion, should  advance  slowly  to  do  so 
safely.  New  ideas  in  religion,  thrust 
suddenly  upon  them,  might  only  tear 
and  rend  their  religious  faith.  It  would 
be  putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles,  or 
new  cloth  to  old  garments,  with  the  con- 
sequences indicated  by  the  Master. 

I  do  not  say,  of  course,  that  ignorant 
people  and  nations  should  not  be  taught 
better  things.  Certainly  I  do  not  ob- 
ject to  judicious  Christian  missions. 
But  I  think  it  is  a  wise  proceeding  on 
their  part,  when  they  direct  their  spe- 
cial attention  to  the  young,  to  teaching 
the  children  in  schools,  as  Schwartz 
did,  and  Mr.  Dall  is  doing  in  India  ; 
or  to  teaching  agriculture  and  the 
practical  arts  -with  religion,  as  other 
missionaries,  and  especially  the  Roman 
Catholic,  have  done.  Our  Protestant 
missionaries,  some  of  them,  have  seemed 
to  think,  that  with  the  five  points,  —  tlie 
bare,  naked  five  points  —  thrust  into 
men's  faces,  they  could  pierce  hide- 
bound Heathenism,  and  bring  it  captive 


to  Christ.  But  all  such  efforts  have 
met  with  signal  failure.  It  may  be  said 
that,  at  the  first,  Christianity  came  sud- 
denly to  the  nations  with  its  message. 
But  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the 
Apostles  of  the  holy  mission  preached, 
not  to  ignorant  barbarians,  but  in  pol- 
ished cities,  where  the  Roman  law  and 
the  Greek  literature  had  diffused  their 
influence. 

I  am  saying  that  the  view  taken,  even 
of  the  Pagan  systems,  should  be  one  of 
candor  and  consideration,  rather  than 
the  prejudiced  and  proscrijjtive  one 
that  usually  is  taken.  But  yet  more 
true,  of  course,  is  this,  of  the  Christian 
systems  and  sects.  Nay,  I  believe 
that  every  Christian  sect  has  something 
right  in  its  system  ;  and  yet  more, 
something  right  at  heart,  even  the  intent 
to  be  right.  But  in  every  system,  I  say, 
there  is  some  good  principle,  some  val- 
uable element,  that  attaches  to  it  its 
adherents.  The  orderly  decorum  of  the 
Church  of  England  service,  the  good 
and  fit  opening  exhortation  ( in  the 
beginning  of  every  religious  service  I 
always  want  to  say  something  like  t/iai), 
the  cheerful  and  solemn  chantings,  the 
prayers,  and  the  Litany,  for  the  most 
part,  but  especially  those  lovely  Col- 
lects ;  the  Readings  and  Responses,  the 
part  which  the  Congregation  takes  in  the 
audible  worship ;  but  then,  on  the  other 
hand,  and  the  farthest  extreme  from 
that,  the  freedom,  for  the  outpourings 
of  feeling,  of  the  Methodist  worship, 
the  social  and  affectionate  character 
of  the  Methodist  usages  and  teachings, 
the  heart-warmth  that  beats  througli 
all  the  irregularities  of  love-feasts  and 
camp-meetings  ;  then,  the  austerity  of 
Calvinism,  whether  Presbyterian.  Con- 
gregational, or  Baptist,  and  especially  as 
it  determines  upon  the  life,  to  make  it, 
what  it  is,  a  strict  and  perilous  trial- 
time  for  all  mortal  men  ;  and  again,  the 
more  rational  and  liberal  tenor  of  the 
Arminian,  Unitarian,  and  Universalist 
faith  ;  and  the  fine  humanity  and  spirit- 
uahsm  of  the  mystic,  Swedenborg  ;  and 
the  simple  intuitive  reliance  and  broth- 


688 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


erly  charity  of  the  Friends  ;  and,  stand- 
ing over  all,  in  its  claims,  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  setting  up  Religion, 
in  absolute  sovereignty  over  the  world, 
though  wrongly  placing  it  in  one  fallible 
human  hand,  — each  and  all  of  these 
systems  and  churches,  I  say,  have 
something  in  them  to  win  our  respect 
and  sympathy.  I  stretch  out  my  hands 
in  charity  and  accord  to  the  main  in- 
tent of  them  all.  I  have  an  eclectic 
principle  that  enables  me  to  separate  the 
good  from  what  I  think  to  be  the  evil, 
in  everyone  of  them. 

I  am  sensible  that  this  is  not  the 
attitude  usually  taken  towards  the  re- 
ligions of  the  world.  It  is  condemna- 
tion that  is  commonly  dealt  out  by  each 
one  to  all  the  rest.  And  if  religion  were 
solely  a  matter  of  controversy,  this 
doubtless  would  be  the  honest  stand- 
point :  each  one,  of  course,  must  think 
its  own  way  the  best.  But  why  should 
it  be  solely  a  matter  of  controversy  ? 
Why  should  not  the  deep  interest  at 
stake,  the  difficulty  and  darkness  that 
surround  it,  and  the  claimed  sincerity 
of  all,  make  it  a  subject  of  profound 
and  even  affectionate  sympathy  ?  Why 
should  a  man,  when  he  sees  his  neigh- 
bor going  to  church,  say  in  his  mind, 
'■'■He  is  going  to  another  church,  —  a 
formal  Episcopal  Church,  or  a  grim 
Presbyterian,  or  a  heretic  Unitarian  ? '' 
Or  when  he  looks  over  to  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  and  thinks  of  the  Brahmin 
or  the  Buddhist  resorting  to  his  temple, 
why  should  he  regard  only  with  aversion 
or  scorn  the  poor  Pagan  worshipper? 
This  weary  and  burdened  humanity,  sin- 
stricken  and  saddened  with  its  errings, 
seeking  for  help;  this  bewildered  and 
blinded  nature,  penetrated  with  the 
great  idea  of  God,  and  seeking,  —  to  use 
the  touching  words  of  Paul,  —  "seek- 
ing, if  haply  it  may  feel  after  him  and 
find  him  ;  "  these  brother-souls  around 
us,  gathering  together  for  worship,  for 
prayer,  drawn  by  private  griefs  and 
strugglings  which  none  but  God  only 
knows,  drawn  from  homes  where  trial 
and  sorrow  and  bereavement  are,  and 


where  death  shall  soon  be,  — what  can 
win  us  to  tenderness  and  sympathy  if 
not  this  ! 

But  if  any  of  those  who  thus  go  to 
worship  the  Infinite  One,  and  to  seek 
favor  and  blessing  from  heaven,  take 
upon  them  to  say,  "  We  only  are  in  the 
right,  ours  is  the  only  plan  of  salvation  ;  " 
if  any  sectarian,  rending  the  seamless 
robe  of  Christ,  while  snatching  at  the 
whole  of  it  to  cover  himself  alone,  —  if 
any  sectarian  shall  say  that  Jiis  is  the 
only  Chitrch,  and  all  others  but  heretic 
meetings,  I  am  tempted  to  answer,  "Good  j 
sir,  content  yourself;  you  have  not  this 
matter  to  decide  upon  :  there  is  a  larger 
thought  than  yours,  which  takes  you  in 
also  ;  have  more  comfort  in  religion,  and 
a  little  less  assurance  ;  hast  thou  faith  ? 
have  it  to  thyself  before  God.  Happy 
is  he  that  condemneth  not  himself  in 
that  thing  which  he  alloweth."  For 
why,  —  as  St.  Paul  also  says,  —  "why 
dost  thou  judge  thy  brother  ?  or  why 
dost  thou  set  at  nought  thy  brother  ?  for 
we  shall  all  stand  before  the  judgment- 
seat  of  Christ." 

IV.  Having  thus  .spoken  of  religion 
in  its  root  and  growth  and  branches,  it 
remains  to  consider,  in  the  fourth  place, 
what  it  is,  as  fruit  to  feed  and  strengthen 
the  soul:  what  are  its  cardinal  truths 
and  indispensable  duties.  From  all 
questions  about  creeds  and  churches 
and  sects  we  naturally  appeal,  as  the 
prophet  did,  to  what  is  simple  and  cer- 
tain in  religion  :  "He  hath  showed  thee, 
O  man,  what  is  good.  And  what  doth 
the  Lord  require  of  thee,  but  to  do  justly, 
and  to  love  mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly 
with  thy  God  ?  " 

There  are  two  theories  or  ways  of 
thinking  about  religion, —  the  theory 
of  nonchalance,  of  indifference,  and  the 
theory  of  true  and  profound  interest  in 
it.  There  is  a  theory  of  nonchalance  ; 
and  it  is  the  ground  taken  by  more  per- 
sons, I  suspect,  than  we  may  imagine. 
There  are  many  who  say,  "  Religion  is 
something  that  we  cannot  understand, 
and  with  which  we  do  not  concern  our- 
selves.     The  wise   differ  about  it,  the 


TRUTH    IN   ALL   RELIGIONS. 


689 


learned  dispute,  the  sects  are  all  at 
variance  :  lo  !  here,  lo  !  there,  tljey  say : 
and  amidst  the  confusion,  we  find  noth- 
insj  better  than  to  retire  and  stand  aloof. 
Besides,  we  do  not  see  any  relation  that 
the  matter  has  to  our  real  happiness. 
The  teachers  tell  us  that  it  will  have ; 
but  we  cannot  be  driven  into  anything 
by  our  selfish  fears.  We  had  rather  be 
indifferent  than  superstitious.  And  the 
Church,  though  it  calls,  does  not  win  us. 
It  appears  to  be  a  body  of  initiated  per- 
sons ;  they  profess  to  have  some  pecul- 
iar experience,  from  which  we  are  ex- 
cluded as  the  profane  world  ;  and  what 
can  we  do  but  stand  apart  in  utter  in- 
difference .''  " 

If  this  nonchalance  stopped  at  forms, 
or  even  at  creeds,  at  abstruse  specula- 
tions, I  could  understand  it.  But  if  it 
extends  to  the  great  reality  lying  beneath 
all,  then  I  must  stand  clear  from  it,  in 
absolute  wonder  at  its  position.  I  can- 
not speak  for  others  ;  but  for  myself,  I 
should  think  myself  an  idiot,  if  I  did 
not  take  the  profoundest  interest  in 
religion.  The  lenity  with  which  I  have 
spoken  of  other  forms  of  faith  does  not 
make  me  any  less  a  believer  in  my 
own.  I  am  a  believer  in  Christianity  ;  of 
course,  if  I  were  not,  I  should  not  stand 
in  this  pulpit  ;  but  I  am,  moreover,  a 
believer  in  a  particular  interpretation  of 
Christianity,  —  not  as  accepting  every- 
thing that  comes  under  its  name,  but  as 
holding  that  construction  of  the  Great 
Religion  in  preference  to  any  other. 

I  believe  in  one  God.  I  beHeve  in  the 
Father,  the  one  God  ;  and  I  believe  in  the 
Son:  and  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost:  not 
that  these  three  are  one,  but  that  these 
three  expressions  stand  for  great  and 
precious  and  fundamental  statements 
of  the  Christian  faith.  What  is  meant 
by  the  first  two,  is  obvious,  and  does  not 
here  require  explanation  ;  but  I  believe 
in  the  Holy  Ghost.  —  i.  e.,  in  a  divine 
power  spiritually  working  in  the  world, 
and  in  all  the  hearts  of  men. 

I  believe  also  in  man  ;  not  in  his  per- 
fection, but  that  his  imperfection  implies 
that  there   is    something   undeveloped, 


unfinished  in  him,  and  that  he  is  capable 
of  advancing  towards  perfection.  Ani- 
mals are  perfect  in  their  kind  :  the  bird 
cannot  be  more  perfect  than  it  is ;  there 
is  nothing  undeveloped  in  it ;  and  it  has 
no  idea  of  going  beyond.  It  is  not  so 
with  man.  I  believe  in  man  ;  in  his 
conscience,  in  his  moral  freedom,  and  in 
his  power  to  do  right  ;  and  that  he  doss 
something  right  :  that  he  is  neither  nat- 
urally nor  altogether  wrong.  This  faith 
in  man  is  instinctive  ;  and  it  is  remark- 
able to  see,  notwithstanding  all  the  de- 
ception and  wrong  we  meet  with,  how 
naturally  we  all  believe  in  what  our 
neighbor  says  or  promises  to  us.  A 
thousand  times,  perhaps,  we  are  de- 
ceived :  and  still  we  go  on  believing. 
This  shows  that  to  ourselves  it  is  not 
natural  to  lie ;  and  he  who  always  acts 
as  if  he  were  going  to  be  taken  in,  is 
denaturalized,  if  not  worse. 

1  beheve  in  goodness.  I  believe  in 
the  goodness  of  many  around  me  ;  but  I 
mean,  now,  that  I  believe  in  absolute 
goodness,  —  in  its  reality,  its  precious- 
ness,  its  infinite  preciousness.  I  believe 
in  nothing  else  as  I  believe  in  that.  I 
believe  that  pure  love  —  pure,  unselfish, 
uncalculating,  unstinted  love  —  is  the 
chief  good,  the  only  essential  good,  the 
infinite  and  eternal  good ;  that  it  is 
blessing,  beatitude,  blessedness,  —  the 
blessedness  of  the  Infinite  Being  and 
of  all  his  rational   creatures. 

I  am  saying  these  things  in  the  way  of 
statement,  rather  than  reasoning.  I  am 
speaking  as  it  were  in  apothegms  ;  let 
me  go  on  to  do  so,  in  a  few  more  words, 
and  thus  to  express  freely  my  thoughts 
of  the  best  and  highest  things  ;  for  these 
are  my  religion. 

We  all  believe  in  prayer  in  some  sense  ; 
it  is  distinctively  the  great  thing  in  re- 
ligion. But  the  best  of  all  prayers  is 
that  which  rises  spontaneously  in  the 
heart,  in  the  silent  walk,  in  the  still  cham- 
ber, or  it  may  be  in  the  busy  throng  of 
life,  —  the  thanksgiving  that  rises  like 
incense,  the  devotion  unbidden,  the  ab- 
sorption into  God,  which  says,  '•  I  have 
all  in  Thee  ;  I  want  nothing:  do  with 


44 


690 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


me  what  Thou  wilt,  now  in  time  and 
hereafter  in  eternity.  I  am  happy,  I  am 
full  of  joy  ;  having  all  in  Thee,  1  desire 
nothing  beside." 

And  yet  because -we  are  liable  to  for- 
get God,  and  we  want  to  live  our  instant 
and  perpetual  life  in  Him,  it  is  meet  that 
we  have  some  distinct  time  or  times, 
every  day,  for  this  recollection  and  com- 
munion. And  besides,  there  must  be 
something  of  method  in  our  deepest 
studies  and  most  earnest  pursuits,  that 
we  may  grow  and  gain  success  in  them. 

But  nevertheless,  since  prayer  is  so 
great  an  action  that  the  mind  sometimes 
shrinks  from  it,  in  its  weakness  and 
weariness,  and  because  all  enforced  for- 
mality is  liable  to  be  irksome,  it  is  also 
meet  and  best  that  we  should  resort  to 
our  secret  devotions  in  great  freedom, 
as  to  the  manner  or  order,  —  almost  with- 
out order,  and  with  no  precise  method  ; 
walking  or  sitting  or  kneeling,  as  is 
most  natural  to  the  mind's  mood  at  the 
time:  let  there  be  meditations,  or  self- 
communings,  or  the  thoughts  that  may 
freely  arise,  —  thoughts  of  our  duties  or 
failures,  or  of  Providence,  or  of  the  In- 
finite Goodness  ;  just  to  rest  for  the  time 
in  the  all-embosoming  sense  of  things 
divine.  Prayer  should  not  be  all  hard 
and  strenuous  supplication,  but  some- 
times reasonings  of  the  heart  with  itself, 
or  expansions  of  the  soul  into  the  infinite 
realm  of  light  and  life.  Thus  spoke  to 
me,  and  in  this  wise,  a  sage  and  venerable 
teacher  in  theology,  to  whom  I  once  re- 
sorted to  commune  with  him  upon  the 
troubles  of  my  mind  in  this  very  thing; 
and  he  told  me  that  he  commonly  went 
for  his  daily  devotions  to  walk  in  a  grove 
near  his  house.  Let  no  one  speak  of 
this  daily  resort  as  "going  to  say  his 
prayers  :  "  the  very  phrase  is  an  offence ; 
but  let  him  say,  —  it  is  going  to  God, 
going  to  find  the  infinite  resource  and 
treasure  and  felicity.  Wisdom,  beauty, 
glorv,  beneficence  so  wonderful,  all 
around  us,  and  appealing  to  us  through 
every  wonderful  sense  and  faculty  ;  who 
that  has  a  rational  soul  must  not  pause, 
from  time  to  time,  to  think  of  it  ? 


Devotion  is  subject  to  some  new  and 
unusual^  trials  under  the  Hght  of  mod- 
ern science.  Millions  of  creatures  in  a 
drop  of  water,  millions  of  glorious  orbs 
rolling  through  seemingly  unbounded 
space,  and  all  these,  it  may  be,  but  a 
portion  of  the  works  of  God,  —  our 
minds  stagger  under  the  stupendous 
conception  of  such  a  Being,  and  our 
thoughts  are  liable  to  sink  into  vague- 
ness and  obscurit}',  if  not  incredulity 
and  scepticism  !  But  God  is  :  some 
Cause  there  must  be  for  all  these  won- 
ders, and  that  Cause  must  be  good. 
My  mind,  sinking  into  whatever  awful 
questions  it  may,  settles  firmly  upon 
that.  My  nature  in  every  faculty  pro- 
claims an  Infinite  Goodness.  And  such 
beneficent  adaptations  to  every  sense 
and  power  in  me,  —  gratification  for 
taste  and  smell  and  touch,  visions  of 
beauty  for  the  eye,  music  for  the  ear, 
truth  for  the  mind,  sanctity  and  love 
for  the  soul,  —  what  can  manifest  good- 
ness if  all  this  does  not  ?  My  whole 
being  is  one  living  embodiment  of  mani- 
festation ;  and  I  should  be  guilty  of 
denial  and  treason  to  my  very  nature, 
if  I  \Vere  not  a  religious,  reverent,  and 
grateful  creature  of  the  God  who  made 
me. 

But  rehgion  is  not  all  devoutness. 
Piety  is  the  first  commandment  ;  but 
virtue  is  like  it,  —  equally  requisite. 
Religion  is  not  spirituality  alone,  as 
men  construe  that  word  ;  it  is  right 
living,  fair  dealing,  in  act  and  word  and 
thought,  honest  buying  and  selling  ;  it 
is  speaking  the  truth,  and  speaking  it 
in  love,  —  never  causelessly  to  hurt 
or  harm  any  one,  never  calling  any 
man,  but  with  great  pain,  a  bad  man.; 
it  is  friendliness  and  forbearance  and 
a  loving  heart;  it  is  self-control,  self- 
denial,  self-sacrifice,  when  occasion 
calls. 

How   must    a    man    be    girded   with 
strength,  to  do  and  to  be  all  this  !     And 
yet  what  weakness  in  all  mortal  hearts  !j 
What  exposures  to  selfishness  and  im- 
patience and  passion  and  appetite,  and  ' 
a   thousand   wily  temptations  1     There 


THE   SYMBOL   AND   THE   REALITY 


691 


must  be  watching,  and  praying,  and 
resolving,  and  the  strong  will.  "  Be 
strong,''  said  the  angel  to, Daniel,  "yea, 
be  strong."  "  More  power  is  shown," 
said  Starr  King,  "in  silently  treading 
a  passion  (like  ambition)  under  foot, 
and  thus  being  unknown,  than  when  it 
blazes  forth,  and  makes  a  great  fame." 
And  here  we  stand  in  these  mortal  lists, 
in  this  battle  of  life,  to  fight  with  cour- 
age and  win  the  day,  or  to  succumb  and 
sink  in  cowardice  and  shame  and  mis- 
erable defeat. 

The  fight  goes  hard,  indeed,  with  the 
very  condition  of  our  being,  —  with  what 
we  are.,  and  the  state  in  wiiich  we  are. 
That  we  should  be  so  weak,  and  yet 
have  such  a  work  to  do  ;  that  such  tre- 
mendous issues  should  hang  upon  our 
feeble  will,  —  happiness  or  misery,  such 
as  we  are  capable  of,  health  or  disease, 
glory  or  shame  ;  and  then  that  we  are 
environed,  beset  with  such  difficulties  ; 
that  such  clouds  should  be  spread  over 
all  the  scene,  and  that  such  awful  things 
should  be  going  on  beneath  them,  — 
wars,  and  famines,  and  pestilences,  and 
earthquakes  ;  and  yet  that  this  should 
be  God's  world, —  God's  wisdom  in  it, 
God's  infinite  love  brooding  over  it,  — 
I  believe  it  ;  I  have  worked  my  way 
out  through  days  and  years-  of  reason- 
ing, and  I  stand  firm  and  calm  in  that 
faith.  But  great  is  that  faith  ;  all  the 
powers  of  our  being,  spiritual  and  intel- 
lectual, are  gathered  up  in  that  action. 
Well  does  an  apostle  say,  "  And  this  is 
the  victory,  even  our  faith." 

God  has  surrounded  our  being  with 
mysteries  ;  and  he  has  given  us  that 
faith  to  conquer  by,  —  that  one  staff  to 
walk  by.  C)uit  that,  and  all  is  wander- 
ing and  stumbling,  in  chaos,  in  utter 
darkness.  To  all  questions  about  re- 
ligion,—  root,  growth,  branches,  sys- 
tems of  religion,  —  sects,  churches,  rites, 
forms,  philosophies,  this  is  the  answer: 
"  He  hath  showed  thee,  O  man,  what 
is  good  :  and  what  doth  the  Lord  re- 
quire of  thee,  but  to  do  justly,  to  love 
mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly  with  thy 
God.?" 


VL 

THE  SYMBOL  AND  THE  REALITY. 

Psalm  xxxix.  6  :  "  Surely  every  man  walketh  in 
a  vain  show." 

There  is  a  failure  to  apprehend 
the  reality  in  life.  There  is,  amidst 
its  boundless  activity  and  engrossing 
earnestness,  a  failure  to  grasp  the  real 
and  vital  thing  that  most  concerns  us, 
to  which  I  wish  to  invite  your  thoughts 
in  this  morning's  meditation.  There  are 
many  men,  if  I  do  not  misjudge  the 
tenor  of  their  lives,  who  are  "  walking 
in  a  vain  show."  Tliey  do  not  pene- 
trate beneath  the  surface  to  the  inmost 
meaning  of  their  life.  There  is  some- 
thing in  life  which  they  have  never 
reached, — an  interest,  a  charm,  a  glory 
in  life  which  they  have  never  perceived. 
They  are  dealing  witii  forms  and  with 
facts,  and  that  is  unavoidable  ;  but  they 
do  not  go  beyond,  as  they  ought,  to  the 
meaning  of  the  forms,  to  the  philosophy 
of  the  facts.  Animals  live,  we  suppose, 
without  any  of  this  deeper,  this  ulterior 
consideration  of  things  ;  and  in  this  re- 
spect the  life  of  most  men  is  too  much 
an  animal  life. 

Let  me  state  the  point  with  a  little 
more  formality.  We  are  wont  to  say 
that  the  universe,  the  world,  life,  —  all 
that  exists,  in  short,  —  is  composed  or 
two  parts,  the  visible  and  the  invisible  ; 
and  further,  that  the  visible  reveals  the 
invisible.  Thus  it  is  said  in  Scripture, 
that  the  invisible  things  of  God  are 
known  by  the  things  that  are  made, 
even  his  eternal  power  and  Godhead. 
The  visible  things,  then,  are  symbols. 
They  are  not  the  great  realities,  but 
symbols  of  those  realities.  The  visi- 
ble human  form,  for  instance,  is  but  a 
symbol  of  the  reality,  the  spirit  within  ; 
and  all  its  visible  action,  occupation, 
toil,  change,  all  sickness,  health,  ful- 
ness, want,  pursuit,  attainment,  —  the 
whole  busy  round  of  life,  is  symbolical ; 
it  means  something  else  than  appears. 
The  world  itself  is  a  symbol  ;  the  uni- 
verse is  a  symbol.     Now  what  I  say  is, 


692 


THE  TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


that  most  men  stop  at  the  symbol,  at 
the  outside  appearance,  and  do  not  go 
to  the  reality  that  is  shadowed  forth 
by  it. 

Let  your  thoughts  carry  this  into  de- 
tail a  moment,  and  see  if  it  is  not  true. 
A  man  is  engaged  in  a  profession,  or 
occupied  with  business  or  with  toil. 
How  seldom  does  he  go  beneath  the 
visible  fact  to  the  deeper  meaning  of  all 
this  !  The  affairs  of  life  are  machinery 
to  most  men  ;  the  deeper  philosophy  of 
things  is  out  of  their  sight.  This  whole 
sphere  of  things  called  business  is 
meant  for  culture  ;  who  thinks  of  it  as 
culture  ? 

Again,  a  man  is  sick.  Now  there  was 
no  need  in  the  nature  of  things,  i.  e.,  in 
his  material  nature,  that  he  should  be 
sick.  In  that  he  has  a  body  there  was 
no  need  of  it.  Animals  seldom  suffer 
under  this  corrective  discipline.  Will 
it  be  said  that  man  is  endowed  with  a 
more  delicate  physical  organization,  and 
that  is  the  reason  ?  Very  well ;  that 
carries  us  back  a  step  farther.  Why 
has  he  this  more  delicate  organization  ? 
For  the  culture  of  the  soul.  It  tends  to 
accomplish  that  end  ;  why  then  should 
we  not  say  that  was  its  design  ?  The 
sickness  of  the  body,  then,  is  part  of  a 
system  of  moral  development  and  ad- 
vancement. Often  it  is  the  very  con- 
sequence and  corrective  of  moral  evil. 
Always  it  calls  for  moral  strength.  And 
yet  it  is  very  possible  to  pass  through  a 
severe  illness,  the  most  monitory  fact  in 
life,  penetrative  and  piercing  almost  as 
conscience  itself,  without  any  thought  of 
the  deeper  meaning  of  the  dispensation. 
It  is  not  merely  a  want  of  religion  of 
wliich  I  speak  ;  it  is  a  want  of  general 
insight  into  the  meaning  of  things.  We 
walk  "  in  a  vain  show."  The  word  ren- 
dered show  means  an  image,  a  shadow. 
And  it  is  amidst  shadows  that  we  live. 
We  live,  and  know  not  what  it  is  to  live; 
we  suffer,  but  know  not  wherefore ;  we 
rejoice,  but  to  no  lofty  end.  We  are 
high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  without  know- 
ing the  meanings  of  greatness  or  hum- 
bleness, or  the  real  and  ultimate  ends  of 


wealth  or  poverty.  Our  life,  it  is  to  be 
observed,  is  necessarily  a  visible  action, 
a  series  of  events,  a  succession  of  sen- 
sitive pleasures  and  pains,  a  train  of 
physical  causes  and  effects.  The  ques- 
tion is,  to  what  deeper  design  and  dis- 
cipline does  all  this  point  ?  And  with 
this  question,  I  think,  but  few  minds  are 
habitually  conversant.  In  a  crowd  of- 
cares,  in  the  throng  of  society,  in  the 
whirl  of  alternate  occupation  and  pleas- 
ure, most  men  pass  their  lives  ;  and  too 
often,  amidst  it  all,  there  is  no  large 
philosophy,  no  deep  meditation,  no  gen- 
uine spirituality,  and  no  effectual  faith. 

The  Symbol  and  the  Reality,  then,  — 
let  this  be  the  theme  of  our  present 
meditation.  I  have  spoken  of  the  gen- 
eral failure  to  apprehend  the  reality. 
Let  us  first  consider  some  of  the  causes 
of  this  defect,  and  next  the  remedy 
for  it. 

I.  The  first  cause  is  found  in  the 
necessary  preponderance,  at  the  earliest 
periods  of  life,  of  the  physical  over  the 
spiritual  man.  This  consideration  is  so  - 
obvious  that  I  need  not  dwell  upon  it. 
Our  childhood  is  nourished,  supported, 
educated  by  the  visible,  by  symbols  ; 
and  is  not  to  be  required  immediately 
to  enter  into  the  deeper  and  more  rec- 
ondite meknings  of  things.  A  child 
must  be  expected,  in  the  round  of  his 
pleasures  and  studies,  often  to  tread  un- 
consciously on  the  hidden  springs  of 
wisdom  and  mystery.  More  than  is 
usual,  indeed,  they  should  be  laid  open 
to  him.  Thus,  for  instance,  I  have  often 
known  a  child  of  eight  or  ten  years 
old  earnestly  to  inquire  why  it  must 
learn,  why  its  studies  must  be  so  hard, 
why  it  may  not  neglect  the  harder  tasks, 
and  sport  away  its  days  in  ease  and 
pleasure.  This  may  be  an  occasion,  I 
think,  for  explaining  something  of  God's 
great  discipline  in  human  hfe,  for  show- 
ing that  tasks  are  given  to  develop  en- 
ergies, and  trials  to  nurture  submission 
and  patience.  The  child  may  be  told 
that  if  his  mind  were  not  put  to  task  he 
would  always  be  a  child,  —  he  would 
never  grow  up  to  be  a  man. 


THE   SYMBOL   AND   THE   REALITY 


693 


If  more  of  this  nature  were  taught, 
if  especially  the  youth  who  is  going 
tlirough  the  rounds  of  professional,  mer- 
cantile, or  mechanical  apprenticeship, 
were  instructed  more  than  he  is  in  the 
principles  of  things,  were  taught  to 
reason  and  reflect,  he  would  be  saved, 
in  part,  from  the  operation  of  the  second 
cause  I  was  about  to  mention,  and,  that 
is  routine. 

Routine,  I  say,  receives  the  pupil  of 
technical  education  and  sends  him  in 
the  mill-horse  round  of  life,  no  wiser 
to-day  than  he  was  yesterday,  no  wiser 
at  forty  than  he  was  at  twenty.  Some 
added  slcill  he  acquires  in  performing 
his  daily  tasks,  but  no  added  wisdom,  it 
may  be,  in  regard  to  their  ultimate  design 
and  meaning.  Thus  the  care  of  the 
house,  the  care  of  the  farm,  the  care  of 
the  manufactory,  the  warehouse,  the 
office,  instead  of  becoming  a  field  of 
expansive  improvement,  becomes  a 
mechanism  to  lock  up  the  faculties  in 
barren  sterility.  The  busy  action  of  life 
frustrates  its  very  intent.  This,  I  say, 
is  the  effect  of  routine.  If  the  things 
we  do  every  day  were  done  but  once  in 
)ife,  they  would  arrest  the  mind  and 
awaken  reflection.  But  this  constant 
repetition  of  every  day's  task  makes 
the  whole  formal  and  factitious.  Life  is 
bereft  of  vitality.  The  action  lacks  the 
interpreting  thought.  We  cease  to  know 
why  we  act  —  almost  why  we  live. 

This  effect,  again,  is  increased  by  the 
pressure  of  occupation.  So  much  to  do, 
leaves  us  little  time  to  think.  If  we 
solemnly  set  apart  a  season  each  day 
for  meditation  and  prayer,  this  tendency 
of  business  to  sink  the  spiritual  nature 
out  of  sight  may  be  happily  controlled. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  a  man  who  rises  in 
the  morning  with  only  time  to  make  his 
toilet  and  hurry  to  his  morning  meal, 
who  then  hastens  to  his  business,  and 
then  back  again  to  his  dinner,  and  after- 
wards perhaps  to  business  or  to  business 
studies  again,  and  finally  sinks  to  stupor 
by  his  fireside  or  rushes  into  society,  — 
this  man,  I  say,  is  likely  to  go  blind  and 
stumbling  through  all  the  moral  emer- 


gencies of  his  being,  througli  the  infinite 
of  things  that  surrounds  him,  and  to 
know  nothing,  nothing  of  himself,  noth- 
ing of  God,  nothing  of  the  grandeur  of 
his  existence,  nothing  of  all  those  sub- 
lime teachings  that  are  breathed  alike 
from  the  stars  above  him  and  from  every 
wayside  around  him. 

And  now,  in  fine,  when  education  and 
routine  and  occupation  have  conducted 
a  man  to  the  point  towards  which  most 
men  are  pressing,  —  that  is  to  say,  to 
the  possession  of  property,  to  wealtl^, — 
what  is  the  effect  of  this  condition .'' 
Still  more,  I  fear,  to  protect  and  to 
shield  him,  so  to  speak,  from  the  naked 
realities  of  life.  Oh  !  the  way  in  which 
a  man  knows  life,  who  takes  it  shivering 
and  shelterless  under  the  storms  of  dis- 
aster and  sorrow,  —  how  different  is  it 
likely  to  be,  from  that  knowledge  which 
comes  through  folding  curtains  and  soft 
raiment!  On  this  account  I  have  come 
to  look  with  considerable  distrust,  I 
confess,  upon  prosperous  fortunes  ;  to 
doubt  whether  they  are  not  often  made 
pillows  to  keep  men  from  the  closest 
contact  with  the  great  spiritual  realities 
of  life.  They  make  men  independent  in 
more  respects  than  is  apt  to  be  well  for 
them  ;  independent  of  exertion,  inde- 
pendent of  the  ordinary  restraints  of 
life,  and  of  its  plain  and  homely  needs 
and  trials  ;  independent  of  one  another. 
For  an  illustration  of  this  last  point, 
though  it  is  not  very  applicable  to  our 
state  of  society,  observe  the  effect  of 
wealth  upon  the  conjugal  relation,  in 
the  opulent  families  of  Europe.  If  a 
difficulty  arises,  the  parties  can  separate, 
live  apart,  keep  separate  establishments: 
that  is  to  say,  they  can  evade  the  moral 
emergency  that  has  arisen.  In  mere 
moderate  circumstances  they  would  be 
o])liged  to  meet  it,  to  compose  the 
difference,  to  learn  patience  and  for- 
bearance. 

Thus  again,  to  take  an  instance  that 
may  occur  anywhere,  —  a  young  person, 
nursed  in  luxury,  has  fallen  into  a  reck- 
less depression  from  some  cause  or 
other ;    she    is    disturbed     and     made 


694 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


almost  sick  by  some  cross  to  pride  or 
passion  ;  in  short,  slie  is  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  spoiled  child  that  needs 
correction  :  and  now  the  friend,  the 
mother,  the  care-taker,  says,  "  Let  us 
surprise  her  with  some  unexpected 
pleasure,  or  let  us  take  her  a  journey, 
or  have  company,  or  some  excursion, 
or  some  recreation."  In  short,  some- 
thing is  devised  to  ward  off  the  ques- 
tion, the  emergency  that  was  designed 
to  call  out  the  energy,  subdue  the  will, 
discipline  the  nature.  In  moderate  cir- 
cumstances, probably,  this  emergency 
must  have  been  fairly  met.  With  the 
easements  of  more  prosperous  condi- 
tion, it  is  escaped. 

Indeed,  what  else,  with  many,  is  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  what  else  are  the 
resorts  of  luxury,  the  indulgences  of 
pampered  sense,  but  escape  ?  They 
bring  no  satisfaction,  but  they  have  an 
indirect  use  ;  and  this  it  is,  —  to  provide 
escape  from  the  inward  need,  to  divert 
the  soul's  craving  from  itself,  to  pour 
the  slaking  draught  over  the  burning 
spot  within,  and  thus  to  soothe  the  irri- 
tation for  the  time. 

Of  course  I  do  not  deny  that  wealth 
may  provide  a  beautiful  ministration  for 
sickness,  for  sick  nerves  and  saddened 
spirits.  Only  let  the  case  for  relief  be 
subjected  to  any  fine  moral  discrimi- 
nation, and  all  is  well.  But  this  con- 
stant indulgence  which  wealth  is  apt  to 
bring  with  it ;  this  perpetual  softening 
of  the  lot,  plastering  of  the  sore,  help- 
ing with  opiates  and  stimulants,  —  how 
different  it  is  from  the  wise  discipline 
of  Providence  !  With  a  rough  hand 
it  shakes  the  indolent  and  the  self- 
indulgent,  —  ay,  the  rough  hand  of  dis- 
ease and  pain.  With  ingredients  dis- 
tilled in  our  very  souls,  and  by  the  very 
fire  of  our  passions,  it  imbitters  every 
cup  of  pride,  every  sweet  that  selfish- 
ness tastes.  With  the  heavy  and  the 
strong  bonds  of  experience  it  brings 
and  compels  a  man  to  stand  before  it, 
as  before  the  master,  to  receive  the 
lesson. 

And  that  the  true  end  and  interest  of 


life  is  that  we  should  learn  the  lesson ; 
that  all  the  visible  pursuits  and  posses- 
sions of  life,  all  its  fortunes  and  vicissi- 
tudes, have  an  ulterior  purpose  and  one 
that  centres  in  the  soul ;  that  the  soul 
and  the  soul's  interest  are  the  great 
realities  which  interpret  all  forms,  all 
modes  of  things,  all  events  on  earth  : 
that  God  made  us  all  for  ends  high  and 
solemn  and  everlasting  as  spiritual  na- 
tures are  high  and  everlasting ;  that  he 
did  not  send  us  into  this  world  to  be 
the  sport  of  a  thousand  accidents,  but 
through  all  to  work  out  a  great  salva- 
tion ;  and,  therefore,  that  the  true  wis- 
dom of  life  is  that,  in  all  things  and  in 
all  situations,  alone  or  in  a  crowd,  at 
home  or  on  a  journey,  laboring  or  re- 
posing, gaining  or  losing,  rejoicing  or 
sorrowing,  we  should  ever  be  conver- 
sant with  this  deep  and  hidden  reality, 
—  all  this,  1  suppose,  is  as  evident  to  any 
moderate  degree  of  reflection  as  it  is 
undoubtedly  recognized  in  our  Christian 
faith. 

II.  I  have  attempted  to  expose  the 
danger  —  from  education,  from  routine, 
from  occupation,  and  from  acquisition  — 
of  losing  sight  of  this  reality.  Let  me 
now,  in  the  next  place,  say  something 
on  the  means  to  be  used  and  the  dis- 
positions to  be  cultivated,  in  resistance 
to  this  tendency  of  so  many  things  to 
keep  us  on  the  surface. 

The  first  is  philosophy,  the  philosophy 
of  life.  Be  not  alarmed,  my  brethren, 
as  if  I  were  now  going  quite  on  to  hea- 
then ground  in  my  teachings  ;  I  say  phi- 
losophy. There  is  little  danger  of  its 
doing  any  harm  ;  for  few  persons  enough 
are  likely  to  know  anything  about  it. 
What  I  recommend  is,  some  mental 
task ;  enough  reading,  enougli  reflec- 
tion, enough  listening  to  the  pulpit,  if 
that  really  teaches  us,  to  establish  in 
our  minds  some  general  view  and  theory 
of  life  as  a  whole  ;  of  its  real  end,  and  of 
the  way  in  which  its  visible  action  minis- 
ters to  that  end.  There  is  a  sad  want  of 
books  on  the  subject,  especially  in  our 
own  language  ;  for  Germany  and  France 
have    been  much  more   fruitful  in  this 


THE   SYMBOL   AND   THE   REALITY. 


695 


kind  of  disquisition.  But  still  I  would 
advise  the  reading  of  what  there  is 
among  us.  Or  at  least,  if  one  has  lime 
for  nothing  else,  let  him  read  George 
Combe's  book  on  the  Constitution  of 
Man.  He  will  find  himself  assisted  in 
one  department  of  the  philosophy  of 
life,  that  of  the  human  system.  He 
will  find  that  beneath  its  fleshly  cover- 
ings and  its  obvious  passions  lie  hidden 
many  spiritual  meanings.  If  all  nature 
and  all  life  were  thus  disclosed  to  us,  if 
all  the  processes  and  relations  of  hu- 
man and  earthly  things  were  thus  inter- 
preted, what  an  unveiling  would  that 
be  !  —  how  would  the  dead  fact  on  every 
side  take  a  soul,  and  the  dumb  event 
speak  out,  and  the  barren  forms  of  things 
be  clothed  with  living  expression  !  We 
should  then  commune  with  the  interior 
soul  of  life  ;  because  all  events  would 
be  a  language  discoursing  evermore  of 
that  very  thing.  The  heavens  and  the 
earth  would  be  written  over  with  that 
language,  and  the  whole  of  life  would 
be  a  converse,  more  or  less  directly, 
with  that  hidden  wisdom. 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  say  that 
some  particular  time  must  be  taken  for 
this  kind  of  study  and  effort ;  and  es- 
pecially for  the  practical,  or,  if  I  may 
say  so,  the  executive  part  of  it.  To 
meditate  daily,  to  pray  daily,  seems  a 
means  indispensable  for  breaking  this 
surface  crust  of  formality,  habit,  rou- 
tine, which  hides  the  living  springs  of 
wisdom.  To  counteract  the  tendency 
of  engrossing  business  or  care,  and  es- 
pecially of  luxurious  condition  or  of  the 
ambition  to  be  great  in  the  world,  there 
seems  necessary,  from  time  to  time,  a 
strong  impression  of  the  unseen  reali- 
ties of  our  being.  This  impression,  by 
the  very  laws  of  the  mind,  is  to  be 
gained  only  by  fixed  attention  ;  and 
this  serious  and  devoted  attention  is 
the  very  meditation  and  prayer  that  I 
recommend. 

I  will  not  enlarge  here  upon  the  obvi- 
ous importance  of  this  daily,  this  deeper 
thought  ;  but  I  cannot  help  observing 
that    there    is    a    superstitious   feeling 


about  its  importance,  which  is  likely 
to  prove  an  obstacle,  in  some  ininds, 
to  the  just  and  reasonable  considera- 
tion of  it.  The  feeling  nakedly  stated 
is  this  :  "  It  cannot  be  that  I  am  a 
Christian,  if  I  do  not  pray  daily,"  i.  e., 
in  form  and  manner.  Now  whatever 
may  be  true  upon  this  point,  I  should 
not  wish  any  person  to  be  dragged 
to  the  service  by  this  kind  of  force 
put  upon  his  conscience,  or,  to  speak 
more  justly,  upon  his  fears.  Look  upon 
it  rather,  I  should  say,  not  as  if  it  were 
this  technical  condition,  not  even  as  if 
it  were  any  religious  action  at  all.  Ask 
yourself  the  simple  question,  whether, 
in  a  confused  mass  of  events  such  as 
make  up  our  lives,  some  regulating 
thought  is  not  necessary  ;  amidst  su- 
perficial forms  and  overspreading  dis- 
guises, some  deeper  searching;  amidst 
the  swaying  and  misleading  senses,  some 
penetrating  meditation.  Ask  whether, 
when  everything  is  carrying  the  mind 
out  of  itself,  some  daily  self-commun- 
ion, sinking  to  the  depths  within,  and 
whether,  amidst  the  loud  bustle  of  hur- 
rying life,  some  daily  and  solemn  pause, 
some  deeper  silence  in  the  soul,  be  not 
good  and  wise.  One  such  quiet  and 
silent  hour,  some  solemn  moments  even, 
would  at  times  strip  off  many  of  the 
illusions  of  sense  and  of  the  world,  that 
slowly  wind  themselves  about  us,  and 
would  unveil  to  us  the  great  and  eternal 
realities  of  our  being.  One  gaze  at  the 
stars  in  the  solemn  silence  of  night  is 
often  enough  to  break  up  some  spell 
of  worldly  vanity  or  trouble.  But  from 
deeper  meditation,  how  often  would  a 
man  come  forth  with  a  freer  step  and 
a  more  fearless  spirit,  —  a  being  loftier 
and  more  independent,  stronger  to  meet 
temptation  and  to  bear  calamity;  and 
why  ?  Because  he  had  calmly  looked 
into  the  regions  of  the  spirit's  life,  to 
which  all  this  outward  scene  doth  min- 
ister; because  his  thoughts  had  visited 
a  world,  —  not  far  off,  but  near  him, 
in  him, —  a  world  of  blessed  affections 
and  hopes,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  this 
world's  change  and  disaster  and  gran- 


696 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


deur  ;  because  he  had  learned  for  once 
to  say,  "  My  conscience,  my  soul,  is  my- 
self, my  all  ;  and  whatever  else  belongs 
to  me  —  rags  of  beggary  or  plated  gold 
of  fortune,  garment  of  humble  toil  or 
gilded  crown  of  honor  —  is  but  the 
perishable  ministration  of  an  hour  ;  be- 
cause, I  say  once  more,  he  had  stood 
some  moments  on  the  threshold  of  heav- 
en, and,  looking  out  from  this  darkened 
archway  of  time  upon  the  everlasting 
inheritance,  had  said,  "  Come,  thou  im- 
mortal life  !  I  am  swallowed  up  in 
thee  ! " 

I  might  dwell  upon  other  means  for 
obtaining  this  insight  that  penetrates 
beneath  the  surface  of  life,  and  espe- 
cially upon  a  deeper  reading  of  the  Gos- 
pel, —  of  the  wonderful  story  of  him 
whose  life  was  all  reality,  whose  every 
act  and  thought  seemed  to  touch  the 
springs  of  unseen  power,  whose  great 
reliance  was  upon  a  world  unseen,  who 
never  for  a  moment  lost,  amidst  the  vis- 
ible, the  sense  of  the  invisible  ;  and  who 
spake  evermore  of  things  unseen,  of  the 
soul's  hidden  resource,  and  of  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  as  if  they  were  as  manifest 
as  the  open  shows  of  life.  I  might 
dwell  upon  all  this,  but  the  considera- 
tion is  obvious  ;  it  is  sufficient  to  com- 
mend it  to  your  attention  ;  and  I  will 
pray  you  rather  to  turn  your  thoughts 
a  moment,  in -close,  to  the  vital  impor- 
tance of  the  thing  itself. 

It  must  be  a  sad  failure,  by  itself 
considered,  without  any  reference  to 
consequences;  it  must  be  a  terrible 
oversight ;  it  must  be  an  irreparable 
loss,  —  to  pass  through  hfe,  ignorant  or 
unconscious  of  those  grand  realities 
that  impart  to  it  all  its  interest,  charm, 
and  majesty.  If  all  visible  things  are 
but  symbols  of  siiblimer  truths  that  lie  em- 
bosomed in  them  ;  if  all  palpable  events 
are  but  shadows,  or  at  most  but  bodies 
that  have  a  soul ;  if  beneath  all  the  splen- 
dor and  beauty  of  nature  and  of  exist- 
ence there  is  an  all-disposing  thought 
and  wisdom, — not  to  recognize  it,  is 
surely  one  of  the  most  pitiable  mental 
defaults.     It   is    a   thousand-fold    more 


unfortunate  than  to  be  ignorant  of  all 
languages,  of  all  technical  sciences,  of 
all  that  the  world  calls  wisdom.  To  be 
bhnd  in  a  land  of  beauty,  to  be  deaf  in 
a  land  of  music,  —  these  would  be  but 
figures  to  set  forth  that  greater  depriva- 
tion. What  would  you  think  of  a  man 
who  looked  upon  some  great  and  heroic  < 
action  that  shone  out  from  the  flame  of 
martyrdom  or  before  the  lowering  front 
of  battle,  and  saw  it  only  as  a  mere  visi- 
ble thing,  —  saw  nothing  of  the  heroic 
soul  behind,  that  thus  flashed  out  in  the 
brave  symbolic  deed .''  Could  you  ex- 
press your  sense  of  that  man's  misfor- 
tune or  moral  stupidity  ?  Yet  there  are 
some  who  approach  that  degree  of  blind- 
ness. If  you  take  note  of  men's  conver- 
sation, you  will  often  find  those  who  stop 
at  the  visible  fact.  Nay,  there  are  men 
whose  baseness  utterly  debars  them  from 
ever  seeing  a  martyr's  soul,  from  ever 
seeing  a  great  and  heroic  action.  But 
such,  in  regard  to  the  whole  action  and 
scene  of  life,  are  all  superficial  world- 
lings ;  who  live  in  and  for  the  visible 
alone  ;  alike  without  philosophy,  with- 
out meditation,  and  without  the  deep- 
searching  wisdom  of  the  Gospel.  No 
matter  in  what  guise  or  goodly  show 
they  walk  through  this  life,  surround- 
ed with  what  splendors  of  fortune,  or 
wrapped  about  with  what  robes  of  fash- 
ion, or  lauded  howsoever  much  as  the 
great  and  wise  of  this  world  ;  they  are 
poor  and  miserable  and  blind  and  naked 
and  destitute,  and  the  life  they  are  living 
is  a  poor  and  paltry  life. 

Such  is  the  want  of  insight  in  itself, 
without  any  regard  to  consequences. 
But  now,  I  say,  in  the  next  place,  that 
it  has  consequences.  For  the  want  of 
this  insight  is  the  want  of  faith,  the 
want  of  deep-founded  principle,  the  want 
of  a  great  strong  thought  to  live  by.  My 
view  of  life,  at  least,  is  this:  that  no 
man,  amidst  its  swaying  passions  and 
sweeping  tides,  can  stand  firm  and 
steady,  unless  he  plants  his  foot  in  an 
invisible  world. 

It  is  not  a  small  thing,  it  is  not  the 
most  common  thing,  —  the   instances  of 


THE   SYMBOL   AND   THE   REALITY. 


697 


failure  are  many,  —  to  walk  through  this  ] 
life  in  simple,  quiet,  erect  dignity  and 
ease,  leaning  neither  one  way  nor  the  | 
other  too  much,  neither  strutting  nor 
crouching,  nor  too  stiff  nor  too  pliant, 
nor  fidgeting,  nor  too  self-conscious,  nor 
thinking  too  much  of  one's  self  any  way  ; 
but  rather  as  if  occupied  with  a  thought 
deeper  than  the  visible  scene,  or  with  a 
purpose  that  carries  a  man  out  of  his 
visible  personality  and  clear  of  others  at 
the  same  time,  and  makes  him  a  truly 
independent  and  respectable  being.  The 
man  who  is  leaning  upon  the  visible, 
shifting,  and  wavering  objects  of  this 
world  cannot  be  such  a  man.  I  have 
often  marked,  in  my  daily  walk,  such  vo- 
taries and  victims  of  visible  condition, 
—  some  of  whom  were  bent  and  bowed 
in  demeanor,  all  acquiescence  and  sub- 
mission; ^/leir  whole  manner  said,  "My 
life  is  dependence  on  others  ;  "  others 
with  assumption  and  hauteur  in  every 
step  ;  t/iet'r  manner  as  plainly  saying, 
"  I  have  wealth,  or  I  have  reputation, 
or  I  have  a  position  that  bids  the  world 
stand  and  mark  me."  Yet  these  were 
as  far  as  the  other  from  the  erect  and 
easy  posture  of  him  who  lives  in  thoughts 
and  not  in  things,  in  realities  and  not  in 
forms.  , 

If  you  say  that  all  this  relates  to  mere 
manner,  it  is  still  true  ;  but  it  does  no^ 
relate  to  mere  manner,  it  points  to  a 
deeper  principle.  That  principle  is, 
that  the  stronghold  of  a  man's  virtue, 
calmness,  dignity,  welfare,  is  in  the 
unseen  world,  —  the  world  of  faith  and 
trust,  the  world  of  sentiments,  reflections, 
motives,  thoughts,  that  go  beyond  the 
visible  scene. 

That  world  of  conscience  and  of  God's 
presence,  —  how  does  it  trouble  us,  rath- 
er than  guide  and  sustain  us  !  We  are 
not  faithful  to  our  deeper  convictions, — 
to  those  convictions  that  spring  from 
the  unseen  life  within  us,  and  that 
point  to  the  unseen  Life  that  reigns  all 
around  us.  We  do  not  let  //lem  mould 
and  fashion  our  life  for  us.  Then  would 
the  inward  power  go  forth  and  beautify 
the  whole  creation  amidst  which  we  live. 


Then  would  the  inmost  peace  spread 
peace  and  gladness  all  around  us.  But 
now  the  visitations  from  that  inner  world, 
repressed  and  hindered  from  their  right- 
ful office,  come  forth  in  flashes  of  re- 
buke, or  in  low  mutterings  of  displeasure, 
that  fill  us  with  alarm. 

Alas !  it  will  never  do.  The  world 
within  must  fashion  the  world  without, 
or  it  will  never  be  a  happy  world  to  us. 
I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  the  men 
of  milder  climes  and  more  facile  natures, 
for  I  have  marked  them  as  they  seemed 
to  sport  or  dream  away  their  lives  ;  but 
for  you,  men  of  the  northern  clime,  men 
of  the  Saxon  blood,  men  of  deeper  sen- 
timents and  deeper  necessities,  I  tell 
you  that  a  life  of  sense,  of  form,  fashion, 
and  worldliness,  will  never  do.  Forever 
is  there  a  consciousness  hanging  about 
you,  haunting  your  paths,  struggling  in 
your  deepest  bosoms,  that  demands 
something  better.  Upward  you  must 
go  towards  heaven,  or  downward  you 
must  sink  towards  hell,  —  discontent,  in- 
temperance, perhaps,  certain  misery  in 
that  path  ;  for  you  cannot  contentedly 
toil  away  your  life  in  labor-fields,  c^ 
sport  away  your  life  on  the  bright  plaint 
But  let  the  inner  feeling,  the  inner  pu. 
pose,  fashion  your  outward  life;  and  for 
the  worldling's  world,  which  you  so  re- 
sign, they  shall  give  you  back  another 
world,  brighter  than  passion  ever  found, 
or  worldly  dreams  of  fancy  ever  im- 
agined. Like  the  heavens,  which  spread 
themselves  in  tenfold  sublimity  and 
beauty  before  the  eye  kindling  with  the 
light  of  astronomic  lore,  so  shall  the 
world  go  forth  before  you.  All  things 
shall  be  great,  all  things  shall  be  good, 
all  things  blessed,  for  you  who  see  their 
purpose  and  ministration;  for  you  who 
have  carried  a  great  and  wise  philoso- 
phy and  a  high  and  adoring  faith  into 
them.  Ye  shall  not  say,  in  common  and 
cant  phrase,  "What  poor  things  are  pos- 
sessions and  honors,  or  what  indifferent 
things  are  poverty  and  toil  !  "  but  rather, 
"  What  great  things  are  they  .all  in  their 
meaning  and  intent!"  So  shall  your 
spirit,  getting  rid  of  galling  discontent 


698 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


and  mean  envy,  walk  abroad  in  freedom 
and  gladness,  take  the  broad  pathway 
of  generous  love  and  soaring  faith,  till 
you  enter  that  world  where  the  hidden 
things  become  manifest,  and  the  secret 
things  known,  and  the  now  invisible  vir- 
tue wears  the  everlasting  crown. 


VII. 


ON   THE   LOVE   OF   GOD,   AND   OF 

MAN. 

I  John  iv.  20:  "  He  that  loveth  not  liis  brother, 
whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God,  whom  he 
hath  not  seen?" 

The  stress  here  laid  upon  social 
virtue,  I  wish  to  speak  of,  first,  in  this 
discourse;  and  then,  in  the  second 
place,  conceding  to  religion  the  highest 
place,  to  speak  of  certain  mistaken 
ideas  of  the  relation  of  religion  to 
society. 

Perhaps  I  shall  best  indicate  my  pur- 
pose by  saying  more  distinctly  at  the 
outset  what  the  views  are,  both  of  relig- 
ion and  social  virtue,  which  I  mean  to 
controvert,  —  of  virtue,  as  something 
commonplace,  low,  and  easy  to  be  at- 
tained in  comparison  with  religion,  and 
of  religion,  the  far  higher  attainment, 
as  necessarily  holding  a  position  of 
antagonism  with  society,  and  as  unfit- 
ting its  possessors  for  playing  any  fair 
and  welcome  part  in  it. 

For  the  need  there  is  of  such  a  gen- 
eral discussion  in  the  pulpit,  I  may  say, 
without  contradiction,  I  think,  that  the 
social  virtues  are  too  little  considered 
in  the  common  teachings  of  religion. 
How  rare  it  is  to  hear  a  sermon  on 
social  influence,  on  simple  honesty, 
on  truth-telling,  or  even  upon  the  family 
ties  !  All  this  is  usually  passed  over  as 
mere  superficial  morality.  It  is  not 
treated  of  as  if  it  had  any  vital  concern 
with  what  is  specifically  called  the  sal- 
vation of  men.  Many  sermons  are 
preached  to  awaken  men's  minds  to 
this  great  concern,  and  they  are  awak- 
ened  to  it  ;  but   if,  in    such    an    hour. 


when  men  are  asking  what  they  shall 
do  to  be  saved,  the  preacher  were  to 
select  any  social  duty  for  his  topic,  he 
would  be  thought  to  have  departed  en- 
tirely from  his  proper  business.  The 
state  of  the  affections  towards  God 
engrosses  his  attention.  The  whole 
matter  of  conversion  turns  upon  that. 
Something  about  duties  toward  men 
comes  in,  perhaps,  as  a  consequence, 
but  not  as  a  part  of  the  thing  itself. 
So  it  has  always  been.  In  former  days 
penances  and  pilgrimages,  in  latter  days 
prayers  and  meditations,  have  usurped 
almost  the  whole  idea  of  spiritual  rec- 
titude. So  it  was  in  ancient  times. 
And  with  regard  to  this  error,  the  peo- 
ple were  very  solemnly  admonished : 
"Bring  no  more  vain  oblations;  in- 
cense is  an  abomination  to  me  ;  your 
new  moons  and  sabbaths  and  calling  of 
assemblies  I  cannot  away  with.  And 
when  ye  spread  forth  your  hands,  I  will 
hide  mine  eyes  from  you  ;  yea,  when 
ye  make  many  prayers,  I  will  not  hear 
you."  Why.''  "Your  hands  are  full 
of  blood."  Then  comes  the  exhorta- 
tion to  amendment ;  and  what  is  it  ? 
"  Wash  you,  make  you  clean ;  put  away 
the  evil  of  your  doings  from  before  mine 
eyes  ;  cease  tc^  do  evil ;  learn  to  do 
well ;  seek  judgment,  relieve  the  op- 
pressed, do  justice  to  the  fatherless, 
defend  the  cause  of  the  widow."  This 
is,  throughout,  a  solemn  remonstrance 
against  religiousness  and  religious  ob- 
servances, in  behalf  of  the  social 
virtues. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  consider  them. 
What  are  they  1  Justice,  truth,  gener- 
osity, candor,  pity,  gentleness,  forbear- 
ance, disinterestedness,  forgiveness. 
The  bare  abstract  mention  of  these 
qualities  shows  that  they  are  of  no 
small  account.  But  I  do  not  mean 
to  dwell  upon  them  as  abstractions. 
To  show  what  they  are,  and  especially 
what  place  they  have  in  a  good  and 
right  life,  let  me  ask  two  questions. 
Wherein  lies  a  man's  most  constant 
struggle  to  be  right  ?  And  what  are 
the  sorest  temptations  that  assail  him  ? 


THE   LOVE   OF   GOD,   AND   OF   MAN. 


699 


In  answer  to  the  first  question,  I  say 
that  tlie  great  struggle  to  be  and  to  do 
riirht  Hes  in  the  social  relations.  It  is 
in  the  intercourse  of  man  with  man, 
it  is  where  heart  is  brought  to  heart, 
and  hand  to  hand,  that  tlie  rectitude  of 
the  mind  is  most  severely  tried.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  pressure  of  our  Bible, 
if  not  of  our  pulpit,  teachings  is  mostly 
upon  the  conduct  of  life.  Look  at  any 
catalogue  of  Christian  virtues  in  the 
New  Testament,  and  see  how  large 
a  proportion  of  it  is  social.  "The 
fruits  of  the  Spirit,"  says  Paul  to  the 
Galatians,  "  are  love,  joy,  peace,  long- 
suffering,  gentleness,  goodness,  fidelity, 
meekness,  temperance."  Why  joy  is 
put  into  this  catalogue,  it  might  puzzle 
a  philosophical  generalizer  to  know ; 
since  joy,  strictly  speaking,  is  not  a 
virtue.  But  how  does  the  spirit  of  the 
great  apostolic  martyr,  all  whose  life 
was  martyrdom,  shine  out  in  this  per- 
petual refrain,  —  "joy  and  rejoicing  !  " 
And  indeed,  joy,  upspringing,  outflow- 
ing joy,  in  a  world  so  full  of  pain  and 
sorrow,  though  it  possess  no  distinct 
character  as  a  virtue,  is  the  flower  and 
crown  of  all  virtues. 

But  the  point  on  wliich  I  am  about 
to  insist  more  particularly  is,  that  the 
trial  and  test  of  every  one's  character 
lies  in  the  social  relations.  I  venerate 
devotion.  It  is  the  loftiest  tendency 
of  our  nature.  It  stands  first  in  the 
Christian  order,  and  is  necessary  to 
give  the  true  character  to  all  the  social 
virtues.  But  after  all,  it  seems  to  me 
easier  to  be  devout  than  to  be  good. 
You  may  be  surprised  at  this  declara- 
tion, and  may  impute  it  to  the  habits 
of  a  mind  which,  from  its  situation,  is 
much  accustomed  to  religious  contem- 
plation. You  may  say  that  the  very 
contrary  is  true  in  your  experience  ; 
that  it  is  much  easier  for  you  to  be 
good  than  to  l^e  devout.  But  let  us  see 
if  tiiis  opinion  is  accordant  with  the  real 
nature  of  things.  In  worship  you  stand 
apart  from  all  human  competitions  ; 
you  are  alone,  you  simply  lift  your 
eyes,  in  reverence  and  delight,  to  the 


Infinite  Goodness  and  Loveliness,  or  in 
prayer  to  the  Infinite  Mercy.  No  envy 
can  intrude,  no  strife,  for  there  can  be 
no  controversy,  —  at  least  none  such  as 
a  man  hath  with  his  fellow.  In  your 
intercourse  with  man,  all  this  is  re- 
versed. He  is  your  competitor  ;  he  is 
imperfect,  and  you  are  almost  obliged 
to  love  him  and  confide  in  him  by 
halves  ;  he  wrongs  you,  contradicts 
your  opinion,  injures  your  interest,  or 
slights  your  person  ;  or  if  not,  you  are 
liable  to  think  this  of  him;  and  it  is 
proportionally  hard  to  love  him.  You 
may  tell  me  that  it  is  comparatively 
easy  to  be  amiable  ;  and  I  will  tell  you 
when  it  is  so.  It  is  when  you  are  cher- 
ished and  caressed  ;  when  you  are  ad- 
mired ;  when  fortune  and  human  favor 
shine  upon  you.  But  let  strife,  rival- 
ship,  and  detraction  come  ;  let  slight, 
neglect,  and  rejection  come  ;  and  where 
is  your  amiableness  then  ?  I  pray  God 
you  may  keep  it  in  your  heart  ;  but  I 
tell  you  it  will  be  hard  to  keep  it  there. 
And  easy  might  you  then  find  it,  to  fly 
from  the  fiery  atmosphere  of  loud  and 
angry  contention  to  the  cool  and  still 
retreats  of  prayer.  And  well  were  it 
that  you  should  fly  there,  —  but  for 
strength,  not  escape  from  your  trial. 
Ay,  and  let  me  still  remind  you  that 
it  may  be  easier  to  pray  than  to  prac- 
tise. It  is  too  likely,  indeed,  that,  rush- 
ing to  that  resort  with  a  disturbed  and 
angry  mind,  you  may  pray  ill ;  but  alas  ! 
your  doing  is  likely  to  be  worse  than 
your  praying.  Many  seem  to  be  good 
men,  God-ward,  who  are  not  good, 
man-ward.  Many  have  prayed  away 
their  lives  in  cells  and  hermitages,  who 
were  very  little  qualified  for  the  severe 
ordeal  of  society.  And  many  now  are 
praying  for  hours  every  day,  who  seem 
very  little  to  understand  the  delicacy 
and  tenderness  of  the  social  relations  ; 
who  in  actual  life  are  not  calm,  kind, 
and  wise,  but  passionate,  opinionated, 
self-sufiicient,  sour,  and  disagreeable. 

But  I  have  said,  too,  that  the  sorest 
of  a  man's  teinptations  are  social.  It 
is,  indeed,  but  a  part  of  the  same  thing; 


yoo 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


but  let  us  look  at  the  matter  in  this 
light  a  moment.  What  is  it  that  a  man 
is  tempted  to  do  that  is  wrong  ?  Almost 
ever  it  is  something  that  invades  the 
welfare  of  his  neighbor.  It  is  some- 
thing hard,  cruel,  over-reaching,  dis- 
honest, unjust ;  something  that  despoils 
another  of  property,  fame,  or  virtue. 
What  are  the  forms  of  evil  that  assail 
a  man's  virtue?  "Hatred,  variance,"  — 
so  runs  the  apostolic  catalogue,  —  ''emu- 
lations, wrath,  strife,  seditions,  schisms, 
envyings,  murders,  drunkenness,  revel- 
lings,  and  such  like." 

I  do  not  know  but  I  may  seem  to  be 
insisting  unnecessarily  upon  a  very  plain 
thing  ;  but  when  so  large  a  part  of  the 
teachings  of  the  pulpit  relates  to  some- 
thing else  than  the  actual  virtues  and 
vices  of  the  social  condition,  I  have 
thought  it  important  to  make  so  dis- 
tinct a  statement.  It  is  necessary,  at 
least,  that  it  be  fairly  considered,  in  or- 
der that  we  may  understand  the  dignity 
and  beauty  of  the  social  virtues. 

For  here  it  is,  amidst  the  press  and 
throng  of  human  interests  and  passions; 
here  it  is,  amidst  the  waves  of  public 
opinion  and  the  eddyings  of  private  in- 
terference, that  social  virtue  is  to  stand 
firm  and  true.  I  know  that  its  greatest 
charm  is  commonly  represented  as  con- 
sisting in  what  is  technically  called  phi- 
lanthropy, —  in  visiting  the  sick,  the 
poor  and  destitute,  or  in  relieving  the 
blind,  the  deaf,  the  insane,  the  forsaken, 
or  the  oppressed.  These  are,  indeed, 
lofty  forms  of  virtue,  and  I  praise  them; 
they  are  a  part  of  that  which  I  wish 
lo  hold  up  to  your  admiration.  But 
there  is  another  sphere,  little  considered, 
stil'  more  trying,  still  more  lofty,  where 
the  philanthropist  often  fails,  and  the 
man  of  boundless  charities  is  often 
wanting.  It  is  the  great  fellowship  of 
society,  where  you  sit  in  your  own  dwell- 
ing, in  the  neighborhood  of  surround- 
ing families  ;  it  is  the  college  or  the 
school,  where  you  have  competitors  ;  it 
is  the  gay  throng  of  society,  where  you 
are  sought  or  slighted.  There  it  is  that 
personal  beauty  often  despoils  the  heart 


of  all  its  beauty  ;  there  it  is  that  flattery 
bereaves  the  mind  of  all  its  simplicity 
and  modesty,  or  neglect  of  all  its  can- 
dor and  kindliness  ;  there  it  is  that  en- 
vious passions  so  distort  the  soul  that 
only  concealment  makes  social  life  en- 
durable. Yes,  the  great  atmosphere  of 
society  breathes  upon  us,  and  heat  and 
cold  are  not  keener  visitations.  Nay, 
neither  sword  nor  scymitar  more  sharply 
pierces  the  heart  than  the  every-day 
passions  of  human   society. 

Courteous  manners  help  us,  and  when 
they  come  from  the  mind  and  heart  they 
show  like  flowers  in  a  cultured  garden. 
How  superior  is  this  to  the  ordinary  cul- 
tivation of  the  arts  !  A  person  of  real 
courtesy,  forgetful  of  himself,  of  real 
delicacy,  considerate  of  others,  a  person 
of  sense  and  tact,  simple  and  sincere  in 
manners  and  speech,  true  to  himself 
and  others,  —  how  superior  is  he  to  one 
who  is  merely  accomplished  in  music, 
painting,  or  the  speaking  of  languages ! 
The  one  has  cultivated  his  whole  be- 
ing, the  other  only  a  special  art  or 
faculty. 

Nor  is  the  true  social  culture  limited 
to  any  distinction  of  worldly  state  or 
fortune.  It  may  be  found  in  any  of  our 
abodes,  and  the  humblest  of  them,  as 
truly  as  in  the  palaces  of  kings.  The 
same  bond  of  social  duty  presses  upon 
all.  To  make  the  comparison  more  spe- 
cific :  the  king  has  a  house  and  house- 
hold, fellow-men,  friends,  kindred,  with 
whom  he  comes  into  various  contact ; 
so  have  I.  The  king  has  business,  has 
affairs  to  manage,  questions  to  settle  ; 
so  have  I.  The  monarch  has  affections 
to  cultivate,  passions  to  control,  temp- 
tations to  withstand;  so  have  I.  Now 
suppose  that  I,  a  merchant,  lawyer,  phy- 
sician, clergyman,  or  any  man  of  human, 
household,  business  cares  and  aflfairs, 
have  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  meet  the 
moral  exigencies  of  my  situation.  The 
monarch  can  do  no  more.  He  does 
what  he  can.  He  could  do  no  more, 
though  he  had  a  world  for  his  kingdom. 
His  moral  power  is  not  to  be  measured 
by  the  extent  of  his  dominion.     Every 


THE   LOVE   OF   GOD,    AND   OF   MAN. 


701 


man  has  realm  enough  for  all  his  moral 
energy  in  tlie  daily  sphere  of  his  life. 

And  what  I  have  now  been  saying  is, 
that  this  life  of  social  relations  presents 
us  with  some  of  the  loftiest  trials  and 
some  of  the  noblest  forms  of  human 
virtue,  and  that  it  is  in  the  collisions  of 
social  life  that  the  jewel  of  virtue  re- 
ceives its  brightest  polish. 

And  let  me  add,  that  upon  many  a 
lowly  bosom  that  gem  shines  more 
bright  and  beautiful  than  it  is  ever 
likely  to  shine  in  any  court  of  royalty 
or  crown  of  empire  ;  and  this  for  the 
very  reason  that  it  shines  in  loneliness 
and  obscurity,  and  is  surrounded  with 
no  circlet  of  gazing  and  flattering  eyes. 
There  are  positions  in  life,  in  society, 
where  all  loveliness  is  seen  and  noted, 
chronicled  in  men's  admiring  comments, 
and  perhaps  celebrated  in  adulatory  son- 
nets and  songs.  And  well,  perhaps,  that 
it  is  so.  I  would  not  repress  the  admi- 
ration of  society  towards  the  lovely  and 
good.  But  there  is  many  a  lowly  cot- 
tage, many  a  lonely  bedside  of  sickness 
and  pain,  to  which  genius  brings  no 
offering,  to  which  the  footsteps  of  the 
enthusiastic  never  come;  to  which  there 
is  no  cheering  visitation,  but  the  visita- 
tion of  angels.  Thei-e  is  humble  toil ; 
there  is  patient  assiduity  ;  there  is  noble 
disinterestedness  ;  there  is  unwearied 
patience  and  heroic  sacrifice.  The  great 
world  passes  by,  and  it  toils  on  in  silence. 
To  its  gentle  footsteps  there  are  no  echo- 
ing praises  ;  arpund  its  modest  beauty 
gathers  no  circle  of  admirers.  It  never 
thought  of  honor,  it  never  asked  to  be 
known.  Unsung,  unrecorded,  is  the 
labor  of  its  life,  and  shall  be,  till  the 
heavens  are  no  more,  till  the  great 
promise  of  Christ  is  fulfilled,  till  the 
last  shall  be  first,  till  the  lowliest  shall 
be  Inftiest,  and  the  poverty  of  this  world 
shall  be  the  riches  and  glory  of  heaven. 
I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  value  and 
greatness  of  social  virtue.  I  have  now 
only  space  left  me.  in  the  second  place, 
to  say  a  few  words  on  the  relation  which 
religion  should  have  to  society.  In  a 
certain  school  of  religious  thought  it  is 


regarded  as  a  relation  of  antagonism  ; 
but  I  maintain  that  it  should  be  a  rela- 
tion of  amity  ;  in  other  words,  that  it 
should  recognize  the  social  virtues ; 
nay,  more,  that  a  true  religion  should 
be  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  society. 

"  What !  "  some  will  say,  "  do  you 
mean  to  aver  that  holiness,  conformity 
to  God's  law,  discipleship  to  Jesus,  the 
feelings  of  the  regenerate  soul,  are  at- 
tractive to  surrounding  society  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  the  wicked  world 
will  love  this  character,  or  that  one's 
own  unregenerate  relations  will  love  it  ? 
Will  darkness  love  light,  or  evil  good  ? 
Is  not  the  friendship  of  this  world  de- 
clared to  be  enmity  with  God  ?  And 
will  it  not,  therefore,  be  enmity  with 
God's  people  .^  Can  I  expect  to  be 
loved  because  I  am  a  Christian  ?  Am 
I  not  disliked  and  shunned  for  that  very 
cause  ?  Has  godliness,  forsooth,  become 
a  precious  thing  in  the  world.?  Do  I 
find  it  so?  Does  not,  on  the  contrary, 
my  very  philanthropy,  my  compassion 
for  souls,  draw  upon  me  their  contempt 
and  anger  ?  Are  not  these  the  most 
marked  badges  of  my  faithful  disciple- 
ship ?  Well  might  I  tremble  for  myself 
if  the  world  were  pleased  with  me.  Ah  I 
ye  accommodating,  time-serving,  praise- 
loving  Christians!  The  world  may  like 
you  and  your  religion  ;  but  let  me  rath- 
er, with  all  the  faithful,  l)ear  the  burden 
of  reproach  and  obloquy." 

Here  is  a  mass  of  errors,  which  could 
be  disentangled  if  I  had  time  for  it  ; 
but  it  will  be  sufficient  for  you,- 1  think, 
if  I  simply  turn  your  attention  to  them. 

The  first  is  an  error  of  interpretation. 
The  early  Christian  teachers  and  their 
converts  stood  before  the  world  as  re- 
formers. They  condemned  both  the 
religion  and  morals  of  surrounding  soci- 
ety :  therefore  that  society  hated  them. 
The  friendship  of  such  a  world  would 
have  been  enmity  with  God.  Jesus 
himself  once  said  to  his  disciples, 
"  The  world  cannot  hale  you,  but  me 
it  hateth."  Why  ?  "  Because  I  testify 
of  it,  that  the  works  thereof  are  evil." 
That  is,  because   I   stand  before  it  as 


702 


THE  TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


a  teacher,  a  censor,  and  reformer.     Ye  j 
do  not ;  and,  therefore,  ye  are  not  yet 
hated. 

The  second  is  an  error  of  theology. 
The  mass  of  mankind,  theology  says, 
are  totally  depraved.  It  follows  as  an 
inference  that  they  will  perfectly  hate 
all  good  men.  It  follows  as  an  infer- 
ence that  the  body  of  society,  consist- 
ing mostly  of  unregenerate  persons,  will 
hate  all  the  best  people  they  know, — 
that  is,  as  the  theology  assumes,  all 
Christian  people  ;  that  true  Christians 
cannot  be  lovely  in  their  eyes.  But  I 
leave  you  to  conclude,  as  you  must, 
from  all  human  experience,  that  the  in- 
ference upsets  the  theory. 

The  third  error  lies  deeper,  and  con- 
sists in  the  mistake  of  what  it  is  to 
be  a  Christian.  A  man  claiming  to  be 
such  may  say,  "  I  am  not  beloved  ;  I 
am  not  a  favorite  with  society ;  nay, 
I  am  disliked  for  my  religion.  That  is 
my  chief  offence.  If  I  could  settle 
down  into  the  common  track,  I  should 
do  very  well."  If  such  an  objector 
were  here  to  listen  to  my  reply,  I  sup- 
pose it  would  surprise  him ;  for  I  really 
think  that  his  very  case  may  confirm 
my  principle.  The  dislike  of  him  may 
by  no  means  be  a  dislike  of  true  re- 
ligious goodness.  The  asstcmption  that 
he  is  very  religious,  that  he  is  better 
than  others,  that  certainly  is  neither 
relitiion  nor  goodness.  It  is  not  the 
natural  form  or  dress  of  religion  or 
goodness  ;  it  wears  quite  a  different 
aspect.  •  Only  suppose  a  few  persons 
to  claim  that  they  have  all  the  knowl- 
edge in  the  world  ;  would  the  dislike 
of  them  be  the  dishke  of  knowledge  ? 

Oh,  sirs,  I  would  say,  what  if  you 
should  be  a  little  more  modest  and  tol- 
erant !  What  if  you  should  think  a 
little  less  how  much  other  men  want 
religion,  and  a  little  more  how  much 
you  want  it  yourself  !  What  if  you 
should  bow  down  in  an  unfeigned  hu- 
mility, that  could  not  take  on  this  ar- 
rogance of  piety,  which  becomes  no 
human  creature  !  I  do  not  believe 
that  you  would  have  any  less  religion, 


though  men  would  love  you  more.  Hu- 
man love,  the  dearest  earthly  boon,  — 
why  should  it  not  be  given  to  religion 
and  religious  men  ?  Why  should  not 
he  be  the  best  Christian  whom  men 
love  most  ?  I  believe  it  should  be  so. 
1  plead  this  claim  of  religion.  The  evil 
that  is  done  by  severing  it  from  all  kind- 
hness  and  genialness,  from  all  'social 
attraction,  is  incalculable,  and  almost 
irreparable.  Alas  !  grounded  in  the  very 
heart  of  society  is  the  notion  that  re- 
ligion is  essentially  disagreeable.  It 
is  a  monstrous  and  fatal  error.  My 
friends,  I  repudiate,  I  reject  the  idea  ; 
I  reject  it  with  indignation.  I  do  not 
believe  in  the  disagreeableness  of  re- 
ligion. I  have  no  faith  in  the  excel- 
lence of  disagreeable  people. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  Re- 
ligion in  the  soul,  that  profound  rever- 
ence and  love  for  the  Infinite  Per- 
fection, must  and  should  be  precious 
and  priceless  with  its  possessor ;  and 
I  respect  the  feelings  of  the  man  who, 
conscious  of  the  treasure,  the  joy  which 
he  has  in  his  own  religious  affections, 
is  earnestly  desirous  of  winning  others 
to  share  them.  The  only  question  is 
about  the  manner  of  doing  it.  But  this, 
surely,  is  not  by  making  his  religion  an 
assumption  of  superiority  or  of  singular- 
ity among  men  ;  nay,  and  direct  appeal 
is  not  usually  the  best  way  of  approach- 
ing them.  There  are  occasions  which 
may  make  it  proper,  there  are  inti- 
macies which  may  justify  it ;  but  ordi- 
narily, the  best  influence,  in  my  opinion, 
is  the  indirect  influence  of  a  man's  gen- 
eral character  and  conversation.  Let 
the  heart  be  left  to  draw  its  own  infer- 
ence. It  is  mentioned  in  the  biography 
of  Robert  Hall  that  he  never  spoke  to 
men  of  religion  at  all  in  his  private  and 
parochial  intercourse,  though  he  was 
the  most  powerful  preacher  of  it  in  Eng- 
land. You  may  say  it  was  a  fault.  I 
think  it  was  a  fault ;  but  I  cannot  help 
respecting  him  for  it.  It  arose  from 
that  extreme  susceptibility  and  delicacy 
of  feeling  which  were  the  elements  of 
his  extraordinary  eloquence. 


TRUTHFULNESS. 


703 


I  have  been  speaking,  in  the  latter 
part  of  this  discourse,  of  a  religion  that 
may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  lovely  in  the 
eyes  of  society.  There  is  one  example 
of  this  which  I  am  the  more  disposed 
to  mention,  in  close,  because  it  comes 
from  what  is  commonly  considered  as 
the  ascetic  side  of  religion.  It  is  that 
of  the  celebrated  statesman  and  philan- 
thropist, William  Wilberforce.  "  The 
difference  between  him  and  his  fellow- 
Christians,"  says  a  notice  of  him,  soon 
after  his  death,  in  the  "Edinburgh  Re- 
view," '"consisted  in  the  exhibition  which 
he  made  of  his  religion.  A  piety  so  pro- 
found was  never  so  entirely  free  from 
asceticism.  It  was  allied  to  all  the  pur- 
suits and  all  the  innocent  pleasures  of 
life  ;  we  might  almost  say,  to  all  its 
blameless  whims  and  humors.  With  a 
settled  peace  of  mind  arising  from  his 
piety,  he  felt  that  perfect  freedom  which 
enabled  him  to  give  the  reins  to  his  con- 
stitutional vivacity,  and  the  most  devo- 
tional of  men  was  at  the  same  time  the 
most  playful  and  exhilarating  of  com- 
panions. His  presence  was  as  fatal  to 
dulness  as  to  immorality.  His  mirth 
was  as  irresistible  as  the  first  laughter 
of  childhood."  Sir  James  iVIackintosh 
said  of  Wilberforce,  that  he  was  "  the 
most  amusable  of  all  men."  And  yet 
his  character  was  one  of  the  grand  bul- 
warks of  the  most  devoted  piety  in  Eng- 
land. 

And  I  thus  instance  and  signalize  it 
for  tlie  sake  both  of  religion  and  virtue. 
Tliey  beloncj  together.  We  utterly  mis- 
take in  our  culture  when  we  make  our 
religion  unamiable,  or  our  amiableness 
undevout.  The  mnjestic  and  the  lowly, 
the  solemn  and  the  gay,  are  to  meet  in 
our  humanity,  —  to  meet  and  mutually 
to  relieve,  soften,  and  exalt  each  other. 
Your  virtue  will  grow  dwarfish  and 
worldly,  if  you  sever  it  from  the  high 
and  central  reverence  of  religion.  Nor 
yet  do  I  want  to  see  in  any  man's  char- 
acter a  too  exclusive  religiousness.  I 
do  not  want  to  see  what  you  call  an 
apostolic  sanctity  in  any  man's  face.  I 
want  to  see  the  li";hts  and  shadows  of 


human  feeling  blending  upon  it  and 
beautifying  each  other.  It  is  said  of 
Wilberforce,  that  "pathos  and  drollery, 
solemn  musings  and  playful  fancies, 
yearnings  of  the  soul  over  the  tragic, 
and  the  most  contagious  mirth  over 
the  ludicrous  events  of  life,  all  rapidly 
succeeding  each  other,  and  all  harnio- 
niously,  because  unconsciously,  blended, 
threw  over  his  conversation  a  spell  which 
no  prejudice,  dulness,  nor  ill-humor  could 
resist." 

So,  after  his  measure  and  manner,  let 
it  be  with  every  man.  Solemn  let  his 
musings  be,  and  playful  his  fancies ; 
deep  and  dear  his  devotion,  and  free  for 
every  happy  mood  his  life  and  conver- 
sation. He  need  not  ask  whether  admi- 
ration will  follow;  let  him  be  sure  that 
it  will  follow.  Social  admiration  is  un- 
chained, at  this  day,  as  it  never  was 
before.  It  is  getting  free  from  bondage 
to  caste,  to  rank,  to  wealth,  and  all 
worldly  distinctions.  Every  day  the 
ocean  cTf  human  affections  is  rising 
higher  and  higher;  and  above  its  serene 
and  majestic  flood  I  see  a  throne  set  ; 
it  is  the  throne  of  highest  Goodness. 
Oh  I  if  beneath  that  enthroned  Loveli- 
ness men  could  learn  to  live,  —  in  the 
lowliness  of  prayer  and  the  gayety  of  in- 
nocence, in  the  heroism  of  self-control 
and  the  beauty  of  freedom,  then  were 
fulfilled  that  old  prophecy  to  the  Church 
of  sanctity  at  once  and  goodness,  "  Lift 
thine  eyes  round  about  thee,  and  see  ; 
they  shall  come  to  thee  ;  thy  sons  shall 
come  from  far,  and  fair  daughters  be 
nursed  at  thy  side  ;  then  shalt  thou  see 
and  flow  together :  and  thy  heart  shall 
fear,  and  thy  heart  shall  be  enlarged." 


VIII. 

ON  TRUTHFULNESS. 

Eph.  iv.  15  :   "  Speaking  the  truth  in  love." 

I  LAY  emphasis  on  the  last  word  of 
this  apostolic  direction.  Speaking  the 
truth  in  lo7ie,  I  suppose,  is  the  only  way 


704 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


in  which  it  can  be  rightly  spoken.  It 
is  said  that  truth  sometimes  breaks  out 
from  anger.  It  may  ;  but  anger  is  apt 
to  confuse  the  mind,  while  good  temper 
calms  and  clears  it.  Truth  may  dart 
from  the  cloud  and  storm  of  wrath  ;  but 
that  fierce  blaze  scorches  where  it  falls  ; 
it  does  the  ofifice  of  fire  and  not  of  light ; 
and  what  we  seek  in  truth,  is  the  calm 
liglit  of  life.  Truth,  the  guide  of  men, 
is  often  compared  to  the  pole-star.  But 
that  star  is  known  to  men,  not  by  its 
piercing  splendor,  but  by  a  softened  haze 
around  it.  The  comparison  is  perilous  ; 
but  I  will  venture  to  say  that  truth,  when 
shining  with  its  purest  lustre,  is  invested 
with  the  soft,  not  dark  nor  dense,  but 
with  the  soft  and  transparent  veil  of 
love. 

I  remember  an  anecdote  which  I  read, 
many  years  ago,  in  the  London  "  Chris- 
tian Observer,"  of  a  clergyman  who,  in 
the  presence  of  a  brother  clergyman 
visiting  him,  very  plainly  and  solemnly 
reproved  a  person  who  came  Into  his 
study,  but  so  reproved  him  as  to  awaken 
no  resentment  whatever.  And  yet,  so 
severe  was  the  rebuke,  that  when  the 
man  so  dealt  with  retired  from  their 
presence,  the  stranger  could  not  help 
exclaiming,  "  How  could  you  speak  in 
that  way,  and  not  give  offence  I  "  "  Ah, 
my  friend,"  was  the  reply,  "  when  love 
is  in  the  heart,  you  can  say  anything." 
This  was  indeed  the  key  of  the  mystery. 
Love  is  the  only  shield  of  truth.  Love 
indeed  is  not  its  basis,  for  truth  stands 
in  its  own  right ;  but  love  must  arm  and 
clothe  it  all  round,  to  prepare  it  for  its 
lofty  action  and  ordeal. 

To  bespeak  your  more  earnest  atten- 
tion to  this  virtue,  I  would  say  something, 
in  the  first  place,  of  the  difficulty  of 
practising  and  the  danger  of  swerving 
from  it. 

I  have  sometimes  thought,  although 
there  are  other  virtues  to  be  cultivated, 
that  it  would  be  well  for  a  man  to  make 
it,  for  a  while,  his  chief  moral  discipline, 
to  walk  all  the  day  long  and  all  the  month 
through,  with  this  one  predominant 
thought   in  his   heart,  —  "  Now  let  me, 


wherever  I  go,  and  whatever  I  am  called 
to  converse  upon,  speak  the  exact  truth, 

—  no  faltering,  no  wavering,  any  more; 
the  straight  line  is  stretched  before  me, 
and  my  thoughts  shall  cling  to  it,  even 
as  the  mariner  holds  on  to  the  line  that 
is  stretched  from  the  ship  to  the  shore, 
to  stay  him  amidst  tiie  waves.  My  re- 
serves I  may  have  ;  delicacy,  modesty, 
imposes  them,  and  the  rights  of  my  own 
mind  justify  them  ;  but  so  far  as  I  do 
speak,  I  will  say  precisely  what  I  think  ; 
my  tongue,  without  wavering,  shall  an- 
swer to  my  thought ;  it  shall  not  be  an 
instrument  of  deception  in  my  mouth, 
in  this  threshold  of  the  soul ;  it  shall 
not  be  there  like  a  cheating  porter  to  lie 
for  the  master  within  ;  truth  shall  en- 
shrine my  heart,  and  my  utterance  shall 
be  its  unfaltering  oracle ;  truth  is  not 
mine  to  bandy  about  at  my  pleasure,  but 
it  is  an  immortal  law,  to  bind  me  for- 
ever ;  and  I  will  no  more  think  it  pos- 
sible to  swerve,  than  the  prophet  as  he 
stands  by  the  very  altar  of  revelation." 
So  said  St.  Paul,  resolute  in  that,  as 
Luther  was  before  the  German  Diet, 
"  We  can  say  nothing  against  the  truth, 
but  for  the  truth."  And  so  should  every 
man  say,  whether  he  speaks  from  the 
pulpit,  from  the  bar,  or  from  the  bench, 
by  the  fireside  or  by  the  wayside,  at 
home  or  abroad,  in  the  social  throng 
or  the  throng  of  the  Exchange.  How 
would  this  simple  purpose  dignify  ever)' 
situation,  every  interview,  and  even  the 
otherwise  humblest  talk  !  For  we  en- 
tirely mistake,  if  we  suppose  that  because 
we  are  occupied  with  little  things,  we 
must  be  governed  by  little  principles. 
We  lose  the  very  grandeur  of  life  and 
are  blind  to  the  very  truth  of  things  if 
we  do  so.  No :  principles  high  as 
Heaven  bear  down  upon  every  moment, 
and  the  eyes  of  infinite  Rectitude,  like 
the  all-encompassing  dome  of  stars,  look 

—  look  down  upon  every  action  and 
upon  every  thought. 

In  that  awful  presence,  what  can  live 
and  hold  up  its  head  but  truth,  truth 
constant  and  unwavering  ?  You  may 
tell  me  that  it  is  difficult ;  and  I  admit  it. 


TRUTHFULNESS. 


705 


It  is  the  highest  and  the  most  instantly 
pressing  trial  of  virtue.  The  temptations 
to  sensuality  come  comparatively  but  sel- 
dom; and  when  they  prevail  they  bring 
dishonor  with  them.  But  the  world  is 
full,  I  am  afraid  we  must  say,  of  respect- 
able lying.  It  mingles  with  business,  it 
mingles  with  politics;  it  spreads  itself 
all  over  the  face  of  society  ;  in  evasions 
that  deceive,  and  innuendoes  that  mis- 
lead, and  civilities  that  are  heartless  and 
smiles  that  are  false,  and  words  that  do 
not  mean  what  they  say,  —  idle  compli- 
ments and  silly  flatteries,  the  only  re- 
sources of  brainless  young  men,  and  the 
only  satisfactions  of  equally  brainless 
young  women,  sophistries  unceasing  as 
the  hours,  shadings  of  speech,  not  de- 
signed to  present  the  truth,  but  to  please, 
forever  to  please.  Oh  !  the  soul  of  a 
man,  that  is  as  a  rattle-box,  hollow,  hol- 
low, with  nothing  in  it  but  fictions  and 
sophistries,  or  like  a  dice-box,  with  noth- 
ing but  false  dice  in  it.  Is  it  a  thing 
unheard  of.'  Is  it  altogether  rare  ?  But 
I  will  tell  you  what  ts  rare  a  man  or 
a  woman  who  always  speaks  the  true, 
true  thought,  — ^/tai  is  a  wonder  in  soci- 
ety. You  know  that  it  is.  I  will  find 
you  a  thousand  Orthodox  Christians, 
and  a  hundred  Liberal  ones,  and  fifty 
philanthropists,  and  ten  times  as  many 
zealots,  for  one  man  that  always  speaks 
his  true,  true  thought. 

"What!"  you  may  say,  "is  Chris- 
tianity to  come  here  ?  We  thought  it 
was  confined  to  churches,  and  altars, 
and  closets,  and  such  like  places."  Yes, 
sirs,  I  answer,  it  is  to  come  here.  It 
is  to  come  where  men  live  and  breathe 
and  talk,  and  act  their  daily  and  hourly 
part  in  society. 

"  Well,"  you  may  say,  "  it  is  all  in 
vain  to  speak  of  it.  The  thing  de- 
manded is  too  difficult  to  be  done." 
Still  I  grant  that  it  is  difficult.  It  is 
hard  to  say  to  your  neighbor  just  what 
you  think.  He  explains  to  you  how  he 
has  made  what  he  calls  a  good  bargain, 
and  you  do  not  approve  of  it ;  it  is  hard 
to  tell  him  so.  He  lias  bought  a  house, 
or  furniture,  or  a  picture,  and  he  wants 


you  to  admire  his  taste,  and  you  do  not ; 
it  is  hard  to  say  that.  He  has  cherished 
children,  or  dear  friends,  and  he  wants 
your  good  opinion  of  them  ;  it  is  hard 
to  refuse  it.  He  wants  a  recommenda- 
tion for  himself  to  some  place  or  situa- 
tion, he  wants  a  testimonial  to  qualities 
which  he  has  not ;  it  is  very  hard  to  say, 
"  I  cannot  give  it."  I  am  fully  sensible 
of  the  danger  of  swerving.  I  confess 
for  myself,  that  I  like  to  agree  with  peo- 
ple. I  do  not  like  to  contradict  them. 
It  is  very  disagreeable  to  me.  When 
one  says  of  a  lecture,  or  sermon,  or 
poem,  or  song,  "  Was  it  not  beautiful  ? " 
I  do  not  want  to  say,  no.  And  observe 
that  I  do  not  say  a  man  is  bound  to 
speak  all  that  he  thinks.  He  may  be 
silent.  He  may  make  no  answer.  Or 
he  may,  I  conceive,  often  come  to  that 
point  with  his  neighbor  where  he  will 
say,  "  Now  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  on 
that  subject,  because  I  differ  with  you 
and  may  offend  you  ;  "  but  if  he  is  urged 
I  and  compelled  to  go  on,  then,  as  God's 
law  of  truth  is  upon  his  soul,  let  him 
speak  what  he  thinks  ;  let  him  speak 
it  if  he  die.  To  die  is  comparatively  a 
small  thing;  to  lie  is  to  kill  the  soul. 

But  we  must  press  this  matter  to  a 
closer  statement,  and  to  a  more  exact 
definition  of  the  moral  law  with  regard 
to  it.  Let  me  premise  that  it  is  my  busi- 
ness to  state  the  law ;  as  it  would  be  if 
I  were  to  speak  of  the  love  of  our  neigh- 
bor, or  forgiveness  of  injuries;  or  hon- 
esty in  trade.  If  any  one  shall  think 
that  he  can  find  exceptions,  —  cases  in 
which  he  is  fiot  bound  to  love  his  neigh- 
bor or  to  forgive  him,  or  to  be  honest, 
or  to  speak  the  truth,  —  I  can  only  say 
that  the  burden  is  upon  his  conscience  ; 
I  cannot  take  it  upon  mine. 

But  let  us  now  proceed  to  consider 
what  is  the  nature  and  obligation  of  this 
virtue.  What  is  it  to  speak  the  truth  ? 
And  why  is  a  man  bound  to  speak  it  ? 

First,  what  is  it  to  speak  the  truth  ? 
It  is  to  say  nothing  with  the  intent  to 
deceive.  The  essence  of  the  thing  lies 
in  the  intention.  What  we  say  may  be 
literally  true  ;  and  yet  if  it  is  said  with 


45 


7o6 


THE   TWO   GREAT    COMMANDMENTS. 


the  purpose  of  misleading  another,  it  is 
talsehood,  just  as  much  as  if  the  thing 
itself  were  false.  My  neighbor  cannot 
see  my  thought.  I  propose,  I  profess 
when  I  speak,  to  show  it  to  him.  He 
confides  in  my  doing  so  ;  why  else 
should  he  listen  to  me  ?  Words  are 
the  medium  of  communication.  Now 
if  I  speak  to  him  a  word  which,  whether 
literally  true  or  false,  is  intended  to  de- 
ceive him,  I  as  truly  falsify,  as  if  I 
passed  upon  him  a  base  coin  instead 
of  pure  gold.  The  bond  which  he  has 
taken  from  my  lips  has  proved  fictitious, 
valueless,  and  worse  than  valueless. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  a  case  so  plain. 
It  is  mere  inanity  of  mind  that  can  lead 
any  such  palterer  with  words  to  say, 
"  Did  I  not  speak  exactly  what  was 
true  ?"  And,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  an 
equally  mistaken  scruple  that  leads  any 
one  to  hesitate  about  the  morality  of 
parables,  stories,  and  fictions  ;  because 
that  in  these  there  is  no  intent  to 
deceive. 

But  why  is  a  man  bound  to  speak  the 
truth  ?  I  answer,  because  it  is  right. 
The  obligation,  though  it  may  be  en- 
forced by  utility,  is  found  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  thing. 

Duties  may  be  divided  into  two  kinds, 
relative  and  absolute.  There  are  ac- 
tions, which  are  made  right  or  wrong 
by  circumstances,  such  as  labor,  charity, 
hospitality.  Sometimes  it  is  right  to 
perform  such  actions,  and  sometimes 
not.  But  truth-telling  is  one  of  the 
absolute  duties.  It  is  always  right  to 
speak  truly.  If  tliere  are  any  circum- 
stances which  may  make  it  seem  right 
to  tell  a  lie,  they  must  be  very  extraordi- 
nary ;  too  extraordinary  for  common  life, 
—  tremendous  emergencies,  which  must 
furnish,  if  they  can,  their  own  special 
vindication  ;  as  when  it  is  believed  that 
a  city  may  be  saved  from  a  besieging 
army,  by  a  false  word  spoken  to  a  guide 
or  spy.  They  must  be  stronger  cases,  I 
think,  than  are  ordinarily  put,  to  justify 
falsehood. 

The  cases  ordinarily  put,  are  such  as 
these.    A  robber,  with  intent  to  murder, 


asks  me  the  way  which  a  traveller  has 
taken.  May  I  not  tell  him  a  falsehood, 
to  divert  him  from  his  purpose  .-'  Or, 
having  made  me  his  victim,  he  swears 
me  to  secrecy  as  the  price  of  life.  May 
I  not  break  my  word  ?  Again,  my 
friend  is  sick ;  his  life  hangs  by  a 
thread.  His  child,  let  us  suppose,  has 
died  in  an  adjoining  room.  If  I  tell 
him  of  his  loss,  my  opinion  is  that  it 
will  be  fatal  to  him.  May  I  not  then, 
morning  after  morning,  and  hour  after 
hour,  tell  him  that  his  child  is  recover- 
ing 1  Yet  again  ;  the  physician  has  a 
patient,  whose  chances  of  recovery,  he 
thinks,  depend  on  his  being  at  ease  and 
undisturbed  in  mind.  The  patient  asks 
him  whether  there  is  any  alarming  or 
fatal  symptom  in  his  case.  The  phy- 
sician believes  that  there  is.  May  he 
answer  and  say,  he  believes  not .'' 

Now,  whatever  others  may  say  of 
these  cases,  I  cannot  say,  yes.  The 
one  question  involved  is  simply  this,  — 
is  it  right  to  lie,  to  save  life?  —  or,  to 
speak  more  exactly,  for  the  chance  of 
saving  life  .'*  For  we  do  not  know,  in 
any  of  these  cases,- that  life  would  be 
sacrificed  by  speaking  the  truth.  There 
is  uncertainty  in  the  very  motive  we 
jjlead  ;  the  only  certainty  is  the  blank 
and  positive  falsehood.  But  suppose 
that  we  did  know.  The  martyr  knows 
that  a  lie  would  save  him.  Would  we 
have  him  speak  it  ?  It  would  discrown 
the  very  glory  of  the  world  to  say  so. 
Besides,  where  would  this  argument  for 
falsehood  stop  ?  Life  is  at  hazard  in 
courts  of  justice,  and  it  may  be  thought 
to  be  so  in  courses  of  business.  A  dis- 
honest bankrupt  may  say,  "It  would  kill 
my  wife  and  children  to  be  stripped  of 
everything."  And  there  are  those  to 
whom  their  property  or  reputation  is 
dearer  than  life.  Then  the  argument 
that  justifies  falsehood  comes  into  ac- 
counts, comes  into  trade,  comes  into  so- 
ciety, comes  everywhere.  And  is  there 
not,  in  fact,  a  permitted  laxity  in  the 
world  with  regard  to  truth-telling,  that 
must  have  sprung  frorn  some  false  prin- 
ciple,  a   principle,    therefore,    which   is 


TRUTHFULNESS. 


707 


doing  infinitely  greater  harm  than  can 
be  counterbalanced  by  any  good  that 
is  gained  by  it,  in  certain  occasional 
and  extraordinary  circumstances  ? 

Some  have  thought  it  sufficient  to  say, 
and  among  them  Dr.  Paley,  that  our 
enemy  or  the  robber,  who  is  the  enemy 
of  society,  has  no  right  to  know  tlie 
truth.  That,  I  answer,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion. The  question  is,  not  what  are 
his  rights,  but  what  is  right  for  us.  If 
a  man  commits  a  purse  of  gold  to  me 
in  trust,  to  be  returned  at  his  demand, 
certainly  no  bad  character  or  bad  intent 
of  his  could  justify  me  in  withholding  it. 
I  have  taken  the  trust,  and  must  dis- 
charge it.  And  so  when  I  profess  to 
speak  the  truth,  I  have  taken  a  trust, 
and  must  discharge  it.  I  am  not  obliged 
to  speak.  I  may  keep  silence.  But  if 
I  do  speak,  I  am  obliged  to  speak  the 
truth.  Suppose  that  intrusted  property 
might  be  withheld  or  misused  on  the 
plea  that  the  owner  was  a  bad  man, 
and  had  no  right  to  fidelity  on  our  part ; 
where  then  would  be  faith  or  honor  or 
trust  in  society  ? 

But  more  than  expediency  is  to  be 
heard  in  (his  argument.  There  is  a 
higher  law  which  is  proclaimed  in  every 
healthful  human  conscience.  No  such 
conscience  ever  found  it  a  pleasing 
thing  to  tell  a  lie.  Whatever  necessity 
be  pleaded  for  it,  it  is  a  painful  necessity. 
If  there  ever  was  a  palpable  case,  in 
which  an  Authority  above  us  speaks 
within  us,  I  believe  this  is  that  case. 
And  to  bring  it  to  the  clearest  test,  —  if 
it  is  right  to  tell  a  falsehood,  it  is  right 
to  call  God  to  witness.  But  could  any 
man  without  horror  call  God  to  witness 
the  truth  of  what  he  knew  to  be  false  ? 
That,  in  courts  of  law,  is  called  perjury, 
and  it  is  punished  as  such  by  our  human 
law.  Yet  God  is  witness  to  every  false- 
hood. The  splendors  of  his  omniscience 
as  truly  surround  it  as  they  do  the  act  of 
perjury  amidst  the  solemnities  of  an  oath. 
My  argument,  very  brief  indeed,  is 
brought  to  a  conclusion  ;  but  so,  per- 
haps, is  not  the  mind  of  my  hearer. 
At    least,  I  can     conceive    that  some 


one,  surprised  and  even  indignant  at 
what  he  may  think  such  an  extreme  of 
moral  rigor,  may  say,  — '•  You  .strain  the 
bond  so  hard  that  it  will  snap.  It  is 
not  wise  to  teach  as  you  do.  If  it  is 
bad  to  demand  too  little  in  morals,  it 
may  Ije  liurtful  to  demand  too  much.' 
What,  then,  would  the  objector  have 
me  say  .''  Would  it  not  be  a  fine  mond 
precept  to  put  forth,  —  "  You  must 
speak  the  truth  generally,  but  you  may 
utter  a  falsehood  when  you  think  it 
necessary "  ?  The  falsest  man  would 
be  content  with  this  license.  No,  the 
true  wisdom  is  to  lift  up  the  standard  of 
duty,  and  not  to  let  it  down.  The  true 
moral  prudence,  and,  if  I  may  say  so, 
policy  with  our  own  minds,  is  not  to 
plead  for  lying,  but  for  truth. 

And  further :  if  there  be  any  that 
hear  me,  who  are  either  surprised  or 
indignant  at  what  they  may  call  this 
extreme  of  moral  rigor,  one  thing  I 
iiave  to  say  in  fine,  and  it  is  this.  Take 
whatever  ground  you  will,  and  how- 
ever low,  one  thing  you  will  not  deny,  — 
that  to  be  true  and  more  true,  to  tell 
the  truth  and  act  the  truth  more  and 
more,  this  is  the  upward  path.  Grant- 
ing this,  you  will  give  me  all  that  I  ask 
in  behalf  of  the  soul's  culture  and  prog- 
ress. Whatever  difficulties  there  may 
be,  whatever  questions  in  mere  casuistry 
may  be  put,  one  thing,  I  still  say,  is 
clear,  and  for  this  end  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  impress  your  minds  with  the 
solemn  sanctions  of  this  virtue  ;  and 
that  is,  that  we  should  constantly  aim 
and  endeavor  to  bring  more  and  more 
of  truth  into  our  minds,  into  our  hearts, 
into  our  conversation,  into  our  business, 
into  our  whole  life's  duty  and  culture. 

And  I  am  not  willing  to  leave  the 
subject  without  saying  something,  in  the 
last  place,  of  the  value  and  greatness 
of  this  virtue,  and  of  the  place  it  should 
hold  in  both  ourpei'sonal  and  social  im- 
provement. Lightly  as  it  is  apt  to  be 
regarded,  easily  and  idly  as  it  is  shoved 
aside,  I  ask,  is  it  a  small  thing,  —  either 
for  ourselves,  or  for  society  ? 

Nay,  I  think  that  it  has  a  strong  claim, 


7o8 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


not  only  in  its  worth,  but  in  its  advan- 
tages, both  personal  and  social.  How 
would  it  simplify  and  dignify  a  man's 
life,  for  him  to  hold  to  the  truth!  It 
would  lead  him  out  of  a  dark  labyrinth 
into  the  open  daylight.  He  would 
have  no  perplexing"  or  petty  interests 
to  consult,  but  only  the  simple  monitor 
within.  His  soul  would  not  be  ever 
running  abroad,  in  every  direction,  upon 
all  the  sensitive  fibres  of  social  vanity, 
jealousy,  and  rivalship,  but  would  stay 
at  home,  seated  calmly  upon  the  throne 
of  conscious  integrity.  And  then,  too, 
what  an  advantage  would  it  be  to  oth- 
ers !  Half  of  the  misunderstandings  in 
the  world  live  only  upon  falsehood  or 
concealment.  One  word  of  truth  would 
break  like  lightning  upon  the  cloud  and 
disperse  it.  How  many  vague  and  in- 
jurious suspicions  or  positive  misrepre- 
sentations concerning  any  one  of  yoii 
may  have  been  stealing  through  society 
for  years,  and  might  have  been  cleared 
away,  if  one  of  the  many  words  spoken 
behind  your  back  had  been  spoken  to 
your  face  !  Who  has  not  had  occasion, 
at  some  moment  of  his  life,  to  feel  that 
something  was  the  matter  between  him 
and  others, — he  did  not  know  what? 
Who,  indeed,  does  not  feel  that  he  is 
liable  to  be  misconstrued,  that  there 
are  circumstances,  peculiarities  in  his 
case,  which  others  cannot  know  ;  and 
who,  in  such  case,  would  not  be  glad  if 
some  one  would  speak  plainly  to  him? 
I  would  not  advocate  any  intrusiveness  : 
but  every  man  must  have  some  ac- 
quaintances who  are  entitled  to  speak 
to  him  in  such  a  case.  And  there  must 
be  more  than  one  among  us  who  is 
ready  to  say,  "  I  am  willing  to  open  my 
bosom  purposes  to  all  the  world.  There 
is  not  a  principle  nor  point  in  my  life 
and  conduct  which  I  am  not  perfectly 
willing  with  a  kind  friend  or  acquaint- 
ance freely  and  fairly  to  discuss. 
Whether  I  am  thought  guilty  of  pride, 
or  duplicity,  or  self-indulgence,  or  cove- 
tousness,  or  unkindness,  or  neglect  of 
my  duties  in  any  way,  let  me  hear  ;  if 
I  cannot  defend  it,  I  will  mend  it." 


It  seems  degrading  to  me  and  others, 
to  be  ever  keeping  up  appearances.  It 
involves  real  discourtesy  to  a  man  to 
imply,  by  constant  flatteries  or  soften- 
ings of  speech  towards  him,  that  he 
cannot  bear  the  truth,  that  his  vanity 
or  selfishness  or  sensitiveness  will  be 
ever  up  in  arms  against  it,  that  he  can 
bear  nothing  manly  nor  honest  from 
those  around  him,  that  he  has  none  of 
the  nobleness  either  of  self-subsistence 
or  of  humility.  There  is  no  true  re- 
spect shown,  either  for  himself  or  for 
anybody  else,  by  this  ever-pohte  pallia- 
tion, but  the  very  contrary.  It  shows 
that  society  is  full  of  faults.  Nor  is 
there  any  dignity  in  this  restraint.  It 
IS  not  candor  nor  consideration,  but 
only  mean  cowardice  Yox  do  men  never 
speak,  and  speak  plainly,  of  the  faults 
of  their  neighbors  ?  Yes,  by  themselves 
they  can  talk,  —  talk  long  and  eloquently 
and  very  piteously  of  the  errors  and 
mistakes  of  their  friends  ;  nothing  is 
like  the  discrimination  and  detail  and 
ingenuity  of  speech  which  they  can 
show  the7-e.  But  let  them  come  into 
the  presence  of  one  of  these  unfortunate 
acquaintances  ;  and  then  that  tongue, 
which  just  before  was  sharp  as  a  sword 
and  rough  as  a  file,  becomes  pliant  and 
obsequious  as  a  whipped  menial.  This 
is  not  the  enforced  slavery  that  chains 
the  Umbs  of  a  man  ;  it  is  the  far  more 
degrading,  because  it  is  the  voluntary 
slavery  of  the  tongue,  of  tlie  most  imme- 
diate organ  of  the  soul. 

Besides,  society,  for  its  own  improve- 
ment, has  a  right  to  ask  something  from 
society,  beyond  this  constant  evasion 
and  double  dealing.  One  mind  does 
not  discharge  its  duty  to  another,  when 
clothed  in  this  costume  of  fashionable 
common-place.  "  Speak  to  me,"  I  am 
sometimes  tempted  to  say,  —  "  speak  to 
me  thy  tiiought :  say  something;  say 
anything  ;  say  what  is  strange,  odd,  or 
even  erroneous,  so  tliou  say  what  thou 
thinkest,  what  thou  dost  feel,  and  not 
merely  what  thou  thinkest  decorous  and 
polite."  I  might  as  well  be  talking  with 
parrots,  I  might  as  well  be  dealing  with 


TRUTHFULNESS. 


709 


machines,  as  with  people  who  are  for- 
ever seeming  what  they  are  not,  and 
saying  what  they  do  not  feel ;  who  are 
cut  and  shaped  by  fashion,  as  truly  as 
their  garments  are.  In  fact,  how  little 
do  we  ever  come  to  know  one  another 
in  these  formal  civilities  of  society  ! 
How  refreshing  in  such  scenes  is  one 
word  of  reality;  one  word  that  puts 
upon  mind  the  stamp  of  individuality  ! 
A  person,  perfectly  true  and  natural,  is 
like  a  fresh  stream  in  the  desert.  "  Oh  ! 
that  she  would  do  an  odd  thing,"  said 
Goethe .  and  who  has  not  sometimes 
felt  it  ?  One  such  thing  done  :  in  other 
words,  one  natural  action,  one  thing 
spoken  in  pure  self-forgetfulness,  one 
genuine  outspeaking  from  the  heart,  is 
like  a  talisman,  that  dissolves  some 
rigid  and  painful  spell  of  all  surround- 
ing affectation. 

I  am  sensible  that  observations  like 
these  are  liable  to  be  misconstrued.  I 
advocate  no  undue  forwardness,  no  in- 
decorum. Let  there  be  dignity,  a  proper 
reserve  and  a  perfect  courtesy.  The 
beauty  of  society  lies  in  the  combina- 
tion. The  highest  perfection  of  this 
kind  is  found  in  the  highest  good-breed- 
ing; not  in  a  "threatening  urbanity,"  as 
some  one  has  called  it,  not  in  that  sharply 
defined  etiquette,  that  makes  society 
look  to  one  of  the  uninitiated  as  if  it 
were  full  of  spring-guns,  swords,  and 
scymitars.  Dr.  Franklin  was  put  as 
much  at  ease  in  Parisian  society  as  he 
would  have  been  among  the  craft  of 
printers  at  home.  This  observation  re- 
lates, it  is  true,  to  mere  perfection  of 
manners ;  but  it  shows  that  grace  and 
simplicity  are  not  at  war;  and  I  say  that 
truth  and  an  easy  and  kind  behavior 
need  not  be;  and  I  have  ventured  upon 
the  freedom  of  these  remarks,  because  I 
cannot  allow  it  to  be  objected,  that  sim 
plicity  is  dangerous  to  decorum,  or  that 
truth  must  be  maintained  at  the  expense 
of  courtesy 

But  if  to  combine  truth  with  courtesy 
be  thought  difficult,  there  is  another 
thing,  calling  for  a  still* loftier  elevation 
and  nobleness  of  character;  and  that  is, 


to  combine  truth  with  love.  You  say, 
perhaps,  "  How  am  I  honestly  to  treat 
those  whom  I  do  not  like,  who  differ 
from  me  in  their  opinions,  or  tastes,  or 
culture  .''  They  are  of  my  acquaintance, 
they  come  to  me ;  by  what  means  am  1 
to  be  at  once  hospitable  to  them  and 
true  to  myself  .'' "  I  answer,  by  truly 
loving  them,  by  a  hearty  good-will,  by  a 
desire  to  promote  their  happiness,  by 
taking  real  pleasure  in  such  offices  of 
hospitality  and  goodness.  Such,  we  are 
told  by  his  biographers,  was  the  spirit 
of  the  German  philosopher  and  poet, 
Novalis.  He  really  loved  to  talk  with 
what  are  called  ordinary  people :  he 
wanted  to  know,  as  indeed  he  loved,  all 
men ;  and  1  imagine  that  we  shall,  none 
of  us,  pretend  to  a  higher  or  purer  or 
more  peculiar  culture  than  that  of  No- 
valis. In  trudi,  it  is  the  mark  of  a  hard, 
defective,  and  ungenial  cultivation,  to  be 
bristling  all  over  with  points  of  repug- 
nance to  those  who  are  not  just  like 
ourselves ;  who  are  not  as  gifted  or 
accomplished  as  we  are,  or  as  we  think 
we  are.  It  is  a  want  of  the  large  hu- 
manity. It  is  unworthy  of  cultivated 
minds.  It  belongs  to  the  littleness  and 
technicality  of  superficial  fashion,  — 
where,  indeed,  it  reigns  supreme.  Or 
must  we  make  the  exception  that  there 
is  a  certain  vile  pride  of  intellect  that  is 
worse  }  At  any  rate,  it  is  more  unpar- 
donable. The  true,  large,  noble  mind 
sees  that  which  is  kindred  to  it  in  every 
man,  —  sees  gentle  humanity  everywhere, 
and  might  see  virtues,  beneath  the  hum- 
blest garb,  that  would  shame  all  its  fine 
culture. 

Yes,  we  are  put  to  that  severe  test  in 
our  intercourse  with  men,  —  whether  we 
love  tiiem.  If  we  do  not,  then  we  must 
sacrifice  truth  or  sacrifice  general  so- 
ciety. There  is  no  alternative.  If  we 
have  not  a  genuine  and  generous  good- 
heartedness,  we  must  meet  with  many 
people  whom  we  do  not  wish  to  meet, 
whom  for  no  reason  do  we  wish  to  meet. 
And  then  if  our  manners  say  that  we 
have  any  sort  of  pleasure  in  their  com- 
pany, they  will  involve  a  sacrifice  of  our 


710 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


truth.  A  popular  person  must  be  a  very 
good-hearted  person,  or  a  hypocrite. 

Now  every  one  desires  to  be  popular, 
or  at  least  to  be  agreeable.  It  is  one 
of  the  strongest  desires  of  our  nature. 
No  one  wishes  to  make  an  unpleasant 
or  ungrateful  impression  upon  those  with 
whom  he  mingles  in  society.  And  here 
it  is,  amidst  mingled  sympathies,  affec- 
tions, partialities,  and  almost  boundless 
cravings  for  esteem,  that  every  man  and 
every  woman  must  stand  firm,  —  must 
speak  the  truth,  and  to  do  so  they  must 
speak  it  in  love. 

But  whether  in  love  or  in  hate,  I  am 
tempted  to  say,  let  every  man  speak  it. 
If  he  has  not  love  to  support  him,  let 
him  fall  back  on  the  stern  principle  of 
rectitude.  Give  me  a  rough,  blunt,  hon- 
est man,  rather  than  a  time-server  or 
a  parasite.  Give  me  a  Luther  rather 
than  an  Erasmus  ;  a  Hampden  or  a  Pym 
rather  than  a  double-dealing  Strafford; 
a  fearless  Paul  rather  than  a  flattering 
Tertullus.  One  there  has  been  greater 
than  the  Apostle,  greater  than  all,  who 
came  into  the  world  to  bear  witness  to 
the  truth,  and  who,  endowed  with  un- 
paralleled gentleness  and  pity,  ever 
spoke  the  truth,  spoke  it  at  the  cost  of 
ease,  of  favor  with  men,  and  of  life  itself. 
He  died  a  martyr  to  the  truth.  And  by 
no  means  could  the  preacher  so  shock 
and  pain  a  Christian  audience,  as  by  ad- 
mitting that  ever  by  one  act  or  word 
did  he  swerve  from  the  conscious  truth 
that  was  in  him. 

This,  then,  do  I  set  forth,  my  friends, 
as  one  of  the  loftiest  and  most  impera- 
tive of  the  Christian  virtues.  Does  any 
man  ask  to  do  some  signal  thing  in  his 
iife?  Does  he  say  that  he  would  be  a 
religious  man,  but  does  not  know  how 
to  set  about  it  ?  I  answer,  let  him  speak 
the  truth.  Let  him  do  it  always.  Let 
him  do  it  immediately.  The  word  is 
nigh  him,  in  his  heart  and  in  his  mouth, 
to  do  it.  In  the  ne.xt  conversation  he 
holds,  let  him  speak  the  truth.  If  he 
talks  about  this  discourse  which  he  has 
heard,  let  him  speak  the  truth.  And  let 
him  not  fool  nor  falsify  his  own  heart 


by  saying  that  there  is  no  religion  in  it.  " 
It  should  be  a  religion  in  his  heart  to 
speak  the  truth.  It  is  indeed  a  thing 
most  spiritual  to  which  he  is  called.  It 
may  be  a  regeneration  to  which  he  is 
called.  It  is  a  religious  reverence  for 
the  ever-present,  the  all-witnessing  God  ^ 
of  truth.  1 

Let  him,  I  still  say,  speak  the  truth. 
Let  him  speak  it  the  next  thing  he 
speaks.  Let  him  speak  it,  always  and 
everywhere,  —  at  home  and  abroad,  in 
the  house  and  by  the  way,  at  the  trading- 
house  and  the  horse-fair,  when  he  buys 
and  when  he  sells,  in  business  and  in 
society,  in  life  and  in  death,  let  him 
speak  the  true  word. 

Could  I  bring  any  who  hear  me,  and 
especially  those  just  entering  upon  life, 
to  a  solemn  resolve  ever  to  speak  the 
truth,  —  call  it  what  you  will,  religion 
or  morality,  I  care  not,  —  I  should  feel 
that  I  had  not  spoken  in  vain.  That 
right  habit  would  instantly  begin  to 
correct  every  wrong  habit.  All  evil, 
all  wrong,  all  debasing  license  of  the 
senses,  is  covered  over  with  lying. 
Strip  off  that  covering  ;  and  the  world 
would  become  guilty  before  God  ;  and 
a  grand  reform  would  begin,  where  the 
Gospel  begins  it,  with  repentance. 


IX. 


ON   IMPATIENCE. 

Psalm  xxxvii.  i,  7,  8  :  "  Fret  not  thyself  be- 
cause of  evil  doers,  neither  be  thou  envious  against 
the  workers  of  iniquity.  Rest  in  the  Lord,  and  wait 
patiently  for  him  ;  fret  not  thyself  because  of  him  who 
prospereth  in  his  way,  because  of  the  man  who  bring- 
eth  wicked  devices  to  pass.  Cease  from  anger,  and 
forsake  wrath  ;  fret  not  thyself  in  any  wise  to  do  evil." 

Impatience, — fretting  against  evil- 
doers, ay,  and  against  those  who  do 
well,  but  do  not  things  in  the  right 
way;  fretting  not  only  at  men,  but 
things  ;  fretting  at  obstacles  and  incon- 
veniences, and  especially  at  petty  annoy- 
ances and  vexations,  —  this  is  a  state 
of  mind,   I  am  inclined  to  think,  more 


IMPATIENCE. 


711 


common  and  more  indefensible  than 
is  apt  to  be  suspected.  On  preaching 
once  a  sermon  upon  conscience,  in 
which  I  had  endeavored  to  extend  the 
sphere  of  conscience  to  a  wider  circle 
than  is  usually  embraced  by  it,  a 
thoughtful  hearer  said  to  me,  when 
coming  out  of  church,  ''  Yes,  it  is  all 
true  ;  but  you  have  not  touched  me?'' 
«  Ah  ?  "  I  said,  "  how  not  ?  "  "  Be- 
cause," was  the  reply,  "  my  sin  is  im- 
patience." 

I  was  led  to  reflect  on  the  subject. 
1  could  not  recollect  that  I  had  ever 
heard  a  sermon  upon  it.  And  yet  it 
appeared  to  me  probable,  as  I  thought 
of  it,  that  this  very  fault  covered  more 
ground  than  any  other  in  life.  I  saw 
that  it  was  more  likely  than  many  other 
faults  to  be  kept  out  of  sight.  Impa- 
tience, it  is  true,  is  apt  to  break  out  in 
hasty  words  and  actions  ;  but  it  is  often 
a  solitary  vice.  A  man  may  fret  him- 
self and  nobody  may  know  it.  Loss  of 
self-possession  is  loss  of  self-respect  ; 
and  one  would  take  care  not  to  disclose 
it.  Into  the  whole  texture  of  life  may 
be  woven  these  cross  threads  of  impa- 
tience, and  all  done  in  the  silent  loom 
of  thought.  A  man  may  fret  his  life 
long  at  his  neighbor's  prosperity,  yet 
more  at  what  he  considers  his  neigh- 
bor's perverseness  and  incivility,  and 
never  speak  of  it.  Many  a  one,  if  he 
were  to  tell  us  what  passes  in  his 
private  apartment,  would  confess  an 
occasional  irritation,  with  the  arrange- 
ments or  rtYj-arrangements  rather,  with 
his  wardrobe,  his  toilet,  his  pen  and 
ink,  or  his  fire  that  was  too  cold  or  too 
hot,  —  going  to  the  length  of  flinging 
down  or  breaking  things  ;  of  which  the 
world  knows  nothing. 

Doubtless  there  are  different  tem- 
peraments, which  are  likely  to  develop 
this  tendency  to  haste  and  passion  in 
different  degrees.  There  ar-e  men  who 
apparently  have  no  fierves,  nothing  in 
them  that  feels  the  edge  of  annoyance. 
And  there  are  men  who  are  not  only 
nervous  but  earnest  and  impetuous  ; 
the  onward  rush  of  whose  spirits  can- 


not encounter  obstacles  without  some 
disturbance.  And  doubtless,  too,  it  is 
to  be  considered,  tliough  it  seldom  is 
sufficiently  considered  in  our  moral 
teachings,  that  every  tendency  in  our 
nature  has  its  uses  as  well  as  abuses. 
A  person,  not  at  all  impatient  at  failure 
and  frustration,  not  in  the  least  vexed 
at  his  own  blundering  and  forgetful- 
ness,  or  at  the  negligence  or  careless- 
ness of  others,  would  be  scarce  likely 
to  be  making  himself  better,  or  persons 
and  things  around  him  belter.  He 
who  has  earnestly  set  his  heart  upon 
having  things  done  in  the  best  way, — 
in  his  house,  in  his  office,  on  his  farm 
or  in  his  factory,  in  society  or  in  his 
country, —  can  hardly  see  things  go 
wrong,  without  an  emotion  bordering 
on  impatience.  Men  may  be  too  pa- 
tient,—  of  disarray  in  their  dwellings 
and  about  them,  or  of  disorder  in  their 
affairs,  of  evils  and  wrongs  in  society : 
such  patience  has  no  virtue  in  it,  nor 
the  promise  of  any. 

Still,  it  will  not  be  denied  that  the 
contrary  tendency  may,  and  commonly 
does,  go  too  far ;  and  I  shall  now 
propose  for  your  consideration  some 
thoughts  that  may  show  the  reasonable- 
ness of  bringing  it  under  due  control. 

I  have  admitted  that  this  tendency 
has  its  uses.  That  is  to  say,  when  it 
is  simply  a  strong  dissatisfaction  with 
what  is  wrong  or  imperfect,  and  what 
it  is  in  our  power  to  amend,  it  is  a  good 
element.  But  when  it  is  a  fretting  at 
what  we  can't  help,  when  it  is,  in  any 
way,  a  hasty  and  passionate  emotion, 
then  it  is  7wt  good  ;  and  this  is  what 
we  commonly  mean  by  impatience. 

And  before  speaking  of  it  on  moral 
grounds,  I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  on 
economical  grounds  it  must  be  pro- 
nounced to  be  very  unwise.  There 
is  an  economy  of  our  powers,  always 
to  be  considered  in  a  wise  culture  ;  and 
impatience  is  a  waste  of  them,  and  a 
useless  waste:  it  does  no  good.  No 
knot  of  difficulty,  as  no  literal  knot, 
is  best  untied  by  hasty  and  violent 
hands.     Things    may   be    botched,    or 


712 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


they  may  be  torn  in  pieces,  but  they 
are  never  well  mended,  by  haste  or 
anger.  Cahnly  setting  about  the  cor- 
rection of  what  is  wrong  is  the  only 
way  to  repair  it.  Calmness  and  method, 
—  these  two  qualities,  I  believe,  char- 
acterize all  successful  effort  ;  but  there 
is  neither  calmness  nor  method  in 
impatience.  And,  in  fine,  it  does  no 
good,  any  way.  It  does  not  lessen  the 
obstacle,  but  only  the  skill  to  remove 
it.  There  is  no  help  in  it,  but  only 
blindness  and  frustration.  So  much 
wear  and  tear  of  the  spirit,  so  much 
chafing  and  strife  and  discomfort  in  the 
mind,  ought  to  have  some  compensa- 
tion ;  but  there  is  none  at  all.  It  is 
all  beating  the  air,  and  labor  in  vain. 
Here  are  fit  powers  and  apt  instruments 
to  do  the  work,  —  the  work  of  life  in 
every  kind  ;  memory  and  judgment  and 
will,  eyes  and  hands  and  fingers  ;  but 
they  are  all  thrown  into  confusion  by 
impatience.  If  a  machine,  fitted  in  its 
orderly  going  on  to  do  a  certain  tiling, 
were  suddenly  to  fall  into  disorder, 
twitching  and  racking  and  pulling  con- 
trary ways,  the  master  would  immedi- 
ately stop  it :  he  would  decide  at  once 
that  things  must  not  go  on  in  that  way. 
In  the  machine,  it  would  be  disorder  ; 
in  the  man,  it  is  distraction  and  folly: 
and  the  governing  reason  ought  to  say, 
"  Stop,  and  wait  till  you  are  arranged 
for  some  orderly  proceeding."  Fret 
not  thyself  because  of  evil-doers,  or 
imperfect  doings  ;  fret  not  thyself  in 
any  wise  to  do  evil. 

It  is  doing  evil  to  fret  ourselves  in 
any  wise,  and  this  is  what  I  proposed 
especially  to  consider.  And  the  ground 
on  which  I  place  this  moral  view  is 
this:  that,  as  imperfect  beings,  we  have 
our  part  assigned  to  us  in  this  world, 
amidst  circumstances  and  objects  that 
are  meant  to  cultivate  and  improve  us  ; 
that  all  which  tasks  and  tries,  and  which 
we  suffer,  perhaps,  to  irritate  and  vex 
us,  was  designed  not  to  irritate  and  vex 
us,  but  to  cultivate  our  faculties,  to  nur- 
ture in  us  strength,  aptitude,  endurance; 
to  spread  a  field  for  the  calm  victory  of 


reason  and  virtue  over  the  obstacles  that 
surround  us.  Impatience,  then,  is  an 
offence  against  the  whole  order  of  Prov- 
idence. And  as  in  good  minds  it  arises 
from  failing  to  consider  this,  it  is  this 
that  I  would  attempt  to  show. 

Observe,  in  the  first  place,  that  by  no 
conceivable,  I  think  I  may  say  by  no 
possible,  arrangement  of  things  could 
obstruction  and  difficulty  be  removed  J 
from  the  system.  If  indeed  these  hin-  I 
drances  and  obstacles  were  gratuitous, 
if  they  were  put  into  the  system  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  thwart  and  vex 
us,  then  might  we  justly  complain.  But 
there  cati  be  no  adjustment  of  freely 
working  and  imperfect  natures  to  any 
conceivable  set  of  instruments  without 
involving  more  or  less  trial  of  patience. 
Instinct  or  mechanism  may  perhaps  be 
made  to  work  with  unerring  precision  ; 
the  bee  may  build  its  cell  without  mis- 
take ;  the  band  may  be  exactly  fitted  to 
the  pulley,  the  cog  to  the  wheel :  but  so 
cannot  the  free  will,  so  cannot  an  im- 
perfect and  experimenting  nature,  work 
into  any  conditions.  The  elements  may 
be  ever  so  perfect,  but  the  imperfection 
of  the  agent  must  always  create  diffi- 
culty. Nay,  more,  if  there  were  no 
difficulty;  if  man,  like  the  animal,  walked 
in  the  paths  of  unerring  instinct,  not 
only  would  he  not  be  a  moral  agent,  but 
he  would  not  be  an  improving  agent. 
Difficulty  is  the  very  school  of  culture 
and  progress-. 

So  it  is,  then  ;  so  it  is  inevitably,  in 
the  very  nature  of  things  ;  so  it  is  or- 
dained to  be  :  and  anything  in  us  that 
resists  or  thwarts  this  constitution  of 
things  is  hostile  to  the  especial  wisdom 
and  law  of  that  Providence  which  has 
made  us  and  appointed  all  our  relations 
to  the  objects  around  us.  Now  impa- 
tience is  that  very  thing.  I  need  not 
repeat  that  it  does  no  good;  that  it  does 
not  help  us  at  all  in  any  respect:  it  is 
more  than  negative,  —  it  is  a  positive 
quarrel  with  the  great  discipline  of  life. 

Let  us  consider  the  matter  in  some 
detail.  Impatience  has  various  provo- 
cations :  events  and  circumstances  pro- 


IMPATIENCE. 


713 


yoke  it ;  men  and  things  ;  things  great 
and  small,  but  chiefly  of  the  latter  kind. 
Great  calamities,  as  has  been  often  ob- 
served, perilous  sickness,  approaching 
death,  dread  bereavement,  usually  weigh 
down  to  awful  resignation  or  to  more 
awful  despair,  the  lesser  irritations  of 
the  mind. 

Here  is  a  being,  then,  who  is  placed 
in  a  thousand  contacts  with  a  thousand 
little  things.  He  may  have  great  aims, 
he  may  be  a  great  man,  but  he  must 
deal  with  small  instruments  ;  and  not 
only  with  little  things,  but  with  litde 
men.  But  to  speak  more  properly  of 
every  man's  vocation :  it  is  not  to  roll 
on  the  great  world,  nor  to  wield  the 
thunder,  nor  to  sweep  the  skies  with 
cloud  and  tempest ;  but  to  till  the 
ground  with  plough  and  hoe  and  harrow, 
or  to  build  houses  with  saw  and  chisel 
and  hammer,  or  to  manufacture  or  bar- 
ter the  conveniences  of  life,  or  to  paint 
or  write  with  pen  or  pencil,  or  to  play 
skilfully  on  an  instrument.  Now  every 
one  of  these  things  is  liable  to  get  out  of 
order.  Nothing  can  man  touch,  but  it 
may  break  or  wear  out,  or  rust  and  be 
dulled,  and  not  work  well,  or  become 
entangled  and  full  of  hindrance  and 
thwarting  to  his  immediate  design.  Or 
if  he  would  do  one  of  the  greatest  things 
that  man  ca7i  do,  —  tliink  grandly,  and 
grandly  utter  his  thought,  —  if  he  would 
put  forth,  and  speak,  and  embody  in 
himself  some  great  word,  that  shall  task 
his  powers  to  tiie  uttermost,  some  great 
word  that  shall  be  truth  and  guidance 
to  his  country  or  to  the  world,  still  how 
dimly  the  matter  reveals  itself  to  him  at 
\  the  first !  Or  if  one  bright  point  shines 
I  out,  how  many  imperfect  thoughts  and 
phrases  are  to  be  formed  and  fashioned 

I  and  shaded  and  adjusted  !     They  will 
i  not  leap  forth   perfect  for  his  use,  but 

must  be  painfully  elaborated  into  a  re- 

II  suit.  Then  must  he  be  patient.  In 
work  or  study  he  must  be  patient.  Fa- 
miliar is  what  the  great  Newton  said,  but 
it  may  be  repeated  here,  as  most  signifi- 
cant:  "If  I  have  surpassed  other  men, 
it  is  only  by  dint  of  patient  thinking." 


Then,  I  say,  he  must  be  patient ;  pa- 
tient of  labor,  patient  with  difficulty, 
with  contradiction.  It  is  God's  most 
special  ordinance  for  the  hfe-task, — 
patience.  He  is  not  only  cast  into  a 
world  of  a  thousand  little  things,  but  of 
things  neither  ready-made  for  him  nor 
precisely  adjusted  to  an  unerring  use  ; 
the  very  contrary  is  the  fact.  He  can- 
not, like  the  animal,  live  under  the  open 
sky,  and  eat  and  lie  down  and  rise  up, 
without  care.  He  must  build  his  house, 
and  he  must  furnish  his  house,  and  he 
must  keep  his  house.  A  house  builded, 
furnished,  kept,  —  it  is  a  brief  descrip- 
tion, but  it  is  the  epitome  of  endless 
cares.  Nothing  will  be,  or  at  least 
nothing  will  keep.,  as  we  want  it.  The 
spider  will  weave  in  the  window  and  the 
cornice,  the  busy  ant  and  buzzing  fly 
will  bring  annoyance,  and  every  apart- 
ment will  be  choked  with  disarray  and 
discomfort  if  we  do  not  constantly  put 
things  in  order.  Farm  and  garden  and 
workshop  and  factory,  in  hke  man- 
ner, will  go  all  to  wreck  and  ruin  if 
there  is  not  this  constant  and  minute 
attention. 

What  does  all  this  mean  ?  Why  is  it 
that  man,  with  the  vast  reach  of  his  na- 
ture, the  vast  breadth  of  his  compre- 
hension, must  contract  his  attention  to 
things  so  minute  .''  Because,  as  I  con- 
ceive, this  is  the  natural  ordinance  for 
such  a  being  ;  because,  that  is  to  say, 
he  is  not  yet  fit  to  deal  with  greater 
things  alone,  —  his  nature  could  not  bear 
the  strain.  If  all  men  were  statesmen, 
for  instance,  they  would  sink  under  the 
load,  as  even  the  few  often  do.  Indeed, 
I  have  often  thought  that  the  monotony 
of  many  of  our  employments  —  the  rou- 
tine, felt  to  be  so  tedious,  of  sewing  and 
stitching,  of  making  pins  and  buttons, 
and  of  other  similar  avocations  —  might 
act  usefully  as  a  sedative  and  relief  for 
the  over-strained  faculties.  But  certain 
it  is  that  things  many  and  minute  neces- 
sarily make  up  the  sum  of  influences  by 
which  man  is  fashioned  and  formed  to 
wisdom  and  excellence.  The  instru- 
ments that  chip  the  marble  into  a  per- 


714 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


feet  statue  are  many  of  them  very  small, 

—  some  of  them  hardly  larger  than  a 
needle's  point.  If  man  had  to  meet 
some  moral  crisis  or  to  practise  some 
high  virtue  but  once  in  a  day  or  once  in 
a  month,  it  might  be  far  easier  and  far 
less  noble  than  it  is  to  answer  the  call 
and  to  be  equal  to  the  exigency  of  every 
hour's,  of  every  moment's  discipline. 

I  must  insist  on  this  as  a  significant 
and  not^  though  at  first  it  may  seem  to 
be,  a  mysterious  ordination  of  Provi- 
dence. When  I  look  into  a  summer 
parlor,  and  see  the  man  who  sits  there 

—  the  paragon  of  creatures  on  earth,  the 
chief  and  head  of  the  world  —  assailed 
all  day  by  insect  annoyances,  the  gnat, 
the  fly,  the  mosquito,  it  is  something 
so  disproportionate  and  singular,  that  I 
ask  a  reason  for  it.  And  I  do  not  say, 
that  the  only  reason  is  a  vioral  one. 
These  swarms  of  insect  life,  scavengers 
of  the  air,  minister  to  health  ;  and  they 
may  minister  in  ways  not  commonly 
thought  of ;  they  may  keep  the  sluggish 
from  sleeping  through  all  the  summer 
afternoon,  and  the  surfeited,  for  aught 
I  know,  from  apoplexy.  But  they  may 
have,  I  conceive,  another  and  moral 
ministry  ;  for  they  are  not  \\\z  smallest 
tilings  tliat  are  put  into  the  sphere  of 
the  human  training.  That  is  to  say, 
they  may  be  part  and  parcel  of  a  great 
system,  in  which  ease,  quiescence,  indul- 
gence, are  not  the  o!)ject,  but  patience, 
self-government,  wakeful  thought,  and 
watchful  virtue  ;  and  the  buzzing  fiy  may 
help  to  that,  as  well  as  the  flying  mote 
or  thread-like  nerves.  It  is  thus,  at  any 
rate,  that  men  must  pursue  all  the  great 
tasks  of  life  ;  amidst  the  interruptions 
and  stings  of  a  thousand  petty  annoy- 
ances and  thwarting  difficulties.  The 
plough  and  the  harrow  will  break  in  the 
field ;  the  tire  will  part  from  the  wheel, 
or  the  horse  will  cast  his  shoe  in  the  way ; 
the  thread  will  slip  from  the  needle,  and 
the  needle's  eye  is  small,  and  will  be 
blind  to  the  dimmed  sight ;  the  garments 
we  wear  will  not  exactly  fit;  neither 
food  nor  fuel  will  do  a  perfect  service  ; 
a  certain  pertinacious  tendency  to  dis- 


order or  discomfort  will  meet  us  at  ev- 
ery turn  ;  the  course  of  nothing  will  run 
smooth  ;  men,  as  well  as  things,  will 
disappoint  and  disturb  us ;  the  imper- 
fections of  our  fellow-beings  will  annoy 
us ;  engagements  with  them  will  not 
dove-tail  into  one  another  ;  all  agencies 
will  not  coalesce ;  some  will  be  too 
slow,  and  others  too  fast :  what,  then,  are 
we  to  do  ?  We  must  be  patient,  or  be 
the  fools  and  sport  of  circumstances. 
We  must  be  patient,  or  lose  the  day, 
lose  the  battle  of  every  day's  life.  We 
cannot  escape  the  conflict.  We  must 
fight  the  battle,  and  win  or  lose.  Pa- 
tience is  victory :  impatience  is  miser- 
able and  mean  defeat.  Patience  is  gain  : 
impatience  is  loss,  is  frustration,  so  far 
as  it  goes,  of  the  very  end  of  life. 

Does  not  life,  in  this  view,  does  not 
daily  life,  rise  before  us  in  a  serious  and 
even  solemn  aspect  ?  Man  is  placed 
here  to  learn.  He  is  at  school.  What 
if,  instead  of  studying  the  book,  he  tears 
the  leaves  in  pieces  like  a  froward  child, 
and  scatters  them  upon  the  wind  1  What 
if,  instead  of  calmly  addressing  himself 
to  the  removal  of  obstacles,  to  bringing 
order  out  of  confusion,  to  rectifying  er- 
rors and  meeting  disappointments,  and 
untying  the  knots  of  difficulty,  he  frets 
and  rages  and  involves  and  entangles  all 
in  greater  difficulty.''  What  if,  instead 
of  acquiescing  in  the  plan  of  life,  and 
laboring  to  bring  himself  into  harmony 
with  the  system  of  nature,  he  petulantly 
throws  all  into  worse  confusion,  worse 
than  nature  ever  made  for  him?  Could 
he  set  himself  more  directly  against  the 
very  order  of  Providence  ?  Could  he 
more  palpably  disobey,  if  he  plainly  said, 
"  I  will  7iot  submit  to  things  as  they  are, 
—  I  will  not  submit  to  Heaven  '  ? 

And  the  misery  of  this  temper  shows 
the  evil  of  it.  No  man  is  more  con- 
stantly unhappy,  or  makes  others  more 
so,  than  the  impatient  man.  He  is  out 
of  harmony  witli  tilings ;  and  all  things 
fight  and  worry  and  wound  him.  He 
feels  himself  dishonored,  too,  by  his  im- 
patience ;  and  he  does  lose,  so  far  as  he 
indulges  it,  the  true  dignity  of  li;'e.     He 


IMPATIENCE. 


715 


is  not  cast,  indeed,  like  the  victim  of 
sensual  vice,  into  the  slough  of  dishon- 
or ;  his  garment  perhaps  is  not  soiled; 
but  it  is  burnt  through,  in  a  thousand 
spots,  by  the  ever-dropping  little  sparks 
of  petulance  ;  and  it  is  in  tatters  and 
disorder  with  the  ever-crossing  flurries 
of  angry  passion  ;  and  he  seems  to  him- 
self, and  to  others,  as  one  who  scrambles 
through  life,  rather  than  as  one  who 
walks  in  the  calm  and  dignified  robe 
of  conscious  self-possession.  Constant 
fretting  and  fault-finding  and  breaking 
out  into  sarcasm  and  anger  may  bereave 
a  house  of  all  honor,  peace,  and  comfort, 
almost  as  effectually  as  gluttony  and 
drunkenness.  Or  suppose  that  the  fret- 
ful temper  be  hidden  and  smothered  in 
the  heart  ;  then  it  wastes  and  consumes 
the  springs  of  the  inmost  life. 

I  cannot  but  suppose  that  any  person 
conscious  of  this  tendency  would  gladly 
consider  how  it  is  to  be  checked  and 
controlled.  Let  us  therefore,  in  a  few 
words,  direct  our  thoughts,  in  close,  to 
the  remedies  for  impatience. 

And  the  first  is,  distinctly  and  delib- 
erately to  settle  our  minds  to  the  expec- 
tation of  difficulties.  It  is  for  this  rea- 
son, in  part,  that  I  have  endeavored  to 
lay  open  the  plan  of  human  culture  by 
little  tasks  and  trials  of  our  intelligence 
and  virtue,  and  to  show  that  this  is  an 
inevitable  part  of  the  common  lot.  The 
impatient  are  always  surprised  by  their 
difficulties  and  disappointments.  Nay, 
they  often  go  to  the  length  of  imagining 
that  trials  and  mishaps  are  their  peculiar 
ill  luck.  They  complain  as  if  untoward 
chance  made  them  its  special  mark  and 
butt.  "  It  always  rains,  when  they  want 
to  travel.  The  harness  always  breaks, 
when  they  ride.  The  water  is  always 
low,  when  their  corn  is  to  be  ground. 
Their  neighbor  is  always  engaged,  when 
they  want  him  ;  the  smith  is  always 
shoeing  a  horse,  when  they  want  him 
to  make  a  staple^''  Nay,  it  goes  to  the 
length  of  being  a  sort  of  superstition  ,- 
and  the  man  says,  "  I  knew  it  would  be 
just  so  :  things  never  do  come  right  for 
me. ' ' 


Now  what  I  have  to  recommend  to  the 
impatient  man,  in  the  first  place,  is  that 
he  work  out  and  eliminate  from  his  prob- 
lem, as  fast  as  he  can,  this  element  of 
surprise,  this  notion  of  a  peculiarity  in 
his  case,  this  idea  that  he  is  honored 
with  the  special  attention,  as  of  some 
hostile  power.  It  is  twt  so.  His  is  the 
common  lot.  Let  him  calmly  say,  then, 
in  every  crisis,  at  every  turn  of  his  hand 
to  a  new  thing,  at  the  threshold  of  his 
apartment  when  he  enters  it,  "Of  course 
there  will  be  difficulties  here  :  nothing 
is  perfect ;  no  condition,  no  place,  can 
be  free  from  obstruction  or  inconven- 
ience ;  no  task  can  offer  perfect  facility  ; 
and  what  I  have  to  do  is,  to  meet,  to 
disentangle  or  to  overcome  the  difficul- 
ties of  every  task,  of  every  situation  and 
emergency,  as  a  part  of  the  very  thing 
I  have  to  do."  You  are  not  vexed  be- 
cause you  have  to  build  a  house,  or  to 
entertain  friends  or  distinguished  per- 
sons in  it,  or  to  conduct  an  active  or 
prosperous  business  in  the  world,  or  to 
fill  an  honorable  office.  It  is  when  mis- 
takes, crosses,  disappointments,  are  to 
be  met,  that  you  are  vexed.  But  this 
is  a  part  of  the  very  thing  to  be  done  ; 
of  the  building,  the  entertaining,  the 
business,  the  office.  This  meeting  with 
tnistakes  and  crosses,  I  say,  is  a  part  of 
it.  I  think  if  every  man  would  fairly 
settle  this  with  himself,  and  could  learn 
to  say  to  every  petty  mischance,  "  Yes, 
of  course  something  must  task  and  try 
me  at  every  step,"  he  would  find  great 
help  in  that  single  conviction.  And 
then,  too,  if  he  be  a  wise  man,  he  will 
see  to  it  that  he  does  not  go  on  con- 
stantly making  and  multiplying  trials 
of  this  sort,  by  his  own  improvidence, 
negligence,  and  carelessness. 

The  next  remedy  for  impatience  is 
a  reasonable  submission  to  the  will  of 
Providence.  This  every  right-minded 
man  must  desire  to  render,  if  he  be- 
lieves in  a  Providence,  and  believes 
that  the  small  occasions  which  try  his 
patience  are  a  part  of  it.  But  they  are 
a  part  of  it.  We  see  that  they  are  a 
part  of  it.     We  know  that  they  must  be. 


7i6 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


1 


The  "divine  ordering  of  all  things  im- 
plies the  ordering  of  everything.  There 
is  a  Providence  that  reigns  over  all  the 
scene  and  lot  of  our  life.  In  the  buzz- 
ing insect  its  wisdom  speaks  as  truly 
as  in  the  winged  tempest;  in  the  fall 
of  a  sparrow  as  truly  as  in  the  fall  of 
an  empire.  The  hairs  of  our  head  are 
numbered;  and  every  thread  in  the  tan- 
gled skein  of  events  is  numbered,  and 
hath  its  ministry.  Out  from  that  tan- 
gled skein,  out  from  each  trivial  event 
and  circumstance,  out  from  the  thorn- 
bush  by  the  wayside,  God's  wisdom  is 
speaking  as  truly  as  from  the  height  of 
heaven.  Forever  is  it  teaching  ;  for- 
ever must  we  be  learning,  —  in  lowli- 
ness, in  submission,  in  patience,  must 
we  be  learning.  Believe  me,  the  thought 
I  utter  is  not  too  high  for  the  humblest 
occasion.  In  the  thought  of  God  alone 
is  sovereign  strength  and  Sacred  calm- 
ness. The  lowliest  virtue  is  thus  linked 
to  the  throne  of  heaven.  Impatience 
is  unbelief,  —  is  denial  of  God  ;  and 
unbelief  is  perdition,  the  very  soul's 
misery.  Thus  is  the  great  truth  of 
Scripture  brought  down  to  be  truth 
of  every  moment. 

In  fine,  the  lofty  and  admirable  state 
of  a  mind  that  has  got  rid  of  its  im- 
patience may  well  win  us  to  make  the 
effort  for  that  calm  and  sacred  free- 
dom. I  do  not  doubt  there  is  more 
than  one  who  hears  me  that  might 
justly  say,  "  I  would  give  more  to  ob- 
tain that  calmness  and  self-control  — 
it  more  concerns  my  inmost  honor  and 
happiness  —  than  to  learn  ten  languages 
or  to  gain  tens  of  thousands  of  gold." 
The  occasions  that  try  us  may  be  small, 
but  the  principle  that  governs  us  must 
be  the  greatest  possible.  The  littleness 
of  the  events  and  instruments  that  we 
are  dealing  with  is  ever  cheating  us  out 
of  the  true  grandeur  of  life.  "  Greater 
is  he  that  ruleth  his  own  spirit  than  he 
that  taketh  a  city."  A  man  may  rule 
an  empire,  and  yet  not  govern  himself. 
A  man  may  stand,  brave  and  calm  and 
self-possessed,  the  battle's  shock,  that 
breaks  into  the  awful  house  of  life,  and 


yet  may  be  disturbed  and  shaken  in 
spirit,  and  utterly  thrown  from  his  self- 
possession,  by  the  breaking  of  a  china 
jar.  He  may  drive  his  car  of  victory 
through  fields  which  epic  song  shall 
celebrate,  and  yet  be  completely  upset 
by  the  snapping  of  a  harp-string.  Oh, 
fine  and  delicate  and  manifold  and  much 
entangled  are  the  tissues  of  life  which 
surround  us  !  and  he  who  brings  music 
out  of  the  discord,  and  harmony  out 
of  confusion,  —  he  who  walks  through 
life  with  an  even  temper  and  a  gentle 
patience,  patient  with  himself,  patient 
with  others,  patient  with  difficulties 
and  crosses,  thoughtful,  not  of  showy 
appearances,  but  of  inmost  realities, 
thoughtful  of  virtue  and  of  God,  —  he 
has  an  every-day  greatness  beyond  that 
which  is  won  in  battle,  or  chanted  in 
cathedrals,  or  heralded  with  the  shout 
and  pageantry  of  a  triumphal  proces- 
sion. 


X. 


ON   SELF-RENUNCIATION. 

Heb.  xi.  25  :  "  Choosing  rather  to  suffer  affliction 
with  the  people  of  God,  than  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
sin  for  a  season." 

I  HAVE  heard  it  said  in  a  sermon 
on  these  words,  —  somewhat  strangely, 
I  thought,  since  it  seemed  to  brow- 
beat the  very  text,  —  that  there  are  no 
pleasures  of  sin.  The  meaning  of  the 
preacher  was,  I  suppose,  that  there  are 
no  ultimate  advantages  in  it.  Now  that 
the  balance  of  happiness,  during  any 
period  that  is  sufficient  for  the  trial,  is 
on  the  side  of  virtue,  is  doubtless  true. 
But  the  text  itself  admits  that  there 
are  "pleasures  of  sin,"  though  brief 
and  transitory,  though  for  a  season, 
and  it  places  upon  that  very  ground 
the  grandeur  of  the  principle  which  it 
commends  to  our  admiration. 

And  what  is  that  ?  It  is  the  princi- 
ple which  is  commonly  —  though,  for  a 
reason  I  shall  presently  state,  not  very 
happily — denominated  self-renunciation, 
or  self-sacrifice.     Renunciation  of  self- 


SELF-RENUNCIATION. 


717 


ishness  would  be  a  juster  description  of 
it.  It  is,  in  other  words,  a  preferring 
of  virtue,  cost  what  it  may,  to  any  pleas- 
ures or  advantages  that  can  be  enjoyed 
without  it.  Moses  "chose  rather  to  suf- 
fer with  the  people  of  God '"  than  to  be 
happy  or  honored  with  any  other  peo- 
ple. Egypt,  its  king  and  court,  were 
there  to  allure  him  with  every  pleasure  ; 
and  there,  abroad  in  the  fields,  in  the 
brick-yards,  were  his  poor,  despised 
people,  —  toil  and  scorn  their  lot.  He 
did  not  hesitate  which  to  choose.  But 
it  was  great  choosing.  It  was  a  great 
principle  to  act  upon.  "  Renounce,"  it 
says  to  us,  —  "  renounce  thy  selfish  and 
pleasure-seeking  self  for  what  is  right. 
Choose  the  right  rather  than  advan- 
tage. Choose  virtue  rather  than  en- 
joyment. Choose  virtue  singly,  first  of 
all,  and  for  its  own  sake,  and  let  en- 
joyment take  care  of  itself.  Better  to 
endure  want  or  pain  as  a  good  man, 
than  to  enjoy  pleasure  or  wealth  as  a 
bad  man.  You  can  do  without  pleasure, 
you  can  do  without  wealth,  you  can  do 
without  worldly  eclat  or  advantage  ;  but 
you  cannot  do  without  integrity,  truth, 
honesty,  inward  honor. 

I  have  said  that  self-sacrifice,  or  self- 
renunciation,  is  not  the  best  phrase  to 
set  forth  this  principle  ;  for  in  true  obe- 
dience to  it  a  man  does  jiot  sacrifice 
nor  renounce,  but  cherishes  and  grati- 
fies his  highest  self,  the  loftiest  and 
dearest  faculty  of  his  nature,  his  sense 
of  rectitude.  That  the  highest  point  of 
virtue,  however,  shoiild  have  been  de- 
nominated self-renunciation  rather  than 
self-gratification,  is  indeed  one  of  those 
significant  facts  embedded  in  language 
which  reveals  the  character  of  past 
ages.  Men's  self  has  been  selfishness, 
else  had  not  self  needed  to  be  denied. 
Had  they  been  better  than  they  have 
been,  had  their  prevailing  desires  been 
high  and  pure,  then  self-gratification 
had  been  their  law  and  welfare. 

But  still  I  must  say  that  the  pursuit 
of  virtue  in  its  aim  runs  wide  of  what 
has  been  called  the  universal  passion, — 
the  love  of  happiness  ;  that  is  to  say, 


it  is  altogether  a  distinct  thing.  It  is 
as  different  from  the  love  of  happiness, 
and  as  much  higher,  as  the  delight  of 
giving  food  to  a  famishing  man  is  higher 
than  the  pleasure  of  tasting  it  ourselves. 
And  if  the  love  of  the  right  is  a  distinct 
thing,  it  may  be  a  motive  by  itself  ;  and 
if  it  is  a  greater  thing,  then  it  may  be 
a  more  powerful  motive  than  the  other. 
Let  the  love  of  happiness  be  a  motive 
to  virtue,  but  it  is  not  the  highest.  No, 
my  brethren,  it  is  no  over-refinement  — 
though  utilitarians  maintain  it  is  —  to 
say  that  virtue  must  be  sought  for  its 
own  sake,  and  especially  that  the  high- 
est deed  of  virtue  is  always  done  for  its 
own  sake  ;  it  is  a  simple  fact,  —  it  is  a 
fact  which  every  good  man's  conscious- 
ness gives  him.  The  righteous  man  will 
do  the  thing  that  is  right  because  it  is 
right  ;  he  does  not  pause  upon  any  pal- 
try calculations  about  advantage.  When 
I  say /^;//rK  calculations,  I  am  sensible 
that  I  speak  his  feeling  in  his  noblest 
frames  of  mind,  rather  than  the  strict 
truth.  The  advantage,  the  interest,  the 
happiness,  is  indeed  a  great  thing;  but 
great  as  it  is,  it  is  not  the  good  man's 
greatest  thought  nor  highest  motive.  In 
the  lower  ranges  of  virtue,  indeed,  — 
in  struggling  out  from  intemperance  or 
licentiousness  or  a  life  of  fraud,  —  a  man 
may  think  much  of  tlie  evils  they  have 
brought  upon  him  or  will  bring  upon 
him.  The  fear  of  hell  is  better  than 
no  motive  for  escaping  from  evil ;  but 
as  a  man  rises,  he  will  come  to  hate  all 
evil  and  to  love  all  goodness,  for  them- 
selves. 

But  I  am  not  content  with  asserting 
the  lofty  principle  I  contend  for,  merely 
as  a  matter  of  speculative  truth  ;  I  ap- 
peal more  distinctly  to  experience.  Is 
he  really  a  good  man,  —  is  he  a  good 
man,  at  all,  who  gives  alms,  or  makes 
prayers,  to  be  seen  of  men?  Our  Mas- 
ter, on  the  contrary,  pronounces  him  to 
be  a  hypocrite.  But  I  speak  to  the  true 
man's  own  expci'iejtce,  and  I  say,  —  when 
a  good  man  does  a  good  action,  is  he 
always,  I  might  almost  say,  is  he  ever, 
thinking  of  the  happiness  it  will   yield 


718 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


him  ?  It  is  very  proper,  no  doubt,  to 
vindicate  the  place  which  happiness  has 
in  the  theory  of  virtue  ;  but  in  the  prac- 
tice I  think  the  love  of  it  has  very  little 
place.  When  a  generous  man  is  spread- 
ing around  iiim  the  gifts  which  Heaven's 
beneficence  has  poured  upon  him,  he  is 
«o/  all  the  while  thinking  of  the  returns 
of  profit  or  praise.  Tlie  true  patriot  is 
not  thinking  of  the  fame  he  will  reap, 
but  of  the  country  he  would  save.  Nay, 
it  is  when  the  tide  of  battle  turns  against 
him,  and  darkness  and  disaster  hang 
upon  his  standard,  —  in  the  cloud  and 
the  storm,  unseen,  alone — in  the  thick 
battle, —  that  he  flings  himself  upon  the 
altar  of  his  great  sacrifice,  to  die  !  "  It 
is  beautiful,"  says  an  ancient  sentence, 
"  to  die  for  our  country  :  "  and  all  the 
ages  give  echo  to  it;  but  had  it  said 
"profitable,"  that  sentence  had  never 
been  repeated.  And,  to  descend  to  the 
humbler  scenes  of  domestic  life,  what 
is  it  that  carries  many  a  one  around  us 
through  all  the  unnumbered  steps  of 
maternal  care  and  watching  ?  Is  it  the 
mother's  expectation  that  her  children 
will  one  day  repay  her  ?  Nay,  if  there 
be  a  stricken  one  in  that  little  flock,  one 
that  through  long  and  lingering  disease 
^nust  die,  —  can  do  nothing  for  her,  but 
must  die,  —  upon  that  weak  and  droop- 
ing head,  upon  that  pained  and  com- 
plaining brow,  does  she  not  pour  out 
her  love  without  measure  ? 

Indeed,  the  disinterestedness  of  all  the 
loftier  human  aflTections  and  pursuits  is 
in  direct  contradiction  to  what  is  often 
alleged  concerning  the  utter  selfishness 
of  the  world.  The  artist  labors  to  em- 
body his  idea  of  beauty  on  the  canvas 
or  in  marble  or  in  music,  —  between 
lonely  walls  he  labors,  often  forgetting 
the  world  that  is  without :  the  poet,  the 
author,  retires  to  the  still  haunts  of  medi- 
tation, and  weaves  the  unbought  colors 
of  his  imagination  into  pictures  that  be- 
guile the  stealing  hours  ;  the  eloquent 
man  pours  forth  his  soul  in  the  unre- 
strained tide  of  speech  ;  and  if  either 
of  them  could  think,  in  the  great  hour 
and  access  of  inspiration,  of  a  price  for 


it,  though  that  price  were  fame,  //laf 
thought  would  strike  the  very  energy  of 
genius  with  the  palsy  of  death. 

This,  mv  brethren,  is  the  loftiness  of 
virtue.  This  is  the  loftiness  of  our 
Christian  teaching.  This  is  the  glory 
of  him  who  endured  the  cross  and  de- 
spised the  shame,  for  the  salvation  of  the 
world.  "Shall  not  a  good  man,  then," 
I  may  be  asked,  "have  respect  to  the 
recompense  of  reward,"  even  as  Moses 
is  said  to  have  had  respect  unto  it.-*  He 
shall,  indeed.  But  what  is  that  recom- 
pense ?  It  is  not  mere  escape  from 
hell.  It  is  not  heaven  even,  as  a  place 
of  refuge  or  security.  It  is  not  mere 
happiness,  —  no,  not  infinite  and  ever- 
lasting happiness  alone.  A  higher 
thought  than  this  enters  into  that  rec- 
ompense of  reward.  It  is  the  right, 
that  a  noble  mind  seeks  ;  it  is  the  true, 
the  just,  the  holy  and  pure  ;  it  is  disin- 
terestedness ;  it  is  sanctity;  it  is  some- 
thing far  better  than  happiness.  "  Oh  ! 
heaven,"  I  hear  some  one  sigh.  "  I  wish 
1  could  be  liappy :  I  think  /  should  be 
content  with  iliat.''''  Would  you  be  con- 
tent to  be  happy  without  any  regard  to 
what  made  you  so  ?  Alas  !  then  your 
spirit  is  broken  by  the  cares  and  sorrows 
of  life,  or  you  have  never  risen  to  the 
lofty  range  of  virtue.  Rectitude  does 
indeed  confer  the  true  happiness,  but  it 
is  not  happiness  that  gives  it  its  beauty 
and  grandeur.  Happiness,  compared 
with  rectitude,  is  but  as  a  beggar  at  the 
door  of  a  prince.  Virtue  is  the  only 
princely   thing  upon   earth. 

I  have  thus  laid  before  you  what  I 
understand  to  be  the  essential  basis  of 
true  rectitude.  Other  things  may  help 
to  build  it  up,  circumstances,  customs, 
worships,  motives  of  interest ;  but  this 
is  the  foundation,  —  the  love  of  the  right 
for  its  own  sake.  I  may  now  be  asked,  — 
of  what  use  is  this  view  of  the  subject  1 
This  question  I  shall  attempt  to  answer 

I  say,  then,  that  the  point  in  hand 
touches,  first,  the  matter  of  happiness 
itself  ;  secondly,  the  solution  of  the 
grand  problem  of  life;  and  thirdly,  the 
essential  worth  and  dignity  of  virtue. 


SELF-RENUNCIATION. 


719 


First,  the  matter  of  happiness  itself. 
I  have  come  to  entertain  the  opinion,  my 
friends,  that  with  reference  to  being 
happy,  we  think  too  much  of  it,  and  too 
little  of  being  right  and  pure.  We  come 
forward  into  life  demanding  happiness, 
and  portraying  to  ourselves  many  a  fairy 
scene,  where  it  is  to  be  enjoyed.  There 
is  indeed  a  beau  ideal  of  earthly  felicity 
in  many  minds,  which  I  doubt  whether 
it  is  good  for  them.  There  is  a  worldly 
dreaming  about  happiness,  which  can 
never  be  realized.  Many  are  expecting 
from  every  quarter,  —  from  friendship, 
from  domestic  life,  from  property,  from 
honor,  a  more  unalloyed  good  than  they 
will  ever  receive.  Their  disappointment 
in  life  is  proportioned  to  their  expec- 
tations ;  and  this  world  is  shaded  and 
saddened  to  their  vision,  because  they 
did  not  see  it  as  what  it  is,  and  perhaps 
inevitably  is,  —  a  system  of  moral  devel- 
opment, necessarily  attended  with  much, 
very  much  trial.  At  any  rate,  I  do  not 
see  it  to  be  the  design  of  the  divine 
Providence,  so  much  to  make  us  imme- 
diately happy,  as  to  train  us,  through 
suffering  often,  for  a  diviner  good.  I 
see  that  mere  enjoyment,  in  the  divine 
plan,  is  often  sacrificed  to  thit  higher 
end.  I  see,  moreover,  that  this  higher 
thing,  this  immortal  good  within  me,  is 
the  only  thing  upon  which  I  can  lay  any 
sure  grasp  and  make  certain.  Now  I 
say,  if  each  of  us  could  thus  look  upon 
life  ;  if  we  could  see  that  all  things  on 
earth  but  virtue  were  made  and  meant 
to  hang  loosely  upon  us,  and  to  flutter 
about  us  in  every  breeze  ;  that  pleasures, 
fortunes,  honors,  ay,  empires,  t'nrones, 
swing  round  this  all-comprehending, 
central  good ;  that  as  the  poor  student, 
when  he  looks  upon  iiis  plain  apparel  or 
scanty  fare,  says,  '-It  is  no  matter,  so 
long  as  I  get  learning,"  so  if  we  could 
say  of  the  greater  learning.  "Let  me  be 
poor  or  neglected,  it  is  no  matter  so  long 
as  I  get  wisdom,  truth,  purity  ;  "  I  be- 
lieve we  should  not  only  be  better  for 
this  view  of  things,  but  happier  too. 
This  philosophy  of  life  is  grounded  in 
our  very  nature ;  in  the  essential  differ- 


ence between  substance  and  show,  be- 
tween the  mortal  and  immortal.  It  is 
but  the  great  Christian  paradox,  that 
when  we  are  humblest,  we  are  most  ex- 
alted ;  that  when  we  lose  our  life  for 
virtue,  we  gain  a  nobler  life;  that  when 
we  think  most  for  others,  we  do  the 
most  for  ourselves  ;  that  when  we  are 
the  most  bound  to  duty,  our  mind  is 
freest  for  enjoyment. 

And  this  state  of  mind,  I  now  say  in 
the  second  place,  furnishes  the  true, 
practical  solution  of  the  greatest  prob- 
lem in  human  life,  —  the  problem  of 
evil.  If  we  are  always  thinking  of  hap- 
piness, as  the  first  and  main  thing  ;  if 
we  are  always  asking  that,  and  that 
alone,  and  that  every  instant,  I  see  not 
how  we  are  to  get  along  with  the  trials 
and  questionings  of  our  minds  in  the 
constant  experience  of  life.  It  requires 
a  hardier  reasoner  to  meet  this  great 
life-argument.  It  requires  one  who  can 
see  the  grandeur  of  sanctity,  the  sover- 
eignty of  virtue,  —  can  see  that  it  sits 
as  king,  and  everything  should  bow  to 
it,  ay,  and  everything  be  sacrificed  for 
loyalty  to  it.  It  requires  one  who  can 
say,  when  unlawful  resources  are  offered 
even  to  the  lawful  passions,  "It  is  writ- 
ten that  man  shall  not  live  by  bread 
alone,  but  by  every  word  of  God  ;  " 
who  when  all  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world  are  spread  before  him,  to  seduce 
him  from  his  allegiance  to  Heaven,  can 
say,  "  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  ;  for 
it  is  written,  thou  shalt  worship  the 
Lord  thy  God,  and  him  only  shalt  thou 
serve."  Yes,  it  requires  a  vision  like 
that  of  Jesus,  to  look  through  the  other- 
wise dark  mystery  of  life.  It  tincst  be 
a  dark  mystery  forever,  to  sensuality, 
to  the  love  of  ease,  to  the  mere  love  of 
happiness.  But  to  the  high  and  sacred 
intent  of  virtue,  it  is  not  a  mystery, 
though  there  be  things  that  are  myste- 
rious in  it  ;  yet  in  its  main  purpose  and 
character,  life  is  not  a  mystery.  It  is  a 
salvation  to  be  wrought  out  ;  it  is  a  bat- 
tle to  be  won  ;  it  is  a  crown  of  glory, 
to  be  wrested  from  the  grasp  of  diffi- 
culty and  from  the  edge  of  peril,  and  to 


720 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


be  brightened,  if  need  be,  in  the  fires 
of  martyrdom.  Life  itself,  according,  to 
the  Christian  teaching,  is  not  to  be  held 
dear  in  comparison  with  virtue  ;  and 
surely  not,  therefore,  the  ease  and  pleas- 
ure of  life.  The  world,  according  to 
that  teaching,  is  the  field  of  a  great 
and  solemn  conflict  ;  light  and  darkness 
struggle  together  upon  this  field  ;  storm 
and  shadow  and  sunlight  hurry  over  it 
in  quick  succession  ;  blows  and  wounds 
and  deaths  fall  on  every  side  ;  and  the 
battle-cry  here  must  not  be,  "  Ease  ! 
ease  !  —  happiness  !  happiness  !  "  —  but, 
"  Courage  !  virtue  !  victory  !  "  This  is 
the  cry  that  must  animate,  this  the  prin- 
ciple that  must  sustain  us. 

Let  me  now  proceed  to  speak,  lastly, 
of  the  dignity  of  this  principle,  and  of 
the  place  which  this  consideration  of 
it  has  in  our  life,  both  private  and 
national. 

In  a  world  whose  action,  if  not  whose 
sentiment,  is  so  much  circumscribed  by 
the  pursuits  of  gain  and  pleasure,  it  is  of 
no  small  importance  to  press  this  con- 
sideration of  the  dignity  of  virtue.  There 
is  a  sentiment,  even  in  a  worldly  life, 
that  goes  beyond  the  visible  scene,  and 
I  acknowledge  it ;  but  the  action  is  too 
apt  to  engross  and  narrow  and  degrade 
us.  We  are  liable  to  fall  into  a  low 
and  mean  way  of  thinking  in  all  our 
pursuits ;  as  if  the  pence-table  and  the 
counter  and  the  warehouse,  or  as  if 
office  or  dclat,  or  as  if  to  take  our 
place  in  the  social  sphere,  were  not 
merely  the  means  to  something,  but 
were  the  very  end  of  life. 

Therefore  it  is,  that  upon  the  peace- 
ful scene  of  prosperity  and  luxury  often 
breaks  the  thunder  of  calamity.  So  it 
has  ever  been  in  the  providence  of  God, 
whether  dealing  with  the  life  of  men 
or  of  nations.  Amidst  the  wrecks  of 
friendship,  fame,  and  fortune  ^e  are 
taught  that  enjoyment  is  not  the  chief 
end  of  life  ;  that  tliere  is  something 
better  than  to  sit  down  in  quiescence 
and  security  ;  that  fortitude  is  dearer 
gain  than  fortune  ;  that  heroism  is  no- 
bler  than   honor  ;  and   that   friendship 


itself,  the  dearest  of  all  earthly  boons, 
even  that  can  be  foregone,  for  the  high 
sanctity  of  principle.  And  therefore  it 
is,  that  even  in  the  desolations  of  war 
the  optimist  finds  something  to  relieve 
the  dark  picture.  War,  dread  evil  as 
it  is,  and  a  most  awful  accumulation  of 
evils,  is  not  the  worst  thing  in  the  world. 
There  may  be  a  state  of  peaceful  and 
prosperous  life,  of  what  is  called  civil- 
ized life,  that  is  worse  than  war.  The 
sword  does  not  wound  the  interests  of 
humanity  so  deeply  as  the  unscrupulous 
selfishness  and  sensuality  that  cut  all 
the  bonds  of  human  society.  And  if 
modern  civilization  cannot  raise  man- 
kind above  such  degradation,  there  will 
be  war  again  and  again. 

Men  think  much  and  say  much  in 
these  days  —  and  it  is  well  thev  should 
—  of  the  horrors  of  war ;  the  bare  ru- 
mor of  its  approach  fills  us  with  agita- 
tion ;  but  there  is  a  danger  that  comes 
without  herald  or  rumor.  It  steals 
upon  a  people  in  low  maxims,  debas- 
ing aims,  corrupting  pleasures.  If  we 
do  not  keep  high  among  us  the  stand- 
ard of  rectitude,  the  dignity  of  personal 
character  :  if  we  let  down  our  mark  to 
mere  lucre,  to  mere  success  and  mean 
bargaining  for  it:  if  the  old,  the  pris- 
tine virtues  become  but  shows  and 
shams,  and  only  pleasures  are  real  :  if 
money  buys  everything,  and  even  offices 
and  honors  are  at  auction,  and  the  na- 
tional character  sinks  in  the  boundless 
scramble  of  private  aim  and  public  am- 
bition, this  very  country  may  arrive  at  a 
condition  that  is  worse  than  war.  Yes, 
and  from  the  darkest  annals  of  war  I 
can  draw  better  things  to  contemplate 
than  from  the  luxuries  and  indulgences 
of  boundless  opulence,  or  the  abuses  of 
vaunted  freedorn.  Better  than  the  ener- 
vated Sybarite  or  the  unprincipled  poli- 
tician, were  it  to  be  Regulus  ;  better  to 
go  back  and  die  in  Carthage,  than  to 
live  amidst  the  favors  and  flatteries  of 
Rome.  Better  to  be  the  noble  Arnold 
von  Winkelried,  of  the  Swiss  Under- 
walden,  who,  when  the  fixed  and  ser- 
ried lances  of  the   Austrian  army  were 


SELF-RENUNCIATION. 


721 


before  him  at  the  battle  of  Sempach, 
and  there  seemed  no  way  to  break 
through  them,  turned  to  his  people, 
saying,  "  I  will  make  a  way  for  you  ; 
faithful,  dear  confederates,  think  of  my 
family  !  "  —  then  rushed  upon  the  op- 
posing phalanx,  and  took  their  lances 
into  his  very  bosom,  and  died  to  give 
his  people  freedom. 

This  was  the  martyrdom  of  virtue-; 
and  better  it  is  to  die  for  the  right  than 
to  live  for  aught  else.  All  beside, —  soft 
clothing  ye  may  have,  that  makes  the 
body  delicate  and  the  nerves  to  shrink 
from  pain  ;  palace-roofs  ye  may  raise, 
and  soft  couches  ye  may  spread  be- 
neath, and  silken  draperies  may  veil 
your  windows  from  the  glare  of  day  ; 
no  tent-curtains  around  you,  flapping 
in  the  night-wind  ;  no  ragged  walls  of 
ghastly  catacombs,  like  those  to  which 
the  early  Christians  fled  for  refuge  ;  no 
persecutor's  sword,  flashing  through  the 
torch-lit  gloom  of  noisome  dungeons  : 
but,  if,  while  luxury  and  splendor  in- 
crease, all  high  and  stern  principle, 
social  and  political,  shall  die  away,  bet- 
ter were  it  that  the  sword  of  a  Decian 
persecution  or  of  a  Gothic  invasion 
should  strike  in,  and  cut  the  bonds  of 
effeminate  softness,  and  break  the  spell 
of  ever-complying  sophistry  and  world- 
liness.  Oh,  venerable  to  me,  to  all  men, 
venerable  forever,  are  the  dwellings, 
where  amidst  peril  and  terror  and  the 
inquisition  for  blood,  where  in  dark- 
ness and  silence,  men  and  women  have 
kneeled  before  the  altars  of  Christ,  and 
have  said,  "  Let  us  die,  but  let  us  not 
deny  thee.  Denial  —  betrayal  —  no, 
never  !  Come  rather  the  sacrifice  of 
blood  !  "  Holy  names  of  Polycarp  and 
Servetus  and  Cranmer  !  —  where  in  our 
daj-s  of  peace  and  prosperity  shall  such 
names  be  found  ? 

But  I  must  not  leave  it  to  be  supposed 
that  the  high  and  sacred  adherence  to 
truth  and  right  can  find  no  place  but  in 
scenes  of  war  and  persecution.  Ever}'- 
where  and  every  day  that  great  princi- 
ple is  demanded.  Every  man  and  thing 
that   approaches   you  may  ask   you  to 


swerve.  Among  "the  pleasures  of  sin," 
spoken  of  in  the  text,  are  the  pleasures 
of  praise,  popularity,  and  influence.  To 
these  especially  Moses  stood  superior 
when  he  cast  in  his  lot  with  a  despised 
people  and  a  despised  religion.  If  thou 
wouldst  imitate  him,  then  stand  up 
openly  and  firmly  for  thy  principle,  be 
it  in  religion,  or  politics,  or  social  right. 
If,  when  the  occasion  demands  this,  thou 
dost,  for  the  good  opinion  of  men,  or  for 
office,  or  for  gain,  hold  back  or  conceal 
or  equivocate,  thou  art,  before  the  altar 
of  God  and  conscience,  a  dishonored 
man.  If  thou  hast  a  feeling  for  human- 
ity, for  the  sometimes  despised  multi- 
tude, for  the  equal  rights  and  interests 
of  all  men,  a  feeling  which  all  noble 
spirits  have,  utter  it:  and  let  no  brow  of 
pride  or  privilege,  in  this  country  or  any 
other  country,  awe  thee  down.  In  all 
situations  and  places,  amidst  the  gayeties 
and  hypocrisies  of  fashion,  in  thy  draw- 
ing-room when  thou  talkest  with  thine 
acquaintance,  speak,  if  thou  speakest  at 
all,  the  thought  that  is  in  thee ;  speak 
what  thou  meanest ;  let  a  noble  and 
fearless  simplicity  take  the  place  of 
heartless  acquiescence  and  innuendo ; 
keep  thy  naturalness  and  truth  amidst 
the  miserable  sophistries  and  affecta- 
tions of  society.  For  know  that  in  these 
scenes  thou  mayest  as  really  swerve 
from  thine  integrity  as  if  thou  hadst 
stood  before  the  image  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar or  of  Trajan,  and  forsworn  thy 
religion.  Life  is  forever  deceiving  us 
by  the  appearance  of  what  is  little  and 
trivial,  when  in  reality  the  deepest  prin- 
ciples are  involved.  The  idlest  walk 
you  take,  to-day  or  to-morrow,  may  be 
tracked  all  over  with  the  steps  of  moral 
cowardice  and  base  desertion  of  the 
truth.  Yes,  as  you  walk  through  a  gay 
city-street  or  a  village-street,  you  may 
by  flattering  homages  to  some,  or  by 
cold  neglect  or  patronizing  contempt  to 
others,  utterly  compromise  all  the  lofti- 
ness and  dignity  of  your  mind.  In  that 
gallery  of  living  pictures  there  is  many 
a  one  that  presents  the  unlovely  and 
odious   features   of    worldly  pride   and 


722 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


vanity;  and  I  deem  it  not  too  solemn 
to  say  that  many  a  false  word  uttered 
there  shall  be  called  into  judgment. 

To  these  few  thoughts  upon  the  dig- 
nity, the  nobleness  of  the  holy  and  right 
principle,  let  me  add  one  further  consid- 
eration. In  the  bosom  of  the  deepest 
trouble  that  principle  may  live;  and  it 
is  the  only  sustaining  and  comforting 
principle  that  can  live  there.  Sur- 
rounded, as  we  all  are  liable  to  be  at 
times,  with  the  darkest  cloud  of  fears 
and  anxieties  and  sorrows,  is  it  not 
something  to  know  that  the  light  of  life, 
the  great  stay  and  strength  of  our  being, 
may  still  be  within  us .-'  It  is  my  lot,  not 
very  unfrequently,  to  meet  with  per- 
sons, in  their  weary  and  sorrowing  walk 
through  life,  to  whom  this  is  all  I  can 
say.  I  am  obliged  to  say,  "  You  cannot 
be  happy  now,  but  strive  to  be  right. 
Joyousness  is  gone  from  you,  I  know, 
l:)ut  think  of  nobleness.  Man  has  failed, 
but  think  of  God.  Oh  !  to  be  conse- 
crate, patient,  true,  is  still  left  to  you. 
Happiness  you  cannot  have  now  ;  but 
you  may  have  blessedness." 

Is  it  not  to  this  very  condition  that 
the  grandeur  of  Christ's  example  ad- 
dresses itself  ?  The  bright,  immortal 
seal  of  sanctity  was  to  be  set  in  the 
dark  mould  of  earthly  calamity  and 
affliction.  The  beauty,  the  majesty  of  a 
holy  soul  was  to  shine  out,  like  a  seraphic 
countenance,  from  overshadowing  griefs 
and  pains.  He  could  have  ascended  a 
throne,  but  he  refused  it.  He  might 
have  had  twelve  legions  of  angels  to 
help  him  ;  but  he  did  not  ask  for  them. 
The  Father  might  have  sent  him  rescue; 
but  no,  —  not  for  this  did  he  come.  No, 
but  to  show,  amidst  sorrow  and  deser- 
tion and  rejection  and  crucifixion,  and 
all  that  men  call  defeat  and  ignominy, 
the  grandeur  of  a  power  and  sacrifice, 
to  lift  our  poor,  despairing  and  sin-bur- 
dened humanity  to  cheering  courage  and 
heavenly  bliss.  "  Be  of  good  cheer,"  he 
says  amidst  it  all ;  "  in  the  world  ye 
shall  have  tribulation :  but  be  of  good 
cheer;  I  have  overcome  the  world." 
iHow  remarkable  is  his  language  in  this 


respect !  How  touchingly,  how  glori- 
ously contrasted  with  the  circumstances 
of  his  life  was  the  language  of  his  spirit ! 
Encompassed  all  round  with  trouble,  he 
says,  —  ay,  to  the  disciples  of  sorrow  and 
persecution  he  says,  —  "  Peace  I  leave 
with  you  ;  my  peace  I  give  unto  you  ; 
not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto 
you."  Amidst  a  life  of  want  and  wan- 
dering, of  denial  and  desertion,  he  says, 
"  Come  unto  me,  all  that  labor  and  are 
heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 
Amidst  hunger  and  distress,  poverty 
and  privation,  he  says,  "  I  have  food  to 
eat  that  ye  know  not  of."  Lord,  ever- 
more give  us  this  bread  !  In  all  time 
of  our  trouble  and  affliction,  in  all  time  of 
our  want  and  weariness  and  wandering, 
evermore  give  us  this  bread  ! 


XI. 


ON   PERFECTION. 

Matt.  v.  48:  "  Be  ye  therefore  perfect,  as  j'our 
F.ither  in  heaven  is  perfect." 

The  comparison  here  made,  the  stan- 
dard set  up,  cannot  fail,  I  suppose,  to 
suggest  to  every  one  the  necessity  of 
sometimes  receiving  the  words  of  Scrip- 
ture, not  in  an  absolute  but  in  a  qualified 
sense.  This  language  literally  under- 
stood would  be  chargeable  with  blas- 
phemy. And  if  to  be  perfect  as  God 
is  perfect  is  impossible,  so  is  any  per- 
fection that  excludes  all  weakness,  error, 
and  defect. 

What,  then,  is  the  meaning  of  this 
commandment?  It  is  that  we  should 
strive  for  the  highest  excellence  that  i% 
possible  to  us.  It  is  especially  that  we 
should  never,  in  any  case,  intentionally 
or  wilfully  do  what  is  wrong,  nor  ever 
indulge  any  wrong  feeling.  And  then  as 
to  all  the  errors  of  inadvertence,  haste, 
and  passion,  which  we  cannot  altogether 
prevent,  it  is  that  we  should  resist  and 
check  and  remove  them,  as  fast  and  as 
far  as  we  can.  It  is,  in  short,  —  and  this 
is  the  practical  point  that  I  propose 
now  to  lay  before  you,  —  that  we  should 


PERFECTION. 


72 ' 


aim  at  the  highest,  and  ever  strive  to 
reach  it. 

There  are,  doubtless,  many  hindrances 
to  high  attainment ;  but  it  is  still  more 
important  to  observe  that  there  are 
some  obstacles  even  to  a  high  aim,  and 
which  arise  particularly  from  that  erro- 
neous interpretation  of  the  command- 
ment to  which  I  have  adverted ;  from 
straining  the  interpretation  up  to  a  lofty 
ideal  point  of  demand,  a  point  so  lofty 
that  the  practical  aim  cannot  follow  it. 
Tiie  Bible  is  supposed  to  require  an  im- 
practicable perfection.  The  law  of  the 
Old  Testament  and  the  requisition  of 
the  New,  so  far  as  that  element  of  law 
enters  into  it,  are  conceived  to  demand 
absolute,  sinless  perfection.  But  this  is 
impossible.  Human  infirmity  does  not 
admit  of  it.  It  is  as  much  out  of  our 
reach  as  a  flight  with  angel  wings  up  to 
the  visible  heavens.  Now  the  obvious 
effect  of  demanding  literally  such  an 
ascension  from  any  man  as  his  duty, 
would  be  that  he  would  do  nothing  at 
all. 

And  I  say  that  such  an  interpretation 
of  the  commandment  is  wrong.  All 
language  is  to  be  explained  by  the  sub- 
ject and  the  circumstances.  Literally, 
man  cannot  be  perfect  as  God  is  perfect ; 
nor  absolutely  perfect  in  any  way.  Why, 
then,  is  it  supposed  to  be  demanded  of 
him  ?  Because,  it  is  said,  an  infinitely 
holy  God  could  demand  no  less.  But 
\s\\-\\  good  can  it  do  to  demand  of  men 
an  impossible  perfection  ?  And  the  an- 
swer is  ;  it  is  meant  to  humble  them, 
and  to  show  them  the  greatness  of  their 
sins. 

But  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  the  con- 
sequence follows  in  either  case.  The 
potency  of  certain  customary  forms  of 
e.xpression  is  a  very  curious  subject  for 
the  philosopher  to  investigate.  That  an 
infinitely  holy  Being,  for  instance,  must 
require  perfect  holiness  of  his  creatures; 
we  might  as  well  say  that  an  infinitely 
powerful  Being  must  require  perfect 
strength  of  his  creatures,  or  that  an  in- 
finitely wise  Being  must  require  perfect 
wisdom,  or  that  an  infinitely  intelligent 


Being  must  require  perfect  intelligence 
of  his  creatures.  And  then,  again,  how 
it  is  that  failing  of  an  impracticable, 
impossible  holiness  should  humble  any 
one,  it  must  require  a  very  strange  kind 
of  reasoning  to  show ;  so  strange,  indeed, 
that  I  do  not  believe  any  man  ever  ivas 
truly  humbled  by  it.  No  real,  none  but 
a  factitious,  humility  ever  was  produced 
in  this  way. 

And  now,  in  fine,  if  you  add  to  this 
popular  construction  of  the  command- 
ment, as  a  mere  ideal  standard,  the 
notion  that  men,  in  seeking  their  salva- 
tion, are  to  turn  away  from  the  bright 
and  terrible  law  of  purity,  to  the  arms 
of  a  pitying,  all-embracing  mere)',  it 
would  be  difiicult,  I  think,  to  conceive 
of  any  system  of  interpretation  more 
completely  fitted  to  neutralize  the  whole 
moral  force  of  the  Bible.  A  command- 
ment, impracticable,  and  therefore  not 
winning,  not  encouraging,  not  inspiring 
any  effort  after  excellence,  but  only 
fitted  to  crush  men  down  to  despair 
and  an  imaginary  humiliation  :  a  mercy 
coming  to  their  rescue  from  the  hostile 
precept ;  not  a  co-ordinate  power  with 
the  law,  but  a  protector  from  the  law  ; 
saying  to  the  sinner,  "  You  may  fall 
quite  short  of  the  high  Bible  rule  ;  it  is 
not  to  be  expected  that  you  will  comply 
with  it  ;  that  is  not  the  law  of  salvation, 
but  of  condemnation  ;  ignore,  repudiate, 
pass  by  the  strict  and  intolerable  law, 
and  cast  yourself  simply,  solely,  uncon- 
ditionally upon  the  merit  purchased  for 
you,  and  all  will  be  well,"  — this  looks, 
I  say,  like  a  purposed  and  planned  com- 
bination, though  I  know  it  is  not  so 
intended,  to  relax  and  let  down  the 
whole  moral  authority  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. Much  is  said  against  the  doc- 
trine of  the  perfectionists  ;  but  in  truth 
I  must  say  that  it  seems  to  me  better 
and  safer  than  this.  I  know  it  is  said 
that  where  this  interpretation  has  pre- 
vailed, nations  and  societies  have  been 
singularly  virtuous.  That  the  negative, 
ascetic,  and  merely  strict  virtues  have 
flourished  under  such  a  system,  I  do  not 
deny.    Mr.  Layard  tells  us  that  the  devil- 


724 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


worshippers  of  Armenia  are  very  virtu- 
ous ;  but  that  this  is  true  of  the  high, 
heroical,  and  generous  virtues  I  do  not 
see,  nor  beheve.  Nay,  I  have  some 
doubt  whether  in  any  emergency  of 
peril  or  suffering,  in  a  shipwreclc  or  a 
battle,  as  large  an  amount  of  generous 
and  courageous  self-sacrifice  would 
be  found  under  this  Antinomian,  this 
Calvinistic  culture,  as  under  the  prompt- 
ings of  ordinary  and  honorable  senti- 
ment. 

At  any  rate,  I  do  regard  this  matter  of 
which  I  have  been  speaking,  as  one 
of  very  serious  application  to  the  state 
of  our  modern,  Christian  society.  If 
we  look  up  to  the  highest  purity  which 
Jesus  demands  as  something  attainable, 
as  something  which  we  are  bound  to 
strive  after,  and  in  fact  to  reach,  then 
we  stand  in  a  relation  with  it  of  en- 
couragement, of  hope  and  earnest  effort, 
and  of  real  humility  for  our  failure. 
But  if,  on  the  contrary,  the  thing  is  too 
high  for  human  reach,  then  it  ceases 
to  be  a  rule  for  us,  we  are  content  to 
sink  far  below  it ;  with  an  ironical  allu- 
sion, perhaps,  to  the  high,  impracticable 
Christianity,  we  say  that  we  are  poor 
sinners  who  have  no  thought  of  being 
so  good  ;  the  stings  of  self-reproach 
are  exchanged  for  a  certain  idle  trifling, 
both  about  sin  and  holiness  ;  and  all 
the  active  moral  forces  that  should  be 
striving  in  the  bosom  of  a  Christian 
people  are  struck  with  sad  inefficiency 
or  fatal  paralysis.  Now  I  seriously 
think,  and  must  venture  to  say,  that  this 
is  too  much  the  state  of  all  our  religious 
communities.  Is  it  not  a  natural  con- 
sequence of  the  reasoning  ?  What  if 
in  a  school  of  learning  the  high  scho- 
lastic measure  of  attainment  were  re- 
garded by  the  pupils  as  a  mere  ideal 
of  excellence,  laid  down  only  to  be 
looked  at,  not  to  be  reached,  —  only 
as  a  mere  mockery  of  their  powers  of 
acquisition  ?  What  if  the  rule  were, 
that  they  should  master  geometry  in 
three  days,  and  Greek  in  a  fortnight  ? 
Would  they  strive  for  it  ?  Would  they 
not  sink  into  utter  despondency  or  easy 


indifference  ?  The  Christian  school, 
alas  !  is  full  of  easy,  contented  medi- 
ocrity. There  is  far  too  little  in  it  of 
high,  heroical,  self-denying  effort  after 
excellence.  It  is  rare  to  see  any  mind 
touched,  inspired,  with  that  great  pas- 
sion after  goodness  and  purity,  and  the 
fixed  will  to  obtain  it.  Many  men, 
most  men,  I  fear,  are  living  on  at  ease, 
year  after  year,  without  one  vigorous 
step  of  improvement.  That  which 
would  not  for  a  moment  content  the 
student,  the  seeker  of  fortune  or  fame, 
the  lawyer,  the  physician,  the  politician, 
the  soldier,  contents  many  a  man  who 
calls  himself  a  Christian.  What  con- 
tents him  .''  Even  to  stand  still  ;  to 
advance  to  no  higher  grade  ;  to  have 
no  more  love  and  purity  in  his  heart 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  no  more  com- 
mand of  his  passions,  of  his  worldli- 
ness,  anger,  or  sensuality,  than  he  had 
at  the  beginning  of  the  year. 

But  I  trust  that  all  this  is  seen  to  be 
wrong,  and  that  the  way  is  opened,  by 
what  has  been  said,  to  enforce  the  pre- 
cept of  the  text,  —  "  Be  ye  perfect."  As 
an  apostle  exhorts,  '*  Whatsoever  things 
are  true,  whatsoever  things  are  honest, 
whatsoever  things  are  just,  whatsoever 
things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are 
lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report,  if  there  be  any  virtue,  and  if 
there  be  any  praise,  think  on  these 
things."  Let  us,  then,  think  on  these 
things. 

1.  And,  in  the  first  place,  I  say  that 
the  perfection  proposed  to  us  is  both 
attainable  and  indispensable.  That 
which  we  are  commanded  to  do,  we 
can  do.  What  we  are  required  to  be, 
that  we  can  be.  And  that  we  must 
be.  That  we  must  be,  to  be  saved. 
Salvation,  —  when  shall  we  get  rid  of 
our  miserable,  technical  ideas  of  it  ?  — 
salvation  is  purity  of  heart  and  life. 
That  is  the  single  discrimination  that 
cuts  off  all  this  evasion,  shuffling,  and 
laxity  of  principle.  There  is  mercy, 
as  we  believe,  but  no  mercy  that 
relaxes  the  bond  of  commandment. 
Only  so  good  and  holy  as  we  are,  only 


PERFECTION. 


725 


so  happy  shall  we  be,  in  this  world  or 
in  any  other  world.  Mercy  encourages, 
helps  us  to  be  this,  does  not  dispense 
with  it.  Nor  do  I  believe  that  one  iota 
of  goodness  or  holiness  will  ever  be 
ours,  but  by  our  voluntary  embracing 
and  cherishing  of  it.  Death  will  not 
break  this  great  and  eternal  bond. 
Happy  as  we  are  holy :  holy  as  we 
voluntarily  become  so,  —  this,  I  believe, 
is  the  law  for  this  world  and  for  every 
world. 

II.  But,  it  will  be  said,  we  cannot 
be  holy  to  the  extent  required,  in  a 
moment  or  with  a  step  :  that  impossi- 
bility in  the  case,  at  least,  is  undeniable. 
True  ;  but  we  can  set  ourselves  about 
it.  We  can  do  more  than  we  do.  We 
can  be  better  than  we  are.  The  power 
to  improve,  —  who  really  and  sincerely 
denies  it  ?  What  mean  all  command, 
exhortation,  remonstrance,  reproach, 
but  this  ?  Neither  does  the  true  doc- 
trine of  the  divine  aid  hinder  the  infer- 
ence. God  helps  us  ;  in  our  conscience, 
in  the  very  sense  of  what  is  divine  and 
pure,  and  in  every  way  needful  to  us, 
as  I  believe  ;  but  all  this  leaves  the 
power  to  improve  untouched  and  un- 
questionable. 

Let  us  carry,  this  a  moment  into 
detail.  A  man  believes  in  God.  And 
to  the  Infinite  Goodness  he  feels  that 
he  ought  to  be  grateful,  and  towards 
the  Infinite  Love,  that  he  should  be 
inspired  with  a  reverent  and  devout 
affection.  But  these  affections  he  does 
not  feel  as  he  ought,  —  as  he  would. 
Then  I  say  he  can  cultivate  them.  He 
can  think  of  the  Infinite  Goodness. 
He  can  pray.  He  can  call  to  mind,  in 
the  morning,  the  Alinighty  power  by 
which  he  lives,  and  from  time  to  time, 
during  the  day,  the  sacred  presence  in 
which  he  lives  ;  and  he  can  associate 
with  these  all  the  beauty  of  nature  and 
the  blessedness  of  life.  To  do  all  this, 
is  an  act  of  simple  volition  ;  and  if  he 
will  sincerely  and  steadfastly  seek  to 
live  in  the  Great  Presence,  he  can,  he 
will ;  he  will  become  a  devout  man ; 
and   he   will    live   a   diviner   and    more 


blessed    life   than   if  all   the  worlds  on 
high  were  his  possessions. 

Again,  every  man  has  some  faults  that 
are  peculiarly  his  own.  He  is  ambitious, 
covetous  of  fame  or  wealth,  or  envious 
or  discontented ;  or  he  is  impatient,  hasty, 
and  given  to  bursts  of  anger ;  or  he  is 
liable  to  tell  untruths,  a  cowardly  pre- 
varicator ;  or  he  is  prone  to  indulge  his 
senses  and  appetites  too  far.  Or  he 
may  be  guilty  of  all  these  ;  for,  alas  ! 
evil  passions  easily  consort  together, 
and  dwell  often  in  the  same  bosom. 
And  most  men  are  mainly  content  to  re- 
main as  they  are,  and  are  more  ready  to 
cloak  or  to  defend  their  faults,  than  to 
extirpate  them.  They  have  never  heard 
the  command,  "Be  ye  perfect."  They 
have  never  seen  that  the  command 
really  applies  to  them.  They  have  never 
felt  the  inspiring  call  to  rise  to  the  high- 
est virtue  and  purity  that  they  can.  But 
I  say,  if  a  man  feels  the  impulse  and  the 
desire  to  rise,  he  can  rise.  He  can  cor- 
rect his  faults.  The  common  plea  con- 
cerning his  failures,  that  "he  can't  help 
it,"  is  not  true.  He  can  help  it.  He  can 
help  it,  just  as  the  student  can  help 
being  an  ignorant  and  idle  scholar.  I 
say,  he  can  help  it.  He  does  not  know, 
he  can  hardly  conceive  what  he  may  do, 
if  he  will  try.  He  can  begin  right.  In- 
stead of  defending  his  ambition  or  anger 
or  untruth  or  sensuality,  he  can  honestly 
and  manfully  say,  "  It  is  wrong."  He 
can  repent,  and  resolve  to  amend.  He 
can  think,  every  night,  wherein  he  has 
failed  or  erred.  He  can  bring  that 
humbling  thought  into  his  morning 
prayer.  I  have  heard  a  man  plead  that 
he  does  not  know  Jioiv  to  pray,  when 
that  duty  is  urged  upon  him.  But  let 
him  think  deeply  of  his  own  heart  and 
life,  and  he  will  know  how  to  pray,  and 
he  will  not  know  how  to  help  it.  Let 
him  every  morning,  I  say,  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  yesterday's  errors,  pray  to 
God  that  he  may  that  day  learn  to  com- 
mand his  passions,  to  control  his  ten- 
dencies to  evil,  "  to  lay  aside  the  sins 
that  most  easily  beset  him  ;  "  and  that 
in  all  things  he  may  be  more  wise,  calm, 


726 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


gentle,  true,  and  pure.  And  not  as  if  his 
morning's  prayer  finished  his  day's  re- 
ligion ;  but  let  him  strive  to  do  and  to  be 
ail  this.  And,  not  leaving  all  defence- 
less and  neglected,  like  a  careless  idler 
in  the  great  work  of  life,  let  him  set 
guards  around  him,  and  charge  his  heart 
to  be  faithful  and  true.  Let  him  but 
look  upon  his  life's  true  work,  as  the 
student  upon  his  science  or  the  merchant 
upon  his  gains  ;  as  if  additions  and  suc- 
cessive steps  belonged  to  it,  and  it  were 
nothing  without  them  ;  or,  like  the  noble 
Roman  of  old,  let  him  count  the  day  in 
which  no  good  deed  is  done,  no  advance 
made,  as  a  day  lost.  Let  every  day  of 
the  year  be  such,  and  wliat  results  might 
it  not  witness  !  Three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  days,  each  and  every  one, — each 
and  every  one  consecrated  to  self-knowl- 
edge and  progress,  —  what  might  they 
not  do  ?  Three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
days  !  ay,  count  them  and  consider 
them  ;  and  say,  what  might  they  not 
do  ?  Ah  !  what  years  were  these  to 
put  into  the  record  of  life  !  But  now, 
alas  !  with  too  many  of  us,  the  sun  rises 
and  sets  upon  our  sloth  ;  and  the  year 
opens  and  closes  upon  our  idleness  and 
inaction  ! 

in.  But  we  can  advance, — this  is 
what  I  have  been  saying, — and  now  I 
add,  that  we  can  rise  high. 

We  hear  much  of  human  weakness. 
It  is  the  perpetual  theme  of  the  pulpit. 
It  is  men's  constant  apology  for  their 
negligence,  nay,  and  for  their  faults,  I 
am  afraid,  and  even  for  their  vices.  We 
hear  much  of  human  weakness.  I  wish 
we  could  hear  something  of  human 
strength.  We  hear  much  of  what  man 
can't  do  ;  I  wish  we  might  hear  some- 
thing of  what  he  can  do.  I  wish  we 
could  understand  and  beHeve  something 
of  the  power  that  God  has  given  us  to 
overcome  evil,  and  to  rise  to  "  glory  and 
virtue."  Yes,  to  "glory  and  virtue  :  " 
fortothese,saith  holy  Scripture,  God  has 
called  us.  Nor  let  the  suggestion,  that 
we  can  do  nothing  \v\TiiO\JT  God,  break 
the  force  of  the  exhortation.  It  was 
never  meant  to  lessen  our  exertion  nor 


to  derogate  from  our  own  proper  effi- 
ciency. All  human  power  —  reason, 
conscience,  will  —  is  given  and  ever 
sustained  by  God  ;  and  His  spirit,  the 
breath  divine  in  our  souls,  may  help  us  in 
ways  that  we  do  not  understand.  Let 
all  this  be  humbly  and  gratefully  admitted. 
All  the  reservation  that  I  make,  is  for 
that  free  Jise  of  the  God-given  power, 
which  is  and  must  be  our  own.  And  it 
is  the  amount  of  this  reservation,  it  is 
the  strength  that  lies  thete,  that  needs 
a  new  consideration  among  us  :  for  our 
attention  has  been  turned  all  the  other 
way.  Yes,  the  strength  that  lies  there, 
in  the  human  will  and  effort,  —  let  it  not 
offend  you  if  I  say,  that  it  is  the  strong- 
hold of  human  hope.  For  what  is  the 
ground  of  our  fear  concerning  any  man  ; 
of  our  fear  that  he  will  not  be  a  Chris- 
tian ;  that  he  will  not  come  out  well ; 
that  he  will  fail  in  the  great  life-trial  ?  It 
is  not  that  God's  power  and  mercy  will 
fail  to  him,  but  that  he  will  fail  to  him- 
self. It  is  personal  neglect  alone  that 
will  ruin  any  man  ;  it  is  personal  fidelity 
only  that  can  save  him. 

And  that  fidelity,  the  strength  that 
lies  in  single-hearted  resolve,  —  what  may 
it  not  do  ?  What  else  has  carried  men 
to  the  loftiest  heights  of  virtue  ?  What 
is  it  that  distinguishes  the  noblest 
Christian  man  from  him  that  is  so  weak 
and  wavering  that  he  scarce  deserves 
the  name  of  Christian  ?  What  but  re- 
solving, striving,  laboring,  praying  to  be 
good  and  pure  ? 

In  the  genera/  field  of  human  life  and 
history,  what  is  the  striking  fact  that 
draws  our  attention  ?  Human  strength, 
energy,  activity.  It  tills  all  fields,  and 
ploughs  the  ocean  wave.  It  builds  man- 
ufactories ;  it  opens  highways  over  plains 
and  mountains  and  rivers.  It  achieves 
wonders  in  art  and  science  and  literature. 
It  stirs  in  the  bosom  of  nations,  and 
wields  the  power  that  rules  over  them. 
This  powerful  energy,  that  is  working 
all  over  the  world,  —  why  does  it  not 
enter  into  the  field  of  our  religious  cul- 
ture .''  Because,  as  one  reason,  because 
the  very  guardians  of    that  field  stand 


PERFECTION. 


7^7 


before  it  and  say  to  all  human  energy, 
"  You  can  do  nothing  here."  What  a 
lamentable  mistake  !  This  field  is  open 
to  all.  All  cannot  be  artists,  or  authors, 
or  statesmen.  But  all  can  be  more 
than  what  the  world  calls  great :  they 
can  be  good  ;  yes,  and  in  that  they  can 
be  great. 

Not  to  dwell  upon  this  matter  ab- 
stractly, let  me  give  an  instance  or  two, 
of  deeds  more  illustrative  than  any 
words  I  can  use.  The  name  of  Ober- 
lin,  the  celebrated  pastor  of  the  Ban-de- 
la-Roche  in  Alsace,  is  known  to  us  all. 
Oberlin's  story  is  fame.  But  there  was 
a  humble  servant  of  Oberlin,  of  whom, 
perhaps,  we  have  not  heard  ;  yet  the 
Continent  of  Europe  at  one  time  heard 
of  her;  the  Academy  of  the  French  In- 
stitute decreed  to  her  the  prize  annually 
awarded  to  virtuous  actions  ;  and  the 
celebrated  Cuvier  drew  up  the  Report 
of  the  Academy,  giving  a  recital  of  her 
virtues.  Perhaps  I  cannot  do  better 
than  to  read  the  statement  he  made, 
in  his  own  words.  "  A  young  female 
peasant,"  he  says,  "  of  one  of  these 
villages  [i.  e.,  of  the  Ban-de-la-Roche], 
Louisa  Schepler,  hardly  fifteen  years  of 
age,  was  so  struck  with  the  virtues  of 
this  man  of  God  [Oberlin],  that  although 
she  enjoyed  a  small  patrimony,  she  asked 
leave  to  enter  his  service  and  to  take 
part  in  his  charitable  labors.  From  that 
time,  without  receiving  any  salary,  she 
never  left  him.  As  his  aid,  his  messen- 
ger, she  carried  to  every  cottage  all 
kinds  of  consolation.  Never  was  better 
exemplified  the  influence  of  the  heart  in 
enlarging  the  understanding.  Drawn 
by  the  heart  to  the  holy  pastor,  she  un- 
derstood him,  and  often  astonished  him 
with  happy  suggestions,  and  especially 
with  that  of  an  infant-school,  for  the 
children  of  the  poor  peasants.  The 
honor,"  says  Baron  Cuvier,  "  of  an  idea 
which  has  already  been  so  fruitful,  and 
which  will  soon  be  adopted  everywhere, 
is  due  to  Louisa  Schepler,  —  to  this  poor 
peasant  of  Bellefosse.  In  old  age  she 
still  instructed  these  children,  a  hundred 


in  number  ;  but  this,  in  which  she  had 
assistant  teachers,  was  only  a  part  of 
her  sphere  ;  she  was  abroad  among  the 
mountain  cottages,  encountering  deep 
snows,  cold  winds,  and  torrents  swollen 
with  heavy  rains :  and  when  she  re- 
turned, fatigued,  wet,  and  pierced  with 
cold,  to  Oberlin's  home,  her  affectionate 
attention  was  still  extended  to  all  around 
her."  "  What  care  and  watching,"  says 
one,  "  when  Oberlin  or  any  member  of 
the  family  was  sick  ! "  "I  know  not," 
says  Baron  Cuvier,  "  whether  Louisa 
Schepler  is  acquainted  with  the  action 
of  the  Academy  in  decreeing  to  her  this 
token  of  its  admiration  ;  but  all  who 
know  her,  know  the  use  to  which  she 
will  put  it."  And  so  it  was  ;  she  spent 
the  sum,  five  thousand  francs,  which 
was  presented  to  her  by  the  Academy, 
in  those  acts  of  charity  and  love  to 
which   her  life  was  devoted. 

Let  me  take  another  instance  from 
the  opposite  sphere  of  life,  —  that  of  the 
crowded  and  luxurious  city,  —  to  show 
what  he  may  do,  who  will.  I  think  it 
was  about  forty  years  ago  that  an  aged 
gentleman  was  living  in  the  city  of  Lon- 
don, in  wealth  and  ease,  derived  from 
the  produce  of  his  estates  in  the  Island 
of  Barbadoes.  Some  facts  came  to  his 
knowledge  that  led  him  to  suspect  that 
his  slaves  were  cruelly  treated.  At  the 
age  of  eighty  he  left  his  luxurious  home 
and  crossed  the  ocean  to  examine  for 
himself.  He  dwelt  among  his  people 
for  ten  years.  He  took  a  fatherly  care 
of  them  ;  he  improved  their  condition 
and  character;  he  prepared  them  for 
freedom  ;  and,  dying  at  the  age  of  nine- 
ty, he  left  them  with  a  copyhold  of  his 
estates.  Well  might  the  "  Edinburgh  Re- 
view" say,  "  We  take  shame  to  ourselves 
that,  while  we  have  been  occupied  with 
the  deeds  of  kings  and  conquerors,  we 
have  never  heard  till  now  of  the  name 
of  Joshua  Steele ! " 

Yes,  of  heroes  and  hero-worship  we 
hear  much.  But  there  is  a  spiritual 
heroism,  little  known  ;  that  of  the  man 
who  resolves  to  conquer  himself,  —  hard- 


728 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


est  of  all  conquests.  Impatience,  envy, 
rage,  selfishness,  eager  for  success  or 
sullen  at  defeat,  passions  of  the  flesh 
and  passions  of  the  spirit,  —  these  are 
his  enemies.  In  the  silent  depths  of 
the  heart  he  fights  his  battle.  Nor 
trumpet  nor  clarion  lifts  its  voice  upon 
the  air  to  tell  of  his  conflict  or  of  his 
victory.  What  he  does  and  what  he 
suffers,  no  man  knoweth.  God  only 
knows.  Not  on  one  bloody  day  does 
he  fight,  —  at  Waterloo  or  Yorktown,— 
and  win  fame  forever;  but  all  through 
his  life  does  he  wage  the  war,  and 
wins  no  fame.  Not  to  lift  himself  to 
lionor,  but  to  forget  himself,  to  still 
the  throbs  of  self-conscious  disquiet 
and  all  selfish  passion,  — •  this  is  his 
endeavor.  In  the  midnight  and  in  the 
morning,  in  the  throng  and  in  the  si- 
lent hour,  ever  is  it  his  holy  care  and 
prayer  to  keep  all  right  within  him,  to 
keep  all  just  and  true,  to  keep  all  pure. 
Loneliness  and  neglect  and  sorrow  may 
be  upon  his  path,  even  as  they  were 
upon  the  path  of  Christ,  but  still  he 
takes  up  the  blessed  cross  and  follows 
the  divine  Master  ;  amidst  foes  without 
and  fightings  within,  amidst  selfish  pleas 
for  ease,  and  treacherous  passions  and 
worldly  allurements,  he  presses  on 
"towards  the  mark,  —  for  the  prize  of 
the  high  calling  of  God,  in  Christ 
Jesus." 

The  world  knoweth  it  not  ;  but  there 
is  no  such  nobleness  in  the  world  as  that. 
And  when  the  true  man's  work  is  done ; 
when  the  last  hour  is  spreading  its  sol- 
emn shadow  around,  and  the  last  con- 
flict with  mortal  infirmity  is  passing, 
then  shall  he  say  with  the  noble  Apos- 
tle, "  I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have 
finished  my  course,  1  have  kept  the  faith  ; 
henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a 
crown  of  righteousness,  which  the  Lord, 
the  righteous  Judge,  will  give  me  in  that 
day  :  and  not  to  me  only,"  he  adds,  for 
the  encouragement  of  every  humble  dis- 
ciple,—  for  the  encouragement  of  every 
one  of  as,  —  "  and  not  to  me  only,  but  to 
every  one  that  loves  his  appearing." 


XII. 

HUMANITY,    AND    THE    GOSPEL 
DEMAND    UPON  IT. 

Mark  x.  17-21  :  "  And  when  he  was  gone  forth 
into  the  way,  there  came  one  running,  and  kneeled 
to  him,  and  asked  him.  Good  Master,  what  shall  1  do 
that  I  may  inherit  eternal  hie  ?  And  Jesus  said  unto 
him,  Thou  knowest  the  commandments,  Do  nut 
commit  adultery.  Do  not  kill,  Do  not  steal,  Do  not 
bear  false  witness,  Defraud  not,  Honor  thy  father  and 
mother.  And  he  answered  and  said  to  him,  All  these 
have  I  observed  from  my  youth.  Then  Jesus  be- 
holding him  loved  him,  and  said  unto  him.  One 
thing  thou  lackest." 

Why  did  Jesus  love  him  ?  He  was 
not  a  disciple  ;  he  was  not  a  Christian  ; 
he  was  not  a  follower  of  the  Master. 
He  was  invited  to  be,  but  he  refused. 
And  yet  there  was  something  lovely  in 
him.  What  was  it  ?  According  to  the 
prevailing  views  of  religion,  he  was  un- 
regenerate  ;  i.  e.,  a  totally  depraved  be- 
ing. He  had  only  the  virtues  of  our 
common  humanity,  —  such  at  least  as 
are  often  found  in  it,  and  especially  in 
its  youth,  —  freedom  from  base  vices, 
integrity,  honesty,  obedience  to  parents. 
What  was  it,  then  ?  In  short,  what  /laa/ 
he,  and  what  did  he  lack? 

These  are  the  questions  which  I  pro- 
pose to  consider  in  this  discourse  ;  in 
other  words,  what  humanity  is  in  its 
best  natural  affections,  and  what  is  the 
Gospel  demand  upon  it.  And  I  say  at 
once,  and  at  the  outset,  that  I  mean  to 
speak  a  wordy^r  our  hjimanity,  for  this 
great  brotherhood  of  men:  while  I  shall 
not  fail,  at  the  same  time,  to  speak  as 
distinctly  of  what  is  required  of  it.  And 
I  shall  do  the  first,  because  I  think  that 
all  those  views  of  our  common  human 
kind,  whedier  found  in  theology  or  phi- 
losophy, which  brand  it  with  shame  and 
dishonor,  which  represent  men  as  a 
poor,  debased,  and  wretched  race  of 
creatures,  —  that  all  such  views  are  not 
only  wrong,  but  hurtful,  making  us  less 
kind,  considerate,  friendly,  and  affec- 
tionate with  one  another.  But  when  I 
come  to  speak  of  the  Gospel  demand, 
I  shall  say  that  it  is  great,  it  is  high  ; 
the  Gospel  requires  a  step,  clear,  dis- 


1 


HUMANITY   AND   THE   GOSPEL. 


729 


tinct,  and  momentous,  beyond  natural 
and  spontaneous  sentiment ;  but  tlie  de- 
mand is  made,  not  in  any  scorn  of  man, 
not  in  any  injustice  to  him,  not  in  dero- 
gation from  any  excellence  or  charm  or 
worth  that  belongs  to  him. 

There  is,  then,  a  respect  for  humanity, 
a  sympathy  with  it,  a  tenderness,  an 
affection  for  it,  —  indicated,  I  conceive, 
by  our  Saviour's  treatment  of  the  young 
man,  in  the  Gospel, — which  have  had 
too  little  place  in  our  pulpits.  I  say,  in 
our  pulpits  ;  for  the  world  will  love  what 
is  lovely,  without  asking  leave  of  the 
pulpit.  It  is  in  our  religious  teaching 
that  this  recognition  is  wanting.  It 
avails  not  for  us  to  have  rejected  certain 
statements  of  human  depravity.  Doc- 
trines spread  their  influence  far  beyond 
the  profession  of  them,  and  live  in  pub- 
lic sentiment  long  after  they  have  died 
out  of  the  creed  ;  and  I  firmly  believe 
that  none  of  our  pulpits  do  justice  to  the 
kindly,  tender,  solemn,  and  stupendous 
nature  that  God  has  given  us  ;  that  here 
is  a  thing  created,  this  human  soul,  this 
humanity  within  us,  which  no  creed,  no 
preaching,  appreciates. 

Humanity,  I  say  ;  and  let  us  look  at 
it,  for  a  few  moments,  and  try  to  see  it 
as  it  is.  Humanity,  I  say  ;  and  if  I  had 
space  for  so  large  a  discussion,  I  would 
fain  look  at  it  in  its  depths  ;  for  I  be- 
lieve that  there  are  depths  in  it,  that 
lie  far  down  beneath  sensation,  beneath 
selfishness,  beneath  all  worldly  passion  ; 
but  let  us  look  at  it  in  its  palpable  and 
unquestioned  aspects,  in  what  we  all 
know  it  to  be. 

Humanity,  I  repeat,  —  what  a  story  is 
there  to  tell  of  it !  What  moving  for- 
tunes, what  sacred  emergencies,  what 
experiences  never  unveiled,  what  sorrow 
and  sacrifice,  enter  into  a  human  life  ! 
Must  we  be  harsh  and  hard  with  it,  be- 
cause we  speak  from  the  pulpit  ?  Look 
at  it,  I  say.  Take  any  family  history, — 
from  birth  to  death,  from  marriage  to 
burial,  from  fresh  young  life  to  venera- 
ble old  age,  —  dare  we,  in  the  name  of 
religion,  smite  it  with  desecrating  scorn  ? 

Marriage,  the  central,  primal  bond, — 


is  it  an  unholy  bond  ?  "  To  love  and  to 
cherish  till  death  us  do  part ;  "  are  those 
idle  words,  or  words  of  low  or  evil  im- 
port 1  No  ;  God  made  that  bond.  Tell 
me  not  of  worldly  convenience  or  inter- 
est in  the  matter.  These  belong  to  cer- 
tain (so-called)  fashionable,  exceptional 
states  or  classes  of  society.  It  is  not 
the  common  ordinance  of  sacred  wed- 
lock. No  ;  a  sense  of  duty,  thoughts 
of  honor  and  fidelity,  a  plighted  troth,  a 
bond  from  which  death  only  shall  take 
the  seal,  —  these  things  solemnize  the 
hour  and  foreshadow  the  future. 

That  future  draws  on ;  those  scenes 
arise,  and  become  realities.  Children 
are  born.  "  Can  a  mother  forget  ?  " 
The  daily  care  and  nightly  watch  of  all 
her  fresh  and  vigorous  years  —  that  love 
of  hers  that  never  dies  or  declines  — 
testifies  that  she  does  not  forget.  Doth 
the  father  not  care  ?  He  toils  and  la- 
bors, he  wears  himself  out  in  business 
or  study,  with  constant  thought  of  that 
sacred  home.  How  often  does  a  man 
think,  —  "If  I  could  get  through  this 
business,  by  which  I  might  make  a  pro- 
vision for  my  family,  I  could  die  more 
content.  Should  it  be  my  fate  to  perish 
on  the  wreck  of  car  or  ship  on  which 
I  travel  to  secure  this  object,  my  last 
thought  will  be  one  of  comfort  that  I 
have  made  this  provision."  Is  it  not 
something  remarkable  ?  He  is,  in  his 
thought,  leaving  this  world  ;  he  is  going 
out  into  the  spiritual  realm  ;  his  own 
personal,  immortal  interest  hes  all  be- 
yond ;  and  yet  do  his  thoughts  hover 
and  cling  about  those  he  leaves  on 
earth. 

But  the  inevitable  hour  draws  on,  that 
is  to  close  the  mortal  scene.  Children 
die.  Of  their  guardian  parents,  one  is 
taken,  and  the  other  left.  There  is 
mourning  in  the  household.  Who  shall 
dare  to  call  it  a  base  and  selfish  mourn- 
ing? "  Let  us  go  and  die  with  him  !  " 
is  the  cry  of  nature.  And  "the  dead, 
the  loved,  the  lost,"  —  they  are  not  dead 
to  memory,  to  affection.  We  love  them  ; 
we  cherish  them ;  we  build  their  mon- 
uments ;   we    mind    their   wishes  more 


730 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


than  aught  on  earth.  Is  it  not  a  sacred 
and  disinterested  affection  ?  They  can 
do  nothing  for  us  now,  or  nothing  but 
aid  our  virtue.  Yet  we  hnger  about  the 
very  shadow  of  their  memory,  as  we 
never  do  about  any  coffer  of  gold  or 
crown  of  honor. 

But  another  scene  arises.  The  fam- 
ily is  broken  and  scattered,  —  is  "min- 
ished  and  brought  low ; "  the  young 
have  wandered  into  life,  to  build  new 
families ;  some  relicts,  perhaps,  linger 
on  into  old  age.  Do  the  young  treat 
them  with  coldness  and  neglect  ?  If 
anyone  is  so  heartless  and  base,  the  in- 
stance is  rare  ;  and  all  human  sentiment 
and  feeling  unite  to  strike  it  with  an 
opprobrium  scarce  short  of  infamy. 
But  how  rare,  I  repeat,  is  the  instance  ! 
How  has  it  been  the  usage  of  all  gener- 
ations, rude  or  civilized,  as  they  come 
up  into  the  world,  to  watch  with  filial 
care  and  piety  around  the  steps  of  those 
who  are  soon  to  part  from  it  and  pass 
away  !  And  how  often  is  a  youth,  ay, 
a  child  of  twelve  or  fourteen,  made  so- 
ber and  thoughtful  and  industrious,  by 
the  need  or  illness  of  a  venerated  parent, 
—  of  a  mother,  perhaps,  left  alone  in  the 
world  but  for  him  !  He  watches  her 
look ;  he  regards  her  lightest  wish,  but 
above  all,  her  greatest  wish,  —  that  he 
be  worthy  of  her,  an  honor  to  her  and 
himself.  He  will  do  nothing  to  wound 
her.  He  will  yield  to  no  baseness,  were 
it  only  for  her  sake.  He  will  live  so, 
that  she  shall  be  proud  and  glad  in 
him.  He  will  buckle  on  the  armor  of 
manhood,  to  shield  that  gentle  and 
venerated  form. 

But  now,  at  length,  the  aged  have  all 
passed  away,  and  a  new  generation 
stands  upon  the  earth,  filling  the  vacant 
places.  Look  around  upon  it,  and  what 
do  you  see  .''  The  base  and  the  bad,  the 
mean,  treacherous,  and  dishonest  ?  Yes, 
they  are  there  ;  but  are  these  all  ?  Evil 
is  there,  —  dishonesty,  desertion  of  all 
holy  trusts,  dishonor  to  households  and 
homes.  But  is  that  all  that  you  see? 
Nay,  how  do  the  sympathies  of  society 
rush  to  the  rescue  !     How,  by  one  man's 


erring,  are  hundreds  touched  with  sor- 
row and  pity !  Yes,  bad  men  are  there, 
but  good  men  too.  Men  of  business 
are  there,  to  whom  the  cheat  or  the  lie 
is  as  much  out  of  the  question,  is  as  im- 
possible, as  self-murder.  Do  they  spend 
their  gains  meanly,  upon  their  vices,  or 
upon  their  pleasures  alone  ?  No,  they 
support  their  families,  provide  for  their 
children,  give  to  the  poor,  erect  hosjji- 
tals  and  asylums,  endow  colleges,  build 
churches.  Do  the  pious  alone  build 
churches  .''  No,  the  world,  the  wicked 
world,  builds  them,  more  than  anybody 
else  does  it.  I  am  sure  it  is  a  very  pa- 
tient world,  to  bear  as  it  does  the  load 
of  religious  opprobrium  that  is  laid  upon 
it.  Rather,  it  is  a  very  unbelieving 
world.  It  does  not  believe  in  the  justice 
of  this  sacerdotal  opprobrium.  It  does 
not  accept  the  character  which  ecclesi- 
astics give  it ;  if  it  did,  it  would  do  noth- 
ing for  churches. 

As  I  look  around  upon  my  fellow- 
men,  I  cannot  bear  this  desecration 
which  theology  and  cynic  criticism  heap 
upon  them.  I  am  almost  oppressed, 
sometimes,  with  the  -charm  and  beauty 
of  society.  There  are  so  many  good 
people  in  it  ;  not  what  the  preacher  calls 
Christians,  not  half  of  them  that  so  win 
my  regard.  Go  where  I  will.  East  or 
West,  North  or  South,  there  are  so 
many  good  people ;  so  many  women, 
nay,  all,  I  had  nearly  said,  of  sacred 
purity,  with  tearful  eye  and  open  hand, 
to  help  the  needy,  the  neglected  and 
suffering  ;  so  many  pure^hearted  and 
generous  men,  too  modest  to  call  them- 
selves Christians. 

Do  you  imagine  that  these  good 
people  are  found  only  in  polished  or  in 
civilized  society  ?  Let  me  relate  to  you 
an  anecdote  of  what  took  place,  a  few 
years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Batavia,  on  the 
Island  of  Java  ;  my  informant  knew  the 
persons  and  the  facts.  A  gentleman, 
a  European  and  stranger,  was  taken 
ill  of  an  epidemic  fever  that  was  raging 
in  that  city  ;  he  was  lying  helpless,  and 
certam  to  die  if  left  in  that  condition. 
A  Malay  man  from  the  mountain,  ay,  a 


HUMANITY    AND   THE   GOSPEL. 


731 


heathen  man,  chanced  to  pass  by  and 
saw  him,  and,  like  the  good  Samaritan, 
had  compassion  on  him  ;  he  caused  him 
to  be  conveyed  to  his  boat  on  the  river  ; 
he  took  him  up  to  his  mountain-home  ; 
lie  built  for  him  a  hut  of  the  bamboo 
c;uie  ( it  was  done  in  a  few  hours)  ;  he 
placed  two  aged  women  with  him,  to  nurse 
and  take  care  of  him  :  they  watched  by 
liis  couch  till  the  fever  left  him  ;  and 
when  he  rose  from  that  couch,  tended 
by  heathen  strangers,  and  walked 
abroad  in  the  village,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, but  with  thejoy  of  returning  health, 
all  the  people,  my  informant  said,  testi- 
fied the  warmest  sympathy  with  the  be- 
nevolent deed  that  had  saved  him,  and 
showed  him  tlie  utmost  kindness.  And 
these  were  heathens  ;  such  heathens 
as  the  Burmese,  to  one  of  whom  Mission- 
ary Judson  said,  —  and  I  will  not  men- 
tion him,  without  expressing  my  rever- 
ence for  his  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ;  fie 
was  a  Christian,  whatever  his  teachings 
were,  —  to  one  of  whom  Dr.  Judson 
said,  "  Your  acquaintance  "  (naming 
him)  "  is  dead  ;  his  soul  is  lost,  I  think." 
"  Why  so  ?  "  was  the  reply.  "  He  was 
not  a  disciple  of  Christ."  "  And  so  all 
who  are  not  disciples  of  Christ  are 
lost  ?  "  "  Yes,  all,"  said.  Dr.  Judson, 
"  whether  Burmese  or  foreigners."  "  It 
is  hard,"  said  the  poor  Burman,  think- 
ing, doubtless,  of  his  countrymen,  who 
had  never  heard  of  Christ.  Yes,  it  was 
hard;  far  harder,  I  judge,  than  the 
Gospel,  which  declares  that  "in  every 
nation,  he  that  feareth  God  and  worketh 
righteousness  shall  be  accepted  of  Him." 
And  such,  doubtless,  were  some  of  the 
Burmese  and  Malays,  of  the  latter  of 
whom  we  have  heard  that  they  are 
very  treacherous  and  cruel ;  but  these 
Malays  were  good  people.  And  there 
are  good  people  everywhere.  And  there 
is  good,  —  amidst  all  the  evil  and  the 
wrong,  — there  is  good  in  human  nature. 
I  have  been  endeavoring  to  look  at  it 
as  it  is  ;  to  look  upon  men  as  they  are, 
as  we  know  that  they  are  ;  and  in 
accordance,  as  I  believe,  with  the  spirit 
of  our  Master,   manifested  towards  the 


young  man  in  the  Gospel,  I  love  these 
kindly  and  noble  offices  of  life  and 
traits  of  humanity.  I  love  my  kind; 
and  I  will  make  no  meanly  qualifying 
apology  for  saying  so,  because  I  say  it 
in  the  pulpit.  I  love  this  precious  hu- 
manity, its  tenderness,  pity,  and  sorrow. 
Is  it  not  a  strange  thing  to  look  at  ? 
Out  of  that  festering  mass  of  guilt  and 
sin,  which  humanity  is  represented  to 
be,  come  these  kind,  supporting  arms 
that  tend  the  sick,  that  pillow  the  ach- 
ing head,  that  bear  offerings  to  the  poor 
and  needy,  —  come  these  sweet  and 
winning  smiles  and  gentle  and  loving 
tones,  and  fragrant  breathings  of  affec- 
tion, that  brighten  the  day  and  embalm 
the  air  of  the  world,  —  come  these 
blessed  ties  of  friendship  and  home, 
that  bind  us  in  chains  of  holy  thraldom. 
And  who  are  the  great  and  recognized 
expounders  of  what  humanity  is  ?  Is 
it  not  a  strange  thing,  again  ?  The 
great  world-expounders  of  what  human- 
ity is,  are  the  men  of  a  divine  genius, 
such  as  Plato,  Cicero,  Dante,  Spenser, 
Milton,  Shakspeare.  And  what  have 
they  said  ?  The  train  of  historic  biog- 
raphy has  passed  before  them,  and  they 
have  celebrated  its  beauty  and  grandeur. 
With  glowing  admiration,  with  tears  for 
heroic  suffering,  with  outpoured  eulogy 
upon  the  great  and  wise,  in  glorious 
song  or  epic  story,  they  have  portrayed 
truth,  justice,  gentleness,  love,  honor, 
self-sacrifice,  patriotism,  philanthropy  ; 
and  they  have  portrayed  them  as  belong- 
ing to  humanity  ;  not  as  the  self-elected 
virtue  that  said,  "  I  only  am  right,"  but 
as  human  virtue.  Were  they  right,  or 
were  they  wrong  ?  All  the  world  has 
pronounced  that  they  were  right.  "  Yes," 
some  one  may  say,  ''  the  blind,  profane 
world,  judging  in  its  own  case  !  "  Are 
not  "  the  elect  "  of  theology,  too,  judges 
in  their  own  case  ?  Who  are  likely  X.^  be 
right,  —  the  one  thousand,  say  rather 
the  ten  thousand  of  men,  or  the  one  ? 
Which,  I  sa}^  is  to  be  relied  on,  the 
universal  conscience,  or  the  Calvinistic 
dogma  ?  But  now,  does  humanity  say, 
or  do  its  great  expounders  say,  that  all 


71^ 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


in  man  is  pure  and  good  ;  that  there  is 
no  baseness,  selfishness,  cruelty,  im- 
piety in  him  ?  No  ;  but  they  say  that 
there  is  something  pure  and  good  in 
man,  something  right,  something  to  be 
esteemed  and  loved,  in  his  very  nature. 
And  they  appeal  to  him,  by  the  very 
consciousness  of  that  right  and  good, 
without  which  no  rational  appeal  could 
be  made  to  him,  to  rise  higher  ;  ay,  to 
be  regenerated  from  all  evil,  and  to  rise 
to  all  good. 

And  in  all  this  they  do  not  differ 
from  the  great  Teacher.  Let  us  listen 
to  him. 

A  young  man  approaches  him,  and, 
touched  by  the  beauty  of  his  teaching, 
kneels  at  his  feet,  and  says,  "  Good 
Master,  what  shall  I  do  that  I  may  in- 
herit eternal  life  ?"  Jesus  answers,  "Thou 
knowest  the  commandments,"  and  briefly 
reminds  him  of  them.  "  All  these,"  he 
answers,  "  I  have  kept  from  my  youth." 
The  Master  does  not  say,  —  "  No,  you 
have  kept  nothing  ;  you  have  done  noth- 
ing ;  you  are  nothing  but  depravity  and 
guilt."  On  the  contrary,  he  looks  on  him 
with  affection  and  tenderness.  He  looks 
on  him  and  loves  him.  He  seems  to 
say,  "  So  far  is  well ;  but  one  thing  thou 
lackest ;  go  thy  way,  sell  whatsoever 
thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor;  and 
thou  shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven;  and 
come,  take  up  the  cross  and  follow  me." 
That  is,  —  translated  into  a  general 
principle  applicable  to  all  times  and 
circumstances,  —  cast  off  all  hindrances  ; 
break  away  from  every  passion,  habit, 
indulgence  that  would  hinder  you,  and 
take  the  great,  all-surrendering  resolu- 
tion to  follow  conscience  and  the  right, 
to  obey  God  and  his  law,  and  so  to  be 
my  disciple. 

This  is  momentous  teaching  ;  and  I 
now  come  to  consider,  in  the  second 
place,  what  it  is  that  the  Gospel  de- 
mands of  humanity.  This,  I  say,  is 
momentous  teaching.  It  was  so  then  ; 
it  is  so  now.  There  is  a  point  in  human 
experience  that  is  more  important  than 
any  other,  —  than  any  other  that  can  be, 
in  time  or  in  eternity.     There  is  a  point 


that  is  more  fundamental  and  final  to 
the  character,  more  vital  in  its  influence, 
more  decisive  in  its  bearing  on  our  fu- 
ture destiny,  than  any  other.  There  is 
a  point,  without  passing  which,  no  man 
can  be  satisfactorily  happy;  and  which, 
once  irrevocably  passed,  sets  the  whole 
course  of  a  man's  being  towards  all  the 
happiness,  virtue,  and  glory  for  which 
being  is  given.  It  is  the  point  where 
a  man  resolves  to  forsake  everything 
wrong.  It  is  the  hour  and  the  era  of 
a  fixed  and  unalterable  decision  to  be  a 
good  man,  to  be  a  righteous  man,  to  be 
more  than  in  name,  in  very  deed  to  be  a 
Christian  ;  to  enthrone  conscience  in 
the  soul,  to  be  the  servant  of  a  higher  law 
than  will  or  appetite  or  selfish  interest. 
It  is  the  hour  when  a  man  says,  "  I  have 
done  wrong,  but  I  will  do  so  no  more. 
I  will  break  off  from  every  known  sin. 
I  will  do  right ;  come  loss,  come  re- 
proach, come  death,  come  whatever 
will  ;  this  one  thing,  this  only,  will  I 
do." 

This,  my  brethren,  is  repentance  ; 
this  is  conversion  ;  this  is  regenera- 
tion. This  is  the  momentous  epoch 
in  human  experience,  passing  through 
which,  a  man  is  '"born  again."  For  I 
do  not  understand  by  regeneration,  the 
putting  of  something  into  the  heart 
which  was  in  no  sense  or  degree  there 
before  ;  conscience,  the  sense  of  right, 
was  there  ;  some  feeble,  wavering  love 
of  the  right  was  there  ;  some  occasional 
gratitude  and  prayer  to  God  ;  but  now 
all  this  begins  to  be  established  into 
a  principle,  a  habit,  a  law.  There  is  a 
full  and  solemn  self-surrendering  ;  there 
is  a  giving  up,  a  selling  and  putting 
away  of  everything  that  hinders.  Just 
and  so  far  as  this  fixed  resolve  enters 
into  a  man's  life,  does  a  settled  char- 
acter of  goodness  and  piety  begin  to  be 
formed. 

Let  me  add  to  this  statement  a  word 
of  explanation.  I  am  not  laying  down 
I  any  formal  rule.  Experience  varies.  A 
life  maybe  tending  to  good,  without  any 
such  marked  epoch  in  it.  It  may  come 
gradually  to  that  decisive  point,  to  that 


HUMANITY   AND   THE   GOSPEL. 


733 


fixed  resolve,  of  which  I  am  speaking. 
But  unless  it  begins  in  that,  or  comes 
to  that,  it  is  never  the  truly  good  and 
Christian  life.  That  is  the  only  step 
tliat  surely  leads  to  progress.  And  that 
step  can  be  taken.  It  is  in  the  power  of 
every  human  soul  to  take  it. 

To  sum  up  what  I  have  been  saying, 
—  God  has  given  us  a  nature  with  ele- 
ments of  good  in  it.  It  is  not  a  hateful, 
detestable,  —  it  is  not  a  mean,  misera- 
ble, utterly  per\-erted  nature.  There  are 
beautiful  things  in  our  humanity  ;  in 
"wJiat  work  of  God  is  there  not  beauty 
and  good  ?  There  are  involuntary  sen- 
timents and  affections  in  every  moral 
nature  that  God  has  made,  which  are  to 
be  admired  and  loved,  —  this  is  what  I 
have  first  insisted  upon. 

But  now  I  say  that  something  beyond 
all  this  is  required  of  us.  All  this  is 
given  ;  but  something  is  to  be  gained. 
All  this  is  involuntary  ;  but  something 
is.  of  set  purpose,  to  be  done.  The 
strong  and  determined  will  is  to  be  put 
forth,  the  will  to  be  right  and  true  and 
pure,  the  will  to  build  up  our  souls  to 
the  highest  perfection  of  which  we  are 
capable.  Without  this,  it  is  in  vain 
that  our  nature  is  capable  of  being 
good;  it  will  come  to  no  good.  So  is 
the  earth  given  us  to  work  upon  :  so 
with  the  soil,  the  shower,  the  sunshine 
to  help;  but  all  will  run  to  weeds  and 
waste,  unless  we  put  forth  a  resolute 
and  toiling  hand  to  rear  the  goodly 
fruits  of  patient  culture. 

This  immense  crisis  in  life,  the  first, 
great,  strong  resolve,  —  I  do  not  say 
that  it  settles  all,  it  is  to  be  followed 
by  many  another,  —  but,  I  repeat,  this 
solemn  self-consecration  is  not  duly 
apprehended,  I  fear,  by  some  among 
us.  because  they  have  rejected  the  doc- 
trine of  technical  conversion  from  na- 
tive, helpless  depravity,  to  imparted 
holiness.  But  let  them  beware  what 
they  reject.  There  is  a  work  to  be 
done  in  life,  to  which  nothing  but  the 
mo.st  earnest  desire  and  fixed  purpose, 
with  the  lowliest  prayers  for  heavenly, 
help,  are  equal ;  and  if  we  understand 


the  striving  and  agony  of  this  great  life- 
fight  with  error  and  passion,  this  will 
come  with  a  weight  to  our  heart  and 
conscience,  which  no  other  doctrine  of 
conversion  can  ever  bring  to  bear  upon 
us. 

And  now  let  me  say  upon  this  a  word 
or  two  more.  And  this  is  what  I  say. 
The  loftiness,  the  strength,  the  glory 
of  life  lies  in  this  decision  for  the 
right.  He  who  has  not  so  vowed  his 
soul  to  inward  truth  and  sanctity  may 
be  an  amiable  person,  in  many  ways  ; 
he  may  have  good  sentiments  and  kind 
feelings ;  and  yet  he  may  not  be  a  good 
man.  How  often  do  we  see  a  man 
falling  under  the  cravings  of  sensual 
passion,  falling  under  the  temptation 
to  dishonesty,  who  vet  has  many  kind 
feelings  !  No,  he  is  not  a  good  man. 
That  old  doctrine  of  Calvin  has  its 
truth,  —  that  amiableness  is  not  holi- 
ness. The  very  dog  is  amiable,  —  has 
vivid  affections  towards  his  master. 
The  true  man  must  rise  above  that, 
must  take  his  stand  on  a  higher  plane. 
The  resolve,  and  the  decision  to  abide 
by  it,  is  what  he  wants.  Without  this 
he  is  weak,  and  will  not  resist  tempta- 
tion. How  should  he,  when  he  cannot 
even  determine  to  resist  it  ?  Without 
this,  he  is  no  true  man.  He  has  not 
yet  taken  that  grandest  step  in  human 
life,  the  step  from  sentiment  to  prin- 
ciple,—  the  step,  I  repeat  it,  from  sen- 
timent to  principle.  No  deep  insight 
into  the  truth  of  things,  into  the  very 
grounds  and  quahties  of  right  and 
wrong,  will  he  have.  No  martyrdom 
of  sense  and  passion  for  truth  and  vir- 
tue may  be  expected  of  hitn  ;  no  sacri- 
fice of  pleasure,  profit,  reputation,  every- 
thing, for  allegiance  to  God  and  duty. 
The  glory  of  life  he  has  not  yet  at- 
tained. 

No,  nor  its  truest  joy.  This,  further, 
is  what  I  say.  No,  nor  its  truest  joy. 
There  is  a  joy  in  good  fortune  ;  there 
is  a  far  higher  in  the  mind's  gain  of 
knowledge  or  truth.  But  there  is  no 
joy  like  the  joy  of  resolved  virtue. 
Dally  with   sin,   with   temptation  ;  say 


734 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


concerning  any  wrong  thing  that  allures 
the  mind  or  the  senses,  "  I  do  not  know 
but  I  shall  do  it ;  I  may  ;  I  will  not  de- 
cide ;  I  do  not  know  ;  I  will  see  ;  "  and  I 
tell  you  that  God  and  your  own  nature 
have  made  that  to  be  an  anxious,  an 
unhappy  state  of  mind.  Men  talk  of 
'■  enjoying  themselves  ;  "  but  you  do  not 
enjoy  yonrself  then.  Say,  on  the  con- 
trary, "  I  will  not  do  the  wrong  thing 
that  tempts  me  ;  I  will  not  get,  I  will 
not  have,  that  gain  or  pleasure  which 
conscience  forbids  ;  I  will  never  do  it ;  " 
and  you  are  free,  you  are  disenthralled  ; 
that  resolve  will  give  you  unspeakable 
joy. 

The  young  man  in  the  Gospel,  who 
could  not  resolve  to  follow  Christ, 
"  went  away  sorrowful."  How  signifi- 
cant is  that  !  "  He  went  away  sor- 
rowful." He  kept  his  wealth;  he  kept 
his  means  of  luxury  and  pleasure ;  he 
went  away,  it  might  seem  to  the  world, 
to  a  life  of  indulgence  and  enjoyment  ; 
but  he  went  away  sad  at  heart.  Yet 
so  it  ever  is,  when  the  higher  nature  is 
touched.  From  all  faint-hearted  irreso- 
lution, from  all  wavering  or  leaning  to- 
wards unlawful  ends,  from  all  bargaining 
to  sell  his  soul  for  advantage,  shall  every 
man  who  knows  what  he  is  doing,  go 
away  with  misgiving  and  pain.  He 
does  not  like  the  thing  he  is  going  to 
do.  He  likes  the  prize,  but  he  does 
not  hke  the  cost  to  honor  and  con- 
science ;  that  is  ever  a  bitter  drop  at 
bottom.  Only  the  bad  man,  who  is 
blind,  unreflecting,  abandoned  by  better 
thoughts,  can  be  gay.  He  went  away, 
this  young  man,  touched  with  nobler 
ideas  ;  "he  went  away  sorrowful."  Oh  ! 
if  he  could  have  followed  out  the  first 
enthusiasm  of  his  heart  when  he  kneeled 
before  the  Master,  if  he  could  have  given 
up  all,  have  given  up  himself,  and  said, 
"  Yes,  blessed  Master,  I  will  follow  thee  ; 
I  will  be  thy  disciple,"  —  what  joy  had 
been  his  !  With  what  joy,  like  that 
of  apostles  and  martyrs,  would  he  have 
met  toil,  pain,  persecution,  and  death  ! 

This  great  self-consecration,  could 
we  make  it,  and  never  retract ;  could  it 


be  made  here  to-day  ;  would  any  one 
make  it  for  himself  ;  would  we,  as  a 
company  of  men,  say  together,  as  we 
say  some  holy  creed,  "  To-day  we  bind 
and  pledge  ourselves  to  the  right,  — 
here,  by  the  very  altar  of  our  prayers, 
we  abjure  and  cast  away  every  linger- 
ing, every  last  compromise  with  self- 
indulgence  and  sin,  every  false  word, 
every  fraudulent  act,  every  mean  and 
cruel  revenge,  every  guilty  cup,  every 
guilty  commerce  with  man  or  woman, — 
here  we  swear  an  oath  to  God,  to  fight 
for  the  true  and  pure  in  ourselves  so 
long  as  we  live,"  —  no  grander  conse- 
cration was  there  ever,  whether  of  patri- 
ots in  the  fastnesses  of  Switzerland,  or 
of  Latimer  and  Ridley  by  the  martyr- 
fires  of  England.  Great  hour  in  our  be- 
ing !  blessed  hour  !  —  none  in  our  life 
could  be  so  momentous  as  this  ;  no  day 
the  beginning  of  so  many  good  days  to 
come,  —  no  day  of  ours  that  would  ever 
shine  on  hke  this  into  the  days  and 
years  and  ages  of  Eternity  ! 


XIII. 


HUMANITY    COMPARED    WITH 
HUMAN    DISTINCTIONS. 

Psalm  cxix.  141  :  "  I  am  small  and  despised,  yet 
do  not  1  forget  thy  precepts." 

To  be  small  and  despised,  or,  what 
many  will  think  amounts  to  the  sarfie 
thing,  to  be  disregarded,  —  to  be  held 
in  the  great  world  as  of  no  account,  — 
to  be  unknown  in  the  world  of  society, 
in  the  world  of  politics,  in  the  world  of 
fashion,  in  the  world  of  literature,  —  to 
be  nothing  in  the  world,  to  be  nobody, 
—  this  is  felt  by  the  aspiring  ambition 
of  many  persons  to  be  a  hard  condi- 
tion. I  wish  to  address  myself  to  this 
feeling,  which,  springing  as  it  does  out 
of  the  very  nature  and  condition  of 
humanity,  is  probably  not  uncommon. 
It  is  that  with  which  many  persons 
look  upon  what  is  above  them,  —  upon 
fame,  upon  happy  and  distinguished  for- 


HUMANITY   AND   HUMAN   DISTINCTIONS. 


735 


tunes,  upon  wealth,  beauty,  or  <^clat,  — 
a  feeling  which  says,  "  Well,  and  what 
is  there  for  us  ?  Who  will  show  us  any 
good  ? " 

And  it  is  not  to  be  overlooked  that 
life  opens  a  sphere  for  almost  every 
man's  and  woman's,  nay,  and  child's 
ambition.  The  prizes  of  social  distinc- 
tion are  not  all  in  camps,  or  courts, 
or  crowded  conventions  of  men.  They 
are  found  in  the  humblest  village-life 
as  well;  so  that  ambitious  aspirings 
may  find  a  place  anywhere.  But  the 
worldly  thought,  the  scholar's  or  the 
statesman's,  often  takes  a  wider  range. 
It  wants,  perhaps,  a  fame  that  touches 
the  horizon  of  the  world  ;  and  when  it 
sees  that,  —  when  it  sees  the  tide  of 
human  admiration  rising  and  bearing 
some  great  name  over  all  the  seas  and 
to  the  farthest  continents,  —  when  that 
name  is  pronounced  with  honor  in  every 
land  and  language,  —  nay,  more,  when 
it  is  borne  down  through  all  the  ages, 
and  is  domesticated  in  all  the  dwellings 
of  the  world,  so  that  scarcely  a  civilized 
human  being  exists  but  has  heard  of 
Plato  and  Demosthenes,  of  Cassar  and 
Cicero,  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton, — 
then  it  seems  to  our  worldly  eyes  as  if 
nothing  on  earth  could  compare  with 
this,  —  it  seems  as  if  such  persons  were 
insphered  in  more  than  mortal  glory; 
we  almost  lose  sight  of  their  humanity, 
and  can  understand  something  of  what 
the  old  Pagan  world  did  when  it  actu- 
ally deified  men.  The  admiration  shows 
the  bias  of  our  minds,  though  in  such 
a  comparison  we  hardly  think,  perhaps, 
of  asking  what  there  is  for  us.  We  do 
not  ask  it  in  such  case  ;  but  when  some 
person  stands  by  our  side  who  by  his 
speeches  or  writings  has  made  his  name 
known  in  all  America,  in  all  England, 
or  when  some  equipage  passes  before 
us  blazoned  with  wealth,  and  it  bears 
its  possessor  to  a  splendid  and  luxu- 
rious home,  and  that  abode  receives, 
night  after  night,  throng  upon  throng  of 
gay  society,  or  when  some  person's  wit 
or  beauty  is  the  theme  of  general  com- 
ment, and  becomes  a  kind  of  shrine  of 


social  pilgrimage,  —  then  there  be  many 
that  say,  '•  What  is  there  for  us  ?  Who 
will  show  us  any  good  ?  "  The  ques- 
tion often  arises  at  some  grand  suc- 
cess, or  sudden  acquisition  of  fortune, 
or  when  a  splendid  speech  is  made,  or 
perchance  sermon,  whose  tones  rever- 
berate through  the  land,  or  some  nota- 
ble entertainment  or  fete  is  given  and 
reported  with  names  and  circumstances 
(absurdly  enough,  to  be  sure)  in  the 
newspapers.  The  sound  of  all  this 
goes  abroad  ;  the  echoes  penetrate  into 
the  noise  of  business  or  into  the  still 
and  quiet  country  ;  and  there  is  many 
a  one  to  say,  "  What,  then,  is  there  for 
me  ?  I  am,  in  comparison,  small  and 
despised  ;  I  live  in  utter  obscurity ;  I 
am  nothing  to  the  world ;  1  perform 
these  daily  tasks,  I  do  this  business,  I 
work  in  my  shop,  or  1  till  these  silent 
fields,  or  I  tend  the  house  ;  I  am  small 
and  humble  in  my  vocation,  my  walk, 
jny  profession ;  the  world  knows  noth- 
ing of  7ne.  I  shall  sink  into  a  grave, 
at  last,  as  undistinguished  as  my  lot  ; 
coming  generations  will  nevqr  ask  for 
me  ;  they  will  never  know  that  I  have 
lived.  Ten  thousand  such  lives  as  mine 
seem  not  worth  as  much  as  that  one 
magnificent  life  which  is  lived  there 
upon  the  mount.  And  yet  I  am  a  man, 
too,  —  and  not  so  very  inferior  to  him, 
if  the  truth  were  known.  Is  it  not 
hard  .?  " 

And  I  answer,  yes,  it  is  hard,  if  honor, 
if  fame,  be  the  grandest  boon  for  human- 
ity, the  highest  gift  of  Heaven.  If  the 
ambitious  world's  estimate  is  right,  it  is 
hard.     But  let  us  see. 

I  will  not  depreciate  the  pleasure,  the 
enjoyment  to  be  derived  from  a  lawful, 
from  a  high  and  well-earned  distinction. 
Suppose  it  to  be  freed  from  all  selfish- 
ness ;  suppose  it  to  be  the  delight  of 
ministering  to  the  relief,  the  entertain- 
ment, nay,  the  highest  improvement,  of 
mankind  ;  suppose  that  genius  feel  it- 
self to  be,  —  there  has  been  such  on  the 
earth  and  there  is  now,  —  to  be,  I  say, 
an  affluent  fountain  from  which  streams 
of  refreshment  and  blessing  are  flowing 


736 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


all  over  the  world,  and  that  this  high- 
est genius,  or  any  humbler  measure  of 
it,  feels  this  not  proudly,  but  humbly 
and  devoutly,  and  says,  "1  am  made 
to  be  such,  —  God  has  made  and  en- 
dowed me  to  be  such,  —  and  I  am  glad 
and  rejoice  in  this  great  and  beneficent 
power."  It  is  a  noble  distinction  ;  it 
is  a  creative,  —  it  is  a  kind  of  godlike 
power.  But  is  this  the  highest  thing 
in  the  world,  —  to  survey  one's  self? 
This  is  the  point  to  which  I  wished 
to  bring  you.  Now,  what  is  the  privi- 
lege, the  grandeur,  of  a  rational  and 
rehgious  nature  ?  Is  it  not  to  behold 
and  enjoy  a  universe  of  good,  a  uni- 
verse of  lovehness  and  of  inspiring  joy? 
Is  it  not  to  see  God,  and  to  see  His 
glory  and  goodness  in  all  creatures  and 
things  ?  But  this  is  accorded  to  every 
rational  and  reverent  man,  to  every 
being  that  has  the  nature  of  man. 

What,  now,  compared  with  this,  is 
the  pleasure  of  thinking  one's  self  some 
great  one  ?  One's  self  may  be  the 
shadow  that  hides  the  vision.  But 
suppose  it  does  not  :  compare  the  two 
things  together.  There  is  the  satisfac- 
tion, the  honor  of  being  praised,  talked 
of,  celebrated.  And  here  is  the  de- 
light, the  glory  of  contemplating,  not 
one's  self,  not  one's  own  honor,  but  an 
infinitude  of  light,  loveliness,  and  per- 
fection. What  is  the  consciousness  of 
being  admired,  the  pleasure  of  look- 
ing upon  one's  self  as  distinguished,  to 
that  open  eye  that  takes  in  the  whole 
realm  of  beauty  and  glory  ?  What  is 
a  mirror  reflecting  yourself,  compared 
with  the  telescope  that  gathers  in  its 
sweep  the  infinite  multitude  of  resplen- 
dent worlds  and  systems  ?  Suns  and 
stars  rise  upon  the  boundless  fields  of 
space ;  cloud-spots  on  those  infinite 
fields  are  now  seen  to  be  bright  uni- 
verses of  stars  ;  wonder  and  beauty  fill 
the  enraptured  gazer.  Take  now  the 
gazer  from  this  magnificent  contempla- 
tion, and  seat  him  before  a  glass  reflect- 
ing himself ;  and  let  the  flattering  world 
bring  him  twenty  m.ore  such,  to  multi- 
ply his   image   and   show  him  what   a 


great  man  he  is  :  and  what  will  he  think 
of  exchanging  his  sky-exploring  tele- 
scope for  this,  —  this  paltry  collection 
of  cracked  looking-glasses,  fit  to  be 
sold  at  the  corner  of  the  street  ? 

I  am  comparing  the  joy  and  blessing 
of  being  great  with  the  pleasure  of 
being  accounted  so.  A  man  may  be 
great,  and  hardly  know  it,  or  be  hurl 
by  it.  A  man  like  Shakspeare,  uncon- 
scious of  his  great  place  in  the  world, 
who  heard  little  in  his  lifetime  of  the 
acclaim  of  praise  ;  of  whom  it  has  been 
strikingly  said,  that  ''after  having  writ- 
ten his  forty  dramas,  that  have  filled 
the  world  and  the  ages  with  his  renown, 
he  went  down  into  the  country,  and 
lived  and  died  as  one  unconscious  of 
having  done  anything  extraordinary," 
—  such  a  man  stands  amidst  his  fel- 
lows in  the  simple  and  common  attitude 
of  a  seer  of  all  beauty,  goodliness.  and 
glory.  But  just  in  proportion  as  a  man 
thinks  of  himself,  and  gloats  over  his 
distinction,  is  it  all  in  his  way,  a  hin- 
drance and  marring  to  all  his  proper 
happiness  as  a  man.  How,  then,  reads 
he  the  book  of  life,  the  book  of  the 
universe  ?  It  is  as  if,  every  time  he 
took  up  a  newspaper  or  journal,  he 
looked  only  to  see  if  he  were  men- 
tioned, if  he  were  praised  in  it ;  and 
wit  and  wisdom,  anecdote  and  argu- 
ment and  information,  all  were  nothing 
to  him,  compared  with  that  one  fact. 
No,  if  I  must  be  one  or  the  other,  I 
had  rather  be  the  humblest  admirer  of 
a  truly  great  man,  than  the  greatest  of 
self-admirers,  though  I  think  no  self- 
admirer  ever  was  truly  great.  But  even 
if  such  a  person  may  have  some  re- 
markable gifts,  yet  how  poor  and  low 
is  his  taste,  his  happiness,  compared 
with  that  of  the  generous,  self-forget- 
ting, enthusiastic  worshipper  of  all  worth 
and  greatness  !  The  vision  of  selfish- 
ness runs  on  a  single  narrow  line,  and 
terminates  in  a  little  opaque  object,  self, 
—  self-aggrandizement.  The  true  hu- 
man sympathy,  the  noble  generosity 
befitting  a  man,  is  as  an  eye,  to  which 
'  converge  millions  of  bright  beams,  that 


HUMANITY   AND   HUMAN   DISTINCTIONS. 


737 


irradiate  and  fill  the  orb  of  our  being 
with  their  splendor  and  beauty. 

I  must  desire  j'ou  distinctly  to  ob- 
serve that  the  comparison  we  are 
making  is  not  between  the  powers  of 
different  men  to  see,  to  enjoy,  to  un- 
derstand the  all-surrounding  revelation; 
but  it  is  between  power  and  the  eclat  of 
power,  between  power  and  reputation. 
Double  power  is  doubtless  a  double 
advantage.  But  that  is  not  what  we 
are  speaking  of  now.  That  is  not  pre- 
cisely what  the  world  is  looking  at, 
when  it  sees  a  man  elevated  to  a  post 
of  honor,  or  covered  with  distinction. 
It  does  not  say,  "  What  a  glorious  man  ! 
what  a  breadth  of  mind  he  has,  to  em- 
brace all  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  all 
things  !  what  inspired  perceptions  of  all 
loveliness  and  grandeur  !  what  a  great 
idea  of  God  ! "  No,  this  is  not  the 
object  of  worldly  admiration.  The 
thing  co7nplai7ied  of  by  most  men  is 
not  that  they  want  the  power  to  enjoy 
life,  —  books,  men,  things,  the  world, 
the  universe ;  but  that  they  are  undis- 
tinguished, unknown  ;  that  their  tal- 
ents are  not  duly  acknowledged  and 
honored. 

And  observe,  too,  that  the  being 
known,  that  great  ability  itself,  is  by 
no  means  a  measure  of  capacity  for 
the  highest  good  and  happiness.  Even 
when  it  is  evidence  of  mental  strctigth^ 
—  and  I  suppose  it  usually  is  proof  of 
some  kind  and  degree  of  mental  su- 
periority, —  still  it  is  apt  to  be  very 
different  from  that  wide  expansion  of 
intellectual  culture  and  generous  affec- 
tion which  takes  in  the  largest  amount 
of  good.  To  rise  into  notice,  it  is  often 
necessary  that  the  forces  of  the  mind 
be  compressed  into  a  narrow  channel  ; 
the  culture  is  apt  to  be  technical, 
merely  legal,  medical,  or  political ;  the 
man  knows  these  things,  perhaps,  and 
knows  hardly  anything  else:  there  is  a 
constant  tendency  in  one  direction,  and 
it  is  often  attended  with  much  struggle, 
competition,  and  jealousy  ;  I  have  hardly 
ever  seen  the  ordinary  great  man  who 
did  not  think  and    make  too  much  of 


himself,  and  was  not  too  opinionated 
and  impracticable,  too  inaccessible  to 
the  views  and  arguments  of  others,  and 
too  insensible  to  the  value  of  every- 
thing out  of  his  own  walk  ;  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  many  a  person,  man  or 
woman,  sitting  in  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 
modest,  meditative,  well-read,  widely  in- 
structed, exquisitely  attuned  in  spirit  to 
all  things  goodly  and  beautiful,  lias  a 
mind  and  nature  far  more  receptive  of 
good,  with  far  more  inlets  to  all  the  joy 
and  grandeur  of  life  and  of  the  world, 
than  many  have  who  sit  far  above  on 
the  world's  heights. 

But  this  is  not  the  strong  point  in 
the  case,  —  the  probable  effect  on  the 
mind  of  different  careers  and  condi- 
tions. And  the  comparison,  as  I  have 
just  said,  is  7iot  between  different  de- 
grees of  power,  i.  e.,  of  endowment  or. 
ability.  If  this  were  our  subject,  it 
would  require  quite  another  line  of 
argument ;  a  line,  indeed,  which  ulti- 
mately would  lead  us  to  that  principle 
of  submission  appealed  to  by  the  Apos- 
tle, when  he  says,  "  Shall  the  thing 
formed  say  to  him  that  formed  it,  Why 
hast  thou  made  me  thus  ? "  But  I  do 
not  think  we  are  driven  to  that  ulti- 
mate ground  here.  For  the  question 
here  is  between  the  grand  powers  and 
attributes  of  the  universal  humanity, 
and  the  reputation- of  possessing  them 
in  an  dnusual  degree.  And  I  say  that 
a  rational  and  spiritual  and  admiring 
and  adoring  nature  is  so  vast  a  boon, 
that  it  leaves  mere  eminence,  mere 
reputation,  mere  distinction,  out  of  the 
range  of  all  comparison. 

On  this  subject,  however,  I  am  per- 
suaded that  there  is  a  great  delusion 
in  the  world;  and  the  present  age, 
perhaps,  is  the  very  crisis  of  that  delu- 
sion. In  dark,  uncultivated,  unreading 
ages,  distinction  was  not  so  widely  ap- 
preciated as  it  is  now.  It  was  itself 
also  limited  to  the  conduct  of  war  and 
the  headship  of  empires,  states,  baro- 
nies ;  it  was  inaccessible  to  the  many. 
The  millions  lived  and  toiled  and  died, 
with  no  thought  —  not  they  /  —  of  celeb- 


47 


738 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


rity;  glad  if  they  could  live,  and  escape 
being  trodden  under  foot  by  their  mas- 
ters. Now  the  field  of  competition  is 
wider  ;  it  is  parcelled  out  into  many  an 
arena  of  action  and  aspiration  ;  it  is 
opened  to  the  multitude ;  and  the  rush 
of  ambition  is  eager,  and  the  sense  of 
failure  and  defeat  is  keen  and  bitter. 
At  the  same  time,  our  actual  culture  is 
low ;  we  have  reached  the  point  of 
much  reading,  much  knowing;  we  read 
and  know  who  is  distinguished,  who  is 
admired,  who  is  feted,  who  is  borne  to 
his  grave  with  long  procession  ;  every 
circumstance  we  know ;  it  is  printed, 
is  pictured  before  our  eyes.  All  this 
we  have  come  to  ;  but  we  have  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  time  of  deep  re- 
flection, of  meditative  thought,  of  real 
self-appreciation.  We  still  worship  the 
old  idols.  The  old  images  of  grandeur 
are  still  enshrined  to  us,  and  the  old 
lights  are  still  flaring  in  our  eyes. 
And  if  our  sight  is  not  so  reverent  as 
that  of  the  former  time,  but  is  vexed 
and  smarting  with  critic  irritation,  it 
only  shows  that  the  malady  of  ages  is 
not  yet  healed. 

But  a  calmer  and  healthier  time  for 
humanity,  I  believe,  is  coming,  when  it 
shall  be  conscious  of  itself,  not  rela- 
tively, but  absolutely,  conscious  of  the 
boundless  treasures  embosomed  in  it- 
self, richer  than  a  thousand  mines  of 
gold  or  a  thousand  crowns  of  Impire  ; 
when  to  admire  and  love  the  good  and 
noble,  to  adore  God,  and  to  behold  the 
glory  of  His  works,  shall  be  felt  to  be 
the  very  treasure  and  crown  of  human 
existence  ;  and  when,  though  a  man  sits 
in  the  humblest  nook,  yet  if  he  may  look 
out  upon  a  universe  of  light  and  beauty, 
it  shall  be  such  a  blessing  and  beatitude 
that  all  other  things  will  sink  out  of 
sight  and  comparison. 

What,  then,  more  definitely  and  dis- 
tinctly have  we  to  say  to  the  case  of 
disappointed  ambition,  or  to  one  who, 
considering  the  thing  to  be  out  of  the 
question  for  Jiim,  never  had  much  am- 
bition :  who  either  says,  "  I  am  small 
and   despised,  —  I    am    nothing   in    the 


world's  account,"  or  says,  "Who  will 
show  me  any  good?  —  what,  then,  is 
there  for  me  ? " 

This  question,  brethren,  must  we  pa- 
tiently meet,  and  set  forth,  in  form,  to 
this    complainer,    the    inventory   of  his 
powers  and  privileges,  and  the  bound- 
less sum  of  blessings  accorded  to  him  ? 
Must  we  not  rather  exclaim  and  wonder 
at  his  blindness  and  ingratitude  ?     Here 
is  a  being  who  is  not  shut  up  within  the 
narrow  confine  of   animal   instinct,  but 
whose   very   senses   are    windows    that 
open  to  a  universe  of  divine  beauty  and 
grandeur ;    he  is  a  being,  with  reason 
and    imagination    and   faculties   divine ; 
he    has    a   home,    and    home    delights  ; 
parent,    child,    brother,    friend,   all    the 
sanctities  and  beatitudes  of  a  loving  na- 
ture, belong  to  him  ;  and  if  nothing  else 
were    left,  he    can  pray,  and    that    act 
would  translate  his  soul  into  a  new  life 
and  transform  the  universe  into  a  home. 
All  things  are  his,  if  he  will  enjoy  them  ; 
and  he  would  not  exchange  his  eyesight 
for  a   kingdom,    nor  his   hearing  for   a 
mine  of  gold.    All  things  are  his  ;  realms 
of  infinite  life  and  light  spread   before 
him  ;    sunsets    and   stars   and    heaven's 
infinitude  pour  their  magnificence  around 
him  :  and  what  does  he  say  ?     Is  he  not 
glad?     Is  he  not  thankful?     Is  he  not 
happy?     Is  he  not  more  than  content? 
Does  he  not  wonder,  in  lowliness  and 
humihty,  at  God's  infinite  goodness  to 
him  ?     No ;  he  turns  away,  with  a  dis- 
satisfied air,  and  says,  "  I   am  nothing  ; 
I    am   not  admired   and   praised.     If   I 
could   see  all  this  from   a   throne,  if   I 
could  enjoy  it  in  a  conspicuous  station, 
I  should  be  content."     Alas  !   how  are 
men  fooled  out  of  their  happiness,  their 
virtue,   their    life's   good,   by    this    vile, 
worldly  ambition! 

What  an  endowment,  my  friends,  what 
a  gift  divine,  is  the  power  of  simple  ad- 
miration !  It  kindles  the  eye,  it  swells 
,the  heart:  it  transfigures  our  very  be- 
ing; it  translates  us  out  of  ourselves  ; 
it  is,  I  am  inclined  to  say,  the  largest 
gift  of  joy  that  can  be  imparted  to  any 
creature.      Bring  any   weary,   nay,   dull 


HUMANITY    AND   HUMAN   DISTINCTIONS. 


739 


and  weary,  traveller  to  some  mountain- 
top  where  a  glorious  landscape  bursts 
upon  him,  and  he  is  repaid  for  all  his 
toils;  he  forgets  all  his  fatigues.  A 
garden  of  flowers,  a  shady  grove,  a  cot- 
tage on  the  green  bank,  any  beautiful 
object  of  nature's  or  man's  handiwork, 
touches  the  sense  of  admiration  and 
fills  us  with  delight  ;  and  tlie  world,  the 
universe,  is  full  of  such,  —  from  the  gar- 
den flower  to  the  blossoming  cloud, 
opening  fold  after  fold  in  the  warmth  of 
the  summer  sky  ;  from  the  butterfly's 
wing  to  the  cloud-wings,  streaked  with 
golden  fires  of  the  angel  of  the  setting 
sun.  Show  me  such  things,  and  you 
give  me  moments,  hours,  of  gladness  ; 
and  nature  is  ever  showing  them.  Or 
show  me  a  beautiful  picture,  and  it  is 
mine,  for  a  possession  and  with  a  joy 
far  beyond  what  mere  purchase  or  own- 
ership can  give.  Or  tell  me  of  a  noble 
action,  let  me  read  the  biography  of 
good  men,  let  me  see  such  around  me, 
excellent  persons,  excellent  and  true  and 
honorable,  pure  and  good  beings,  eyes 
that  kindle  with  love  and  tenderness, 
and  the  gems  of  a  diadem  are  not  so 
bright  and  beautiful  as  these.  Or  open 
to  me  the  infinitude  of  all  this  glory  and 
loveliness  in  the  One  Infinite  and  Good 
Being,  and  words  are  wanting,  words 
are  vain,  to  speak  of  the  blessing  that  is 
accorded  to  me. 

And  you  are  such  an  one,  —  you  to 
whom  I  speak,  —  everyone  to  whom  I 
speak,  the  poorest  and  humblest,  the 
smallest  and  most  despised  in  your  own 
account.  You  say  that  your  chance  in 
life  is  small,  that  your  path  is  humble, 
\\-\dA  you  are  no  great  one.  And  yet  you 
—  what  are  you,  and  where  and  whence 
have  you  come  ?  From  the  forming 
hand  of  God,  created  from  nothing  ; 
you,  who  lately  had  no  being,  have 
come  to  the  glad  precincts  of  heaven's 
light ;  from  nothing,  you  have  stepped 
upon  the  opening  threshold  of  this  mag- 
nificent realm  of  existence.  You  say 
that  "you  are  no  great  one  ;  "  but  your 
eye  explores  the  depths  of  heaven  ;  your 
ear  drinks  in  the  music  of  nature ;  words 


of  love  and  kindness,  words  of  God, 
are  spoken  to  you,  and  hymnings  and 
quirings,  as  of  heavenly  angels,  sweep 
around  you  through  the  glorious  realm 
of  sound.  You  say  that  "you  are  no 
great  one  ;  "  and  yet  you  may  talk  with 
Plato,  you  may  converse  with  Fenelon 
and  Milton,  you  may  commune  with 
Jesus  Christ,  you  may,  —  let  me  say  it 
reverently,  —  you  may  commune  with 
God  !  You  say  that  "  you  are  no  great 
one ;  "  and  yet  everlasting  oceans  of 
being  flow  and  spread  before  you  and. 
invite  you  onward.  What  if,  of  two  lit- 
tle children,  one  should  say  to  the  other, 
'•  You  are  handsome,  and  I  am  not,  and 
the  people  notice  you  :  "  what  is  it  to 
their  future  ?  Beauty  changes,  faculties 
expand,  and  life  opens  its  grand  sphere 
to  them,  irrespective  of  those  childish 
distinctions.  But  that  sphere,  that  life 
rising  into  higher  life,  which  is  opening 
to  yoii^  is  not  mortal,  but  immortal. 

Brethren,  I  am  proposing  no  new  doc- 
trine, using  no  new  argument.  It  is  the 
old  teaching  of  the  Apostles  and  Fathers 
of  the  Church.  "The  poor  of  this  world," 
they  said,  are  made  "rich  in  faith  and 
heirs  of  an  everlasting  inheritance." 
The  lowly  are  lifted  to  glory  and  honor 
and  immortality.  "Ye  are  Christ's  poor," 
they  said;  "  ye  are  God's  children."  Yes, 
it  is  the  Christian  word  that  has  broken 
the  tremendous  spell  of  that  worldljness 
which  deified  the  few  and  desecrated 
the  many  ;  which  set  its  favorites  on 
the  splendid  heights  of  honor,  and 
cast  the  shadow  of  death  and  forget- 
fulness  over  the  undistinguished  mil- 
lions. 

This  is  Heathenism  and  not  Chris- 
tianity, let  it  appear  where  it  will.  It 
is  heathenism  in  Christianity,  if  it  pre- 
vails among  us.  Christ  espoused  the 
cause  of  the  universal  humanity.  He 
spake  of  a  secret  joy  in  the  soul  which 
is  above  all  worldly  joy.  He  taught  us 
that  seeking  to  be  great  "is  not  the  way 
to  be  great.  He  plainly  says,  —  he  tliat 
exalteth  himself  shall  be  humbled  ;  but 
he  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be 
exalted. 


740 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


Shall  not  all  lawful  distinction,  then, 
be  honored, —  the  headship  of  the  state, 
the  crown  of  intellectual  power,  the  pre- 
cedence in  art,  and  the  wealth  that  is 
justly  gained  ?  Yes,  and  every  particle 
of  true  merit,  of  real  talent,  yet  more 
of  simple  goodness,  in  these  spheres, 
shall  be  duly  prized;  in  them,  surely, 
as  much  as  out  of  them.  There  is  no 
radicalism  in  this  teaching  :  no  insane 
proposal  to  pull  down  that  which  is 
above,  simply  because  it  is  above.  It 
is  well  that  it  is  conspicuous.  And 
if  ruder  ages  exaggerated  its  impor- 
tance, as  children  do  their  master's, 
that  was  natural  ;  and  that  ,  too,  was 
well.  But  this  I  say  :  the  distinction, 
the  mere  eclat,  is  not  worth  the  millionth 
part  of  what  we  all  possess.  This 
1  say,  that  the  truly  great  man,  great 
in  mind  and  heart,  would  not  consent 
to  have  his  power' of  thought  or  of  love 
let  down  one  degree  lower,  to  have 
his  honor  carried  a  thousand  degrees 
higher.  I  take  hold  of  that  judgment, 
and  make  it  my  own.  I  espouse  it 
in  behalf  of  all  mankind.  I  speak  for 
all  mankind,  when  I  say  that,  humble 
as  I  am,  compared  with  many,  I  have 
that  within  me  which  I  would  not  give 
for  a  million  times  the  fame  of  Plato 
or  Shakspeare. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  reason  with 
a  mistake,  which  is  but  too  natural 
indeed,  which  is  the  commonest  of  all 
mistakes  in  the  world,  but  which  is 
so  pernicious  and  fatal  to  all  human 
peace  and  virtue,  that,  although  the 
course  of  my  reflections  may  be  un- 
usual in  the  pulpit,  yet  nothing,  no 
topic  of  discourse,  I  think,  could  be 
more  practical.  This  diseased  self- 
consciousness,  this  sensitiveness  about 
ourselves,  this  want  of  the  simple,  self- 
forgetting  habit  of  enjoying  all  the  good 
of  life  as  it  comes,  all  the  beauty  of 
nature,  all  the  worth  and  happiness  of 
our  kind,  all  the  beneficence  of  God, 
—  this,  I  say,  is  the  one  essential, 
intrinsic,  and  everlasting  misery  of  hu- 
man life.  This  is  the  misery  of  miser- 
ies, a  selfish  heart.     The  only  remedy, 


—  to  that  simple,  sacred,  grand  love  of 
the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  must  we 
come,  —  the  only  remedy  is  a  loving 
heart.  I  am  not  going  to  discourse 
upon  it  further.  I  only  say,  —  behold 
the  disease  :  and  behold  the  cure. 


XIV. 


THIS  LIFE   THE   PROPHECY   OF 
A   FUTURE. 

I  John  iii.  2:  "Beloved,  now  are  we  the  sons  of 
God  ;  and  it  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be." 

This  language  is  of  the  nature  of  an 
argument.  A^ow  are  we  the  sons  of 
God  ;  we  are  endowed  with  faculties 
and  graces  which  entitle  us  to  that 
appellation  ;  what  may  we  not  liope  to 
be  hereafter?  A  little  while  since  we 
woke  to  existence,  in  a  state  of  almost 
unconscious  infancy  ;  a  few  years  have 
elapsed,  and  now  we  stretch  out  our 
hands  to  infinitude,  to  eternity,  to  God. 
If  so  much  can  be  achieved  in  the 
infancy  of  our  being  and  in  so  short  a 
space  of  time,  what  may  not  be  the 
future  of  such  a  beginning  ?  "  It  doth 
not  yet  appear,"  says  the  Apostle,  in  a 
tone  of  sublime  expectation,  "what  we 
shall  be." 

The  intimations,  then,  in  our  present 
being  of  progress  and  development,  — 
this  is  the  subject  of  my  present  dis- 
course. This  life,  with  all  of  possession 
that  it  has,  is  yet  more  a  prophecy. 
There  are  many  things  in  us  that  mark 
an  unfulfilled  design,  —  hopes  and  fears, 
thoughts  unutterable,  imaginations, 
ideals  never  realized,  that  strike  out 
into  realms  beyond  this  world. 

It  is  so  even  in  the  minds  of  children. 
Thoughts  come  into  their  minds,  —  you 
must  have  witnessed  them,  —  things 
that  they  say  of  themselves,  things  that 
they  say  of  God,  which  are  wonderful, 
and  out  of  all  proportion  to  every- 
thing else  in  their  present  experience; 
thoughts  that  have  no  present  result 
in    their    character.      They    come    and 


LIFE   A   PROPHECY. 


741 


go,  like  flashes  of  light  in  a  summer 
cloud. 

Especially  there  are  cases,  you  are 
aware  of  them,  in  which  children  of  five 
or  six  years  surpass  the  profoundest 
mathematicians,  in  the  grasp  and  rapid- 
ity of  their  calculations.  It  is  a  human 
mind  that  does  this.  It  is,  in  all  other 
respects,  a  child's  mind.  May  it  not 
be  because  some  bodily  clogs  upon 
thought  are  removed  ?  Might  not  all 
minds  be  such,  if  they  were  thus 
freed  ? 

Nay,  are  there  not,  in  fact,  such  pro- 
phetic phenomena  in  all  minds  ?  In 
sleep,  in  dreams,  when  the  bodily  pow- 
ers are  suspended,  it  is  now  proved 
that  the  scenes  and  thoughts  of  whole 
waking  hours  pass  through  the  mind 
in  a  moment.  A  gunshot  wakes  the 
sleeper,  and  while  waking  he  passes 
through  the  heady  currents  of  a  long 
day's  battle.  And  in  the  few  moments' 
suspended  animation  of  partial  drown- 
ing, a  whole  lifetime  comes  under  the 
mind's  review.  To  what  may  not  the 
dreaming  and  half -drowned  soul  awake, 
when  this  dull  vesture  of  decay  drops 
from  it  ?  And  every  time  we  open  our 
eyes  upon  an  extended  landscape,  in 
the  time  of  that  momentary  glance,  we 
make  a  hundred  mental  comparisons, — 
distinct  calculations,  to  ascertain  and 
fix  the  distance  of  every  object.  What 
may  not  be  the  range  of  such  a  mind, 
when  the  immortal  fields  are  opened 
to  it  ? 

There  are  other  conditions  of  the 
mind  that  yield  a  still  stronger  argu- 
ment. Argument,  I  say  ;  and  yet  some- 
thing like  intuition  there  seems  to  be, 
that  opens  to  us  the  unsealed  heights 
of  some  far  and  future  career.  The 
whole  of  the  mind's  idealizing,  if  it  is  not 
given  to  mock  us,  must  be  prophecy 
of  realities  that  are  to  take  body  and 
form.  Why  should  we  be  able  to  im- 
agine something  grander  than  we  are 
to  be  .'*  Why  should  this  faculty  be 
given,  if  it  is  but  to  disappoint  and  de- 
fraud us  ? 

And  we  do  imagine  great  things.    We 


call  ourselves  dull  creatures  :  and  there 
is  promise  in  i/tt's,  too  :  it  would  be  a  poor 
sign  for  us  to  be  satisfied.  But  amidst 
all  our  earthly  dulness,  what  thoughts 
from  time  to  time  visit  us,  what  thoughts 
sky-piercing  and  full  of  ecstasy,  that 
seem  like  the  stirring  and  uplifting  of 
angel  wings  for  some  boundless  flight. 
They  come  to  us  unbidden  ;  it  seems  as 
if  they  came  out  from  some  purer  sphere, 
these  heavenly  dreamings  of  life  and 
love  and  beauty.  What  do  they  mean  ? 
What  are  they,  if  they  are  not  foregleams 
of  coming  light  ?  And  the  earth  is  full 
of  things  that  so  move  us. 

"It  may  be  a  sound, 
A  tone  of  music  —  summer's  eve —  or  spring, 
A  flower  —  the  wind  —  or  ocean  ' '  — 

which  thus  strikes  "the  electric  chain 
wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound." 

And  who  so  dull,  that  sometimes  a 
strain  of  music,  heard  in  the  twilight, 
heard  in  the  night-time,  does  not  trans- 
figure and  translate  his  whole  being 
jnto  a  new  form,  into  a  higher  sphere, 
and  bear  him  to  visions  beyond  mortal 
sight,  realms  of  fancy  and  regions  of 
heaven  ? 

And  loftier  things  there  are,  strong- 
hearted  truth,  heroic  self-denial,  all-sur- 
rendering love,  patient  sorrow,  heaven- 
born  faith  ;  are  these  destined  to  sink 
back  into  themseh^es  and  die,  bearing 
nothing  ?  The  flame  of  the  martyr's 
sacrifice,  that  shoots  out  into  the  dark- 
ness of  this  world,  does  it  not  flash  back 
from  the  immortal  heights,  that  stand 
serene  in  the  world  beyond  ?  Yet  more  ; 
the  veneration  and  love  that  go  out  to 
the  Infinite  Perfection.  God  has  cre- 
ated in  us  that  aspiration  ;  how  can  it 
be  that  it  should  ever  be  disappointed  ? 
How  can  it  be  that  he  should  ever  be 
stricken  down  by  the  Almighty  hand 
from  his  highest  hope,  who  humbly  says, 
"  My  Father  !  Father  all-merciful !  open 
to  me  forever  and  forever  the  boundless 
fulness  of  Thy  perfection.  Oh  !  by  all 
that  I  am,  by  all  that  Thou  hast  made 
dear  to  me,  vouchsafe  to  me  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  one  hope  !" 


742 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


I  do  not  know  that  I  can  say  anything, 
to  beget  in  myself  a  stronger  trust  than 
what  I  have  now  said.  But  if  it  seem 
imaginary  to  any,  if  any  one,  discrediting 
these  aspirations,  demands  that  we  go 
down  to  the  lowest  grounds  of  human 
experience,  if  he  talks  of  ignorance  and 
failure  in  this  poor  human  nature,  let  us 
see  how  these  very  failures  are  prophetic 
failures  ;  how  the  very  barriers  tempt 
us  to  overleap  them. 

First,  failure  of  utterance.  How  much 
in  us  is  unexpressed  !  How  much  in 
us  is  never  uttered,  and  never  can  be  ! 
How  many  feel  that  the  thousandth 
part  of  what  they  experience  is  never 
unfolded  !  It  is  the  peculiar  prerogative 
of  genius,  to  breathe  out  its  soul  into 
speech,  form,  music  ;  but  what  man  of 
genius  ever  felt  that  he  had  yet  unveiled 
half  the  strength  and  beauty  of  his 
thought  ?  The  divinest  things  in  us 
refuse  to  take  any  form.  The  sub- 
limest,  brightest,  holiest  things  never 
are  expressed;  they  are  never  uttered 
in  poetry  or  eloquence,  never  chiselled 
into  marble,  never  painted  on  the  can- 
vas, nor  even  breathed  in  music.  The 
treasures  of  the  world's  manifested  gen- 
ius are  poor,  compared  with  its  hidden 
wealth.  But  for  7?iost  men,  who  neither 
speak,  nor  write,  nor  paint,  nor  sing  their 
thoughts,  I  feel  that  I  walk  among  them 
as  muffled  figures,  in  which  is  a  world 
of  thought  and  feeling  wrapped  from 
the  general  eye  in  silence  and  seclusion. 
Well,  perhaps,  that  it  is  so  ;  for  the  free 
unveiling  of  all  hearts,  I  suppose,  would 
make  life  too  keen  and  intense,  —  nay, 
tragical.  Walking  one  day  with  the 
president  of  one  of  our  colleges  in  the 
country,  amidst  the  youth  under  his 
charge,  I  said  to  him,  "  Do  we  con- 
sider, —  do  we  know  what  these  are,  that 
are  around  us,  apparently  so  quiet  and 
decorous  ?  Do  you  remember  your  own 
youth  ?  Can  you  penetrate,  through 
these  outward  forms,  to  the  deep,  pow- 
erful, passionate  life  within,  to  those 
thoughts  in  these  young  hearts,  that 
rush  like  the  swift  streams  or  sweep 
like  the  mountain  winds  around  us.-"' 


"No,"  was  his  reply,"!  dare  not;  it 
would  kill  me  to  enter,  with  that  inti- 
mate sympathy,  into  each  one's  expe- 
rience." Doubtless  it  was  true.  I  sup- 
pose that  every  playground,  every  social 
circle,  every  public  assembly,  holds  in 
its  bosom  that,  which  if  it  broke  loose 
into  expression,  or  if  it  were  only  depict- 
ed in  each  countenance,  would  fill  us 
with  astonishment,  if  notafTright.  Then 
should  we  know  that  life  is  more  than 
we  see;  that  it  doth  not  appear  what  we 
a7-e. 

Next,  failure  in  development.  The 
undeveloped.  I  say,  that  which  exists  in 
embryo,  —  what  is  all  human  wisdom  and 
accomplishment  to  that?  A  drop  in 
the  bucket,  the  small  dust  of  the  balance. 
Take  the  first  man  you  meet,  however 
ignorant,  uncultivated,  bent  to  the  earth 
alike  in  body  and  mind.  What  is  in 
him  ?  Of  what  is  he  capable  ?  Of  intelli- 
gence, culture,  refinement;  he  might  be 
a  man  of  science,  a  geometer,  a  philoso- 
pher ;  perhaps  the  heights  of  art,  elo- 
quence, poetry,  are  not  too  lofty  for  his 
powers.  It  doth  not  yet  appear  what 
he  may  be.  Alas  !  society  is  working 
poorly  for  his  culture  ;  Vi'orking  against 
it  in  many  ways.  His  very  trade,  his 
farming  or  his  handicraft,  might  instruct 
him,  if  he  were  rightly  trained.  The 
business  of  life  was  meant  to  develop 
his  powers  ;  but  now  he  is  buried  in  its 
bosom.  In  some  other  state,  in  some 
future  world,  in  some  fairer  clime, 
he  may  come  oiit,  into  freedom,  en- 
largement, and  magnificent  growth. 
It  doth  not  yet  appear  what  he  shall 
be. 

Again,  failure  in  conception.  Not 
only  of  the  undeveloped,  but  of  the  un- 
suspected, how  much  may  there  be,  in 
our  humanity,  and  in  the  yet  unfolded 
worlds  of  its  thought  and  imagination  ! 
The  wisest,  the  most  highly  accomplished 
man,  perhaps,  little  knows,  either  what 
is  within  him,  or  what  he  is  capable  of. 
None  of  us  suspect,  it  may  be,  not  even 
the  most  learned,  what  the  range  of  our 
knowledge  may  yet  embrace.  Human 
science  has  a'ready  outstripped  all  past 


LIFE   A    TROPHECY. 


743 


anticipation.  Tlie  wonderful  discov- 
eries in  astronomy  made  within  tlie  last 
quarter  of  a  century,  —  what  inconceiv- 
able spaces  in  the  depths  of  heaven 
have  they  opened  to  our  view  !  What 
is  now  the  field  of  human  thought?  The 
voj-ager,  who  has  circumnavigated  the 
globe,  seems  to  us  to  have  passed  over 
an  immense  distance.  But  in  one  sec- 
ond, while  my  pulse  beats  once,  light 
travels  eight  times  as  far.  And  now  it 
is  ascertained  that  there  are  stars  in  our 
system,  so  distant  that  their  light  re- 
quires several  thousands  of  years  to  come 
to  us.  But  take  the  lowest  calculation, 
one  thousand  years.  Every  minute  it 
has  travelled  twelve  millions  of  miles, 
every  hour  nearly  a  thousand  millions  ; 
and  it  has  been  coming  on,  on, — hours, 
days,  years,  centuries  :  ay,  ten  awful, 
silent  centuries  have  watched  its  infinite 
flight.  That  ray  of  light  — think  of  it  ! 
Before  William  the  Conqueror  came  into 
England,  during  the  reign  of  Alfred, 
that  ray  of  light  left  its  native  sphere, 
sunk  how  inconceivably  far  into  the 
boundless  infinitude  !  for  a  thousand 
years  it  has  travelled  onward,  twelve 
millions  of  miles  each  minute,  and  to- 
night it  will  arrive  ;  to-night  it  will  enter 
the  astronomer's  telescope!  Oh!  could 
he  identify,  or  would  he  in  his  thought, 
single  out  that  ray  of  light,  —  that  trav- 
eller through  the  bright  infinitude  of 
spheres,  with  what  awe  would  he  look 
upon  it !  With  what  bursting  exclama- 
tions or  silent  astonishment  would  he 
sink  down  overwhelmed  with  awe  and 
wonder ! 

I  remember  one  of  my  townsmen, 
who  many  years  ago  had  been  to  see  the 
falls  of  Niagara,  and  who,  on  his  return, 
was  asked  how  he  felt  when  looking  at 
the  stupendous  cataract.  "  A  few  years 
ago,"  he  replied,  "two  men  were  over- 
taken in  the  forests  of  Pennsylvania  by 
a  tornado.  The  trees  to  which  they 
clung  were  twisted  off,  a  few  feet  above 
their  heads,  and  swept  on,  like  feathers 
upon  the  blast.  When  it  had  gone  by, 
one  of  the  travellers  found  a  voice  to 
say  to  his  companion,  '  How  is  it  with 


you.''  —  how  have  you  felt?'  Sinking 
upon  his  knees,  he  could  only  exclaim, 
'O  God!'"  So  would  one  exclaim, 
and  only  with  the  deeper  awe,  at  this 
stupendous  unveiling  of  the  illimitable 
depths  beyond  depths,  the  inconceivable 
abysses  of  the  unbounded  universe. 
"  O  God  !  "  —  well  might  we  exclaim,  — 
"what  art  thou?  What  shall  we  think 
of  thy  greatness  ?  What  shall  we  do 
with  these  swelling  wonders  of  knowl- 
edge ?  How  bear  these  awful  revela- 
tions ?  " 

But  now  there  presents  itself  to  us 
something  suU  more  worthy  of  our  at- 
tention, more  illustrative  of  the  theme 
we  are  considering,  even,  than  all  this 
grasp  of  knowledge.  For,  aghast,  stag- 
gered as  we  are,  overwhelmed  by  such 
thoughts  of  infinitude  and  of  God,  with 
this  sense  of  indescribable  and  bound- 
less majesty  and  mystery  that  comes 
over  us,  what  follows  ?  Does  it  crush 
us  to  the  dust  ?  This  strain  upon 
thought,  where  million  worlds  are 
weighed,  does  it  weaken  us  ?  No,  the 
mighty  burden  does  not  weaken,  but 
strengthens  us.  "  What  ant  I  ?  "  —  must 
not  one  say  ?  "  Is  not  some  more  stu- 
pendous nature  than  I  had  thought  of, 
introduced  to  me  for  my  own  ?  Is  not 
this  soul  indeed  3.  portion  of  the  Divin- 
ity, partaking  something  of  his  infini- 
tude ?"  Have  not  those  words,  "  made 
in  the  image  of  God,  partakers  of  the 
divine  nature,"  a  new  meaning?  And 
what  meaning  ?  Who  shall  define  it, 
who  limit,  —  still  more,  define  or  limit 
what  it  shall  be  ?  See,  I  still  say,  the 
tendencies  of  this  nature.  See  where 
it  stretches.  A  creation  is  discovered, 
from  whose  farthest  confine  light  is  a 
thousand  —  nay,  it  is  many  thousand  — 
years  in  coming  to  us.  Does  the  soul 
sink  into  itself,  as  it  were  weighed  down, 
annihilated  at  that  thought?  Is  even 
that  glorious  vesture  of  light,  —  stretched 
upon  the  loom  of  eternity,  woven  upon 
the  bosom  of  infinitude,  —  is  even  that 
a  splendid  veil  to  quench  the  eye  in 
darkness,  or  a  winding-sheet  to  wrap 
the  soul  in  death  ?     No,  it  bursts  forth 


744 


THE   TWO    GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


from  all  confine,  from  the  envelopment 
of  the  whole  known  creation,  and  asks 
for  the  unknown,  looks  through  the 
illimitable  void  beyond,  in  hope  to  dis- 
cover other  realms  of  the  unbounded 
All. 

And  then,  that  this  far-reaching,  far- 
soaring  mind,  —  all  compact  as  it  were 
of  light,  and  endowed  with  its  swiftness, 

—  that  this  mind  should  be  wrapped  in 
the  dark  garment  of  mortality,  clothed 
and  seemingly  clogged  with  fleshly  veils, 
subject  to  poor  and  humble  needs,  of 
household  care  and  the  day's  work,  set 
to  hold  mastery  over  animal  instincts  ; 
that  earthly  passion  must  touch  and  try 
it,  and  the  frail  senses  teach  and  train  it, 

—  all  this  begets  question,  deep  ques- 
tion. Is  not  this  some  majesty  in  dis- 
guise ?  Like  the  great  caliph  who  walked 
among  his  unsuspecting  subjects,  so 
amidst  toils  and  cares,  and  riches  and 
vanities,  ay,  and  thrones  and  dominions, 
doth  not  this  inward  majesty  walk,  and 
they  know  it  not  ?  What  is  it,  that  I 
a?/i  ?  Can  the  frail  senses  tell  me,  or 
can  worldly  business  or  pleasure  teach 
me  ?  Ay,  or  can  any  philosophy  declare 
it,  or  can  any  astrologic  lore  cast  its 
sublime  horoscope  ?  Has  it  waked,  as 
Plato  saith,  from  some  earlier  being.'' 
No  memory  of  mine  runs  back  upon 
long  ages  of  preparation  or  progress. 
Yesterday,  my  wondrous  soul  burst  into 
being.  Whence  came  it,  but  from  God  ? 
Whence  could  it  have  come,  but  from 
God  ?  What  other  power,  what  combi- 
nation of  all  the  other  powers  in  the  uni- 
verse, could  have  created  this  living 
Thought,  this  adoiing  soul.?  But  I 
am  not  speaking  of  its  origin  in  this  dis- 
course ;  its  future  is  our  subject, — this 
great  prophecy  that  is  wrapped  up  in 
our  present  being. 

With  a  view  to  this,  let  us  now  take 
a  different  survey.  Let  us  pass  from 
the  material  to  the  spiritual  realms  of 
thought. 

In  these  realms  certain  beings  exist  ; 
some  of  them  imaginary,  others  real. 
We  talk  of  holy  saints  and  heavenly  an- 
gels.    We  talk  of  the  wise  and  good,  of 


heroes  and  sages,  of  canonized  martyrs 
and  men  and  women  of  almost  more 
than  mortal  mould  and  nobleness.  Do 
we  consider  that  none  of  these  beings, 
whether  imaginary  or  real,  exist  to  us 
but  in  our  thought?  Whatever  they  be, 
however  great,  or  strong,  or  wise,  or  glo- 
rious, our  thought  is  the  measure  that 
we  take  of  them.  It  makes  no  difference 
to  the  case,  whether  this  knowledge  is 
imparted  or  original,  or  whether  the  ob- 
jects are  imaginary  or  real,  or  whether 
the  ideas  we  have  are  too  high  or  too 
low.  Doubtless  they  may  be  very  im- 
perfect ;  they  may  differ  widely  in  dif- 
ferent men  ;  the  very  words  that  clothe 
our  ideas  —  holy,  just,  good,  beautiful 

—  may  mean  tenfold  more  to  some  men 
than  others,  —  what  is  a  garment  ten 
times  brighter,  to  that  ten  times  bright- 
er vesture  of  thought?  —  but  such  as 
our  ideas  are,  they  are  our  ideas.  No 
distinct  and  comprehensible  thing  ex- 
ists in  the  spiritual  realm,  but  it  exists 
within  me,  —  not,  indeed,  as  a  charac- 
ter, but  as  a  conception.  All  that  we 
admire  on  earth  or  in  heaven  hath  its 
archetypes  within  us.  The  whole  hier- 
archy of  holy  men  and  heavenly  angels 
sits  in  the  temple  of  the  soul.  Plato, 
so  far  as  I  know  him,  is  within  me  ; 
and  Milton  and  F^nelon  are  familiar 
guests  of  my  fellow-spirit  ;  and  Gabriel 

—  what  form  soever  of  resplendent  na- 
ture waits  around  the  eternal  throne  — 
comes  down  to  earth  to  be  embodied  in 
a  human  conception.  They  are  beings 
of  the  imagination,  you  may  say  to  us  j 
they  are  ideals  ;  and  we  know  not  pre- 
cisely how  far  the  reality  corresponds 
with  what  we  think  ;  but  the  elements 
and  modes  of  that  high  imagining  are 
within  us. 

But  now  observe  again  the  same  trait 
in  our  experience  that  was  before  men- 
tioned. Are  we  ever  satisfied  with  our 
attainment  in  the  spiritual,  any  more 
than  in  the  material  sphere  .-*  Highest 
man,  highest  angel,  that  we  can  conceive 
of, — is  not  our  mind  ever  stretching 
to  something  higher  ?  Yes:  a  beautiful 
vision  of  something  more  perfect  is  for- 


LIFE   A    PROPHECY. 


745 


ever  going  before  and  beyond  every- 
thing that  we  have  seen  or  imagined. 
How  inexpressibly  poor  seems  always 
our  own  personal  attainment  !  And 
what  does  our  humility  mean,  but  that 
we  are  conscious  of  vast  capacities  neg- 
lected ?  And  how  deep  is  that  con- 
sciousness !  How  does  it  turn  us  against 
ourselves,  and  make  a  perpetual  warfare 
in  our  own  bosoms  !  How  patiently  do 
men  sit,  and  hear  themselves  told  that 
they  are  sinners,  that  they  are  erring 
and  evil !  Nay,  what  a  strange  pleas- 
ure we  have,  in  upbraiding  and  invective 
levelled  against  ourselves,  against  hu- 
man nature,  against  the  age,  against  the 
time,  against  everything  that  is  ! 

Therefore  it  is  in  part  that  Jesus 
Christ  gathers  around  him  such  venera- 
tion and  love  as  no  other  being  on  earth 
ever  did.  We  conceive  of  him  as  one 
that  went  beyond  all  our  experience,  all 
our  definite  conception.  Nor  is  this,  as 
I  believe,  the  ideal  of  fond  and  idolizing 
devotees,  a  case  where  the  reality  did 
not  exist,  and  the  Christian  ages  have 
accumulated  upon  their  model  man  all 
the  wealth  of  their  imagination  and  sen- 
timent. On  the  contrary,  when  we  draw 
nearer  to  the  Christ,  by  going  back  and 
reading  the  Christian  record,  the  reality 
seems  ever  to  rise  higher  and  higher 
than  we  had  imagined.  I  am  persuaded 
that  no  one  sits  down  to  that  wondrous 
record  and  strives  to  penetrate  with 
deeper  insight  into  the  mind  of  Christ, 
but  feels  more  and  more  that  there  are 
soundless  depths  in  it  of  spiritual  wis- 
dom and  beauty;  and  the  more  the  mere 
conventional  admiration  passes  away  and 
the  nearer  he  approaches  the  reality,  the 
more  will  he  feel  this.  How  poor  and 
vague  is  the  customary  admiration  of 
Jesus,  that  prevails  through  the  Chris- 
tian world,  to  what  that  living  sense  of 
the  reality  would  be  ! 

But  all  the  glowing  image  that  any 
have  of  him,  be  it  remembered,  is  mir- 
rored in  the  disciple's  heart.  "Christ 
is  formed  within  "  it.  Nay,  and  when 
we  rise  to  tlie  ineffable  nature  of  the 
Supreme,  to  the  unbounded  Glory,  which 


we  may  study  forever  and  find  no  limit  \ 
yet,  I  say,  all  that  the  adorer  does  dis- 
tinctly behold  hath  its  image  in  himself; 
and  it  is  expressly  said  in  holy  and  awful 
words  that  God  is  within  him.  Such, 
then,  is  the  teaching  in  the  spiritual 
realm  concerning  the  nature  and  ten- 
dency of  those  high  powers  that  are  yet 
in  their  infancy  ;  that  yet  lie  half  slum- 
bering in  the  bosom  of  our  humanity  ; 
that  do  not  yet  appear  as  they  shall 
be. 

And  now  what  do  we  say,  in  both 
views  ?  The  mind  is  a  mirror  that  re- 
flects the  universe  of  being.  Over  the 
field  of  its  solemn  vision  passes  the  train 
of  the  heavenly  worlds  ;  and  there,  too, 
are  imaged  the  ranks  and  orders  of  all 
human  and  celestial  hierarchies,  known 
or  conceived  of.  Na}',  the  idea  of 
God,  that  shadow  of  unknown  majesty 
and  beauty,. passes  over  this  wondrous 
mirror,  the  soul. 

Is  the  mirror  perfect  ?  Alas  !  no  ; 
broken  it  is,  and  full  of  flaws,  and  marred 
with  rough  and  dark  spots.  No ;  it 
doth  not  yet  appear  what  it  shall  be.  I 
see  beginnings  in  man,  no  end  ;  wrest- 
ling, not  achievement ;  unfolding,  not 
maturity.  And  still  it  is  so  with  him 
to  the  very  end  of  life.  If  this  world 
nurtured  man  as  it  does  all  its  other 
products,  vegetable  and  animal,  to  a  cer- 
tain completeness  and  perfection,  if  age 
rounded  the  circuit  of  his  attainments, 
we  might  think  that  all  he  shall  ever  be 
now  appears.  But  age  does  not  finish 
his  problem  nor  fulfil  his  destiny.  Age 
does  not  make  his  nature  aged.  Only 
his  body  is  old.  Still  upon  the  themes 
of  his  highest  thouglit,  his  mind  glows 
with  more  than  youthful  aspiration. 
Still  he  sighs  for  light,  more  light. 
Upon  the  borders  of  the  grave  he 
stands,  and  stretches  out  his  hands,  to 
infinity  and  eternity  for  litiht,  for  prog- 
ress, for  new  fields  resplendent  with 
everlasting  light  and  glory. 

But  I  will  not  urge  it  further.  All 
things  beside,  sooner  or  later,  unfold 
and  display  the  latent  powers  within 
them.    The  dark  germ  expands  into  the 


746 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


tree  ;  the  tree  opens  its  blossoms  to  the 
sky  ;  the  poor  earth-worm  becomes  a 
winged  creature  of  the  air. 

But  our  being  is  not  quite  buried  in 
torpor  and  darkness.  Already  it  is 
bursting  out  into  light  and  expansion. 
Full  it  is  of  epochs  and  heroic  crises. 
It  feels  itself  called  upon  to  act  and 
to  advance.  "Onward!"  is  the  call  of 
many  a  great  hour  of  our  being;  ''on- 
ward !  to  the  battle  —  and  victory  !  " 
And  to  this  earth-strife  that  presses 
ujjon  us  every  day,  to  this  solemn  wait- 
ing,—  to  this  dim  bordering  upon  the 
realm  of  boundless  light,  is  there  not  a 
voice  that  says,  "  Onward  !  onward  for- 
ever !  "  Beautiful  phrase  that  describes 
the  departed,  "they  have  passed  on." 
Not,  they  are  dead;  but  —  "they  have 
passed  on  !  " 

God  forbid  that  we  should  minister 
here  to  self-complacency  or  pride  !  We 
are  something;  and  I  have  no  toleration 
nor  patience  for  the  pulpit  phrase  that 
says,  we  are  nothing.  We  are  some- 
thing ;  we  have  done  something ;  we 
have  attained  something  ;  but  "  it  doth 
not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be."  Vet 
we  see  through  a  glass  darkly.  Dim  as 
well  as  vast  are  the  visions  that  float 
before  us.  A  grand  outline  is  struck 
out  for  us,  but  how  httle  is  it  filled  up ! 
Poor  and  weak  and  low  especially  is 
all  our  spiritual  strength  and  light;  and 
the  wisest  and  best  men  most  leel  it  to 
be  so. 

Progress,  then,  is  our  being's  motto 
and  hope.  Gaining  and  losing  in  t/iis 
world,  rising  and  falling,  enjoying  and 
suffering,  are  but  the  incidents  of  life. 
Learning,  aspiration,  progress,  is  the 
life  of  life.  Onward  !  then,  pilgrims  to 
eternity  !  The  day  is  far  spent  for  some 
of  us,  the  night  is  at  hand  ;  and  over 
its  sublime  portal,  through  which  the 
evening  stars  of  this  world,  but  the 
morning  stars  of  eternity,  are  shining, 
is  written,  "  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  have  entered  into 
the  heart  of  man,  the  things  which 
God  hath  prepared  for  them  that  love 
him." 


XV. 

CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND   IMI- 
TABLE. 

There  are  two  or  three  passages  of 
Scripture,  which  I  have  chosen  to  give 
direction  to  our  thoughts  this  morning; 
as 

I  Pet.  ii.  21  :  "Christ  suffered  for  us,  le.iving  us 
an  example,  that  we  should  walk  in  his  steps." 

Heb  iv.  15  :  "  For  we  have  not  a  high  priest  who 
cannot  be  touched  with  a  feeling  of  our  infirmities, 
but  who  was  tempted  in  all  points  as  we  are,  yet  with- 
out sin." 

John  xv.  15  :    "I  have  called  you  friends." 

Phil,  iii  10 :  "  That  I  may  know  him,  and  the 
power  of  his  resurrection,  and  the  fellowship  of  his 
sufferings." 

And  the  question  I  have  to  ask,  is, 
can  we  understand  this,  or  must  it  be 
wrapped  to  our  minds  in  vagueness  and 
mystery  ?  We  would  meditate  on  the 
Christ.  But  how  ?  Is  it  as  an  intelli- 
gible being,  or  only  as  an  enshrined 
excellence,  that  we  are  to  think  of  him  ? 
Certainly,  an  example  to  be  imitated 
must  be  intelligible :  and  the  very  sin- 
lessness  of  the  Christ  is  taught  with  the 
emphatic  admission  that  he  was  tempted 
in  all  points  as  we  are ;  which  shows 
that  even  i/iai  v/as  meant  for  our  imita- 
tion. 

The  greatest  thing  for  us  is  to  know 
that  which  is  greatest ;  to  know,  to  see, 
and  feel  it.  And  yet  the  loftiest  moral 
grandeur  that  stands  in  the  world  is,  I 
fear,  the  least  clearly  and  comprehen- 
sively seen. 

There  is  nothing  I  should  so  much 
value  as  a  great  and  divinely  seeing 
criticism  of  the  Gospel.  We  traverse  a 
sixth  part  of  the  globe  to  converse  with 
the  great  ideas  of  the  Past,  in  architec- 
ture, sculpture,  and  painting.  We  would 
go  as  far  again  to  read  the  highest  pro- 
ductions of  the  English  mind,  if  we 
could  not  reach  them  at  less  cost.  But 
it  would  be  worth  more  than  a  pilgrim- 
age around  the  world  to  read  the  Gospel 
in  a  new  light,  to  get  a  new  insight  into 
its  great  meaning,  a  new  key  to  its 
boundless  wealth,  to  /itid  the  treasure 
which  it  holds  in  its  very  ideals  of  the 
great,  the  true  and  blessed. 


CHRIST    INTELLIGIBLE   AND   IMITABLE. 


747 


I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  nothing 
of  this  has  been  understood.  It  is  in- 
deed a  striking  proof  of  the  natural- 
ness and  vitahty  of  the  character  of 
Jesus,  that  it  should  have  penetrated 
and  made  its  way  to  the  heart  through 
so  many  folds  of  error  and  formalism 
and  superstition.  But  still  I  apprehend 
that  in  the  estimation  of  too  many,  his 
character  is  something  formal,  and  not 
reallv  interesting,  being  regarded  too 
much  as  a  mere  impassive  model,  his 
perfection  looked  upon  as  some  sub- 
lime and  unattainable  spiritualism,  and 
his  sinlessness  as  a  negative  quality,  in 
some  respects  below  the  level  of  lofty 
virtue.  I  believe  that  Jesus  appears  to 
most  men's  thoughts  as  a  calm  and  un- 
impassioned  being,  too  uniformly  grave 
and  sad  for  their  hearty  sympathy ;  that 
he  always  appears  before  them  with 
head  declined  and  pitying  eye,  gentle, 
submissive,  patient;  and  that  they  never 
justly  conceive  of  the  strength  and  maj- 
esty of  his  nature,  —  of  the  mighty  work 
done  in  him  as  well  as  by  him.  So  the 
painters  have  always  represented  him  ; 
and  such  kind  of  reverence  has  there 
been  for  the  Christ,  that  it  has  never 
dared  to  go  behind  the  veil  which  it- 
self has  spread  around  him,  and  to  im- 
agine the  freer  actings,  the  light  and 
shade,  the  smile  and  tear,  the  domes- 
tic freedom  and  joyance,  the  mingling 
of  spontaneous  thoughts  and  feelings, 
that  belong  to  our  idea  of  perfected 
humanity.  Jesus  said  to  his  disciples, 
I  have  called  you  friends  ;  and  is  it 
necessary  to  our  idea  of  a  good  and 
wise  being,  to  suppose  that  between 
him  and  his  friends  and  pupils  there 
should  have  been  none  of  the  freedom 
of  friendship  ?  Had  he  been  a  formal 
person,  a  solemn  mentor  alone,  I  can 
hardly  conceive  how  he  could  have  so 
attached  his  disciples  to  him,  —  have 
drawn  to  himself  that  unutterable  affec- 
tion which  they  evidently  felt  for  him  ; 
nor  would  he  then  have  been,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  an  example  of  our  human- 
ity in  the  full  circuit  of  all  its  faculties 
and  affections.     It  is  true  that  the  dis- 


ciples, in  the  narratives  which  set  their 
Master  before  us,  scarcely  refer  to  the 
lesser  feelings  and  lighter  moods  that 
have  their  place  even  in  the  grandest 
life,  because  it  was  evidently  their  main 
and  engrossing  business  to  describe  a 
public  mission.  It  is  true,  too,  that  no 
painter  or  verbal  describer,  however  he 
may  feel  at  liberty  to  present  the  lofty 
Ideal  in  all  the  varied  attitudes  of  a 
real  and  genuine  human  life,  should 
ever  fail  to  portray  the  great  and  holy 
soul  that  shone  through  every  act  and 
look,  through  the  smile  of  love  or  the 
rebuke  of  wisdom,  through  the  words  of 
household  talk  that  said,  "  Go  and  pro- 
vide the  chamber  for  the  feast,"  or  the 
indignant  manner  that  spoke  in  those 
words,  "Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan,  for 
thou  savorest  not  the  things  that  be  of 
God." 

But  whatever  be  our  reverence  for 
Jesus,  even  though  it  attribute  to  him  a 
nature  ever  so  extraordinary  and  exalted, 
still  we  must  remember  that  he  is  pre- 
sented to  us  as  the  great  ideal,  model, 
example,  of  all  that  we  should  be.  An 
example,  to  produce  its  effect  upon  us, 
must  appear  to  be  at  once  intelligible 
and  imitable  ;  and  we  naturally  desire 
to  go  behind  the  general  idea,  to  the 
inner  spirit  and  life.  We  never  read 
of  a  great  and  good  man,  whose  visible 
life  is  clothed  with  splendid  and  heroic 
actions,  without  wishing  to  retire  with 
him  to  his  privacy,  to  see  or  to  know 
what  he  thought  as  he  sat  in  his  soli- 
tary apartment,  or  what  he  said  when 
his  familiar  friends  were  around  him  ; 
and  have  we  never  striven  to  imagine 
what  it  would  have  been  to  have  walked 
with  Jesus,  and  to  have  talked  with  him 
on  the  shore  of  Gennesaret,  or  to  have 
sat  with  him  in  the  house  of  Mary  and 
Martha  .-'  There  are  doubtless  limita- 
tions here,  i.e.,  as  to  what  we  can  ex- 
pect to  know  ;  the  very  object  of  the 
biography  shows  that  it  is  occupied 
with  setting  forth,  as  I  have  already 
said,  the  acts  and  words  and  relation- 
ships and  events  of  a  public  mission. 
The  example  is  that  of  one  who. was 


748 


THE  TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


cut  off  in  early  life,  who  had  not  sus- 
tained all  the  relations  of  humanity,  nor 
met  all  its  exigencies  of  possible  trial 
and  responsibility.  We  are  not  led  to 
ask  what  Jesus  might  have  been  as  the 
ruler  of  a  state  or  of  a  household  :  but 
in  his  relations  of  childhood,  friendship, 
and  general  benevolence,  we  are.  And 
we  feel  that  it  is  no  derogation  from 
the  dignity  of  the  Christ,  that  he  was  a 
child,  and  showed  all  childlike  subjec- 
tion and  docihty  to  his  parents  ;  that 
he  was  a  son,  and  manifested  signal 
tenderness  for  his  mother  ;  that  he 
was  a  friend,  at  once  the  most  affec- 
tionate, disinterested,  and  patient  in  his 
love,  and  the  most  frank  and  faithful  in 
his  reproof  ;  and  that  as  a  sufferer  he 
sought  the  sympathy  of  his  disciples 
and  friends.  Could  we  but  know  what 
he  sometimes  said  to  them  in  more  pri- 
vate hours,  —  what  he  said  that  was 
not  in  connection  with  his  mission  ! 
And  yet,  are  we  altogether  precluded 
from  this  kind  of  knowledge  ?  Are  not 
some  glimpses  afforded  us  of  his  more 
private  character  and  relations  t 

Let  us  consider  this.  Let  us  con- 
sider first  what  we  are  taught  concern- 
ing him  in  his  social  relations. 

Jesus  evidently  discriminates  among 
the  dispositions  of  his  disciples.  He 
does  not  treat  them  all  alike,  or  in  a 
general  and  staid  manner,  as  pupils. 
We  see  that  he  had  a  particular  affec- 
tion for  John  ;  we  see  that  he  dis- 
trusted the  firmness  of  Peter,  while  he 
confided  in  his  attachment.  What  can 
be  more  touching  and  beautiful  than  his 
treatment  of  these  disciples  in  the  last 
interview  ?  Peter  had  denied  him,  — 
yes,  in  the  last  critical  and  trying  hour 
he  had  denied  even  that  he  knew  him. 
Jesus  testified  no  anger  nor  disdain 
towards  the  fallen  disciple  ;  he  did  not 
upbraid  him  at  the  time ;  he  only  said, 
"  Peter  !  "  Ah,  how  thrilling  must  have 
been  that  monitory  and  gentle  tone  as 
it  penetrated  through  the  noise  and 
throng  of  the  judgment  hall !  But  now 
he  does  not  treat  him  coldly.  All  is 
over;  the  disciple  has  wept  for  his  fall; 


and  Jesus  only,  yet  pointedly,  says  to 
him,  "  Simon,  Son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou 
me  more  than  these  .''  "  Peter  had 
formerly  protested,  "  Though  all  men 
forsake  thee,  yet  will  not  L"  Lovest 
thou  me  more  than  these  love  me  ? 
Peter  replies,  '-Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest 
that  I  love  thee."  Jesus  saith  unto  him, 
''  Feed  my  lambs."  He  saith  unto  him 
the  second  time,  —  not  immediately,  per- 
haps, —  I  do  not  read  this  as  a  kind  of 
catechism  ;  it  was  after  they  had  supped ; 
conversation  perhaps  intervened,  —  the 
varying  circumstances  of  such  an  inter- 
view ;  but  again,  Jesus,  coming  close  to 
the  fallen  disciple,  says,  in  a  low  tone 
of  suppressed  sorrow,  "  Simon,  son  of 
Jonas,  lovest  thou  me?"  Peter  again 
replies,  "  Lord,  thou  knowest  that  I  love 
thee."  Again,  —  after  a  while,  perhaps, 
—  Jesus,  turning  to  him,  says,  with 
the  emphasis  of  a  third  interrogation, 
"  Simon,  lovest  thou  me  ?  Peter  was 
grieved  because  he  said  to  him  the 
third  time,  Lovest  thou  me  ?  And  he 
said  unto  him,  Lord,  thou  knowest  all 
things  ;  thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee. 
Jesus  saith  unto  him,  Feed  my  sheep." 
Yes,  Apostle  shalt  thou  be  ;  yea,  and 
martyr.  "Verily,  verily  I  say  unto  you, 
when  thou  wert  young  thou  girdedst  thy- 
self and  walkedst  whither  thou  wouldst; 
but  when  thou  shalt  be  old,  thou  shalt 
stretch  forth  thy  hands  and  another 
shall  gird  thee,  and  carry  thee  whither 
thou  wouldst  not."  Yes,  true  friend, 
restored  disciple,  the  seal  of  martyrdom 
shall  be  put  upon  thy  fidelity.  Could 
Peter  do  anything  but  bow  his  head  in 
solemn  and  silent  acquiescence  ?  Yes, 
ever  curious,  eager,  restless,  objective 
in  all  his  habits  of  thought,  he  turns 
towards  John,  and  he  says,  —  even  in 
that  overwhelming  moment  he  says, — 
"  And  what  shall  he  do  ?  What  shall  be 
his  fate  ? "  Jesus  replies  witli  the  reprov- 
ing exclamation,  "  If  1  will  that  he  tarry 
till  I  come,  what  is  that  to  thee  !  Fol- 
low thou  me  !  "  As  if  he  said,  "  I  have 
no  fears  for  him,  let  what  will  befall 
him  ;  follow  ihoti  me  !  "  And  how  dif- 
ferent from  either  of  these  is  his  man- 


CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND   IMITABLE. 


749 


ner  towards  the  traitor  Judas,  upon 
whose  avaricious  and  hardened  heart 
he  knew  that  all  expostulation  would  be 
thrown  away!  When  he  had  reluctantly 
designated  him  as  the  betrayer,  he  says 
brieflv  and  coldly,  as  if  it  were  aside, 
"  What  tiiou  doest,  do  quickly."  No 
vain  upbraiding,  no  useless  comment 
on  the  traitor's  ingratitude,  no  weak 
multiplying  of  words,  such  as  an  ordi- 
nary person  would  have  used  ;  but  with 
calm  and  stoic  dignity  he  says,  "  What 
thou  doest,  do  quickly." 

Observe  him,  next,  in  the  house  of 
Martha  and  Mary.  It  was  evidently  a 
house  of  familiar  resort  to  Jesus.  Beth- 
any was  only  two  miles  from  Jerusalem  ; 
it  was  a  quiet  suburban  retreat  from  the 
city  throng  and  excitement,  one  of  those 
refuges  by  the  wayside  of  life,  where 
wearied  friendship  may  sit  down  and 
find  repose.  We  are  told  that  Jesus 
loved  Martha,  and  her  sister,  and  Laza- 
rus. On  a  certain  occasion  they  enter- 
tained him.  You  are  familiar  with  the 
narrative,  but  let  us  attend  to  it  a  mo- 
ment. Martha,  we  are  informed,  was 
engrossed  with  hospitable  cares  ;  while 
Mary,  forgetting  all  else,  sat  at  the  feet 
of  the  revered  and  beloved  guest,  and 
listened  to  his  wisdom.  Martha  com- 
plains of  this  ;  and  she  complains  in 
terms  that  show  the  familiar,  and,  if  I 
may  say  so,  the  household  intimacy 
that  subsisted  between  them.  She  said, 
"  Dost  thou  not  care  that  my  sister  hath 
left  me  to  serve  alone  ?  Bid  her  there- 
fore that  she  help  me."  This  would 
not  be  said  to  a  stranger  or  mere 
acquaintance.  Jesus  replies,  "  Mar- 
tha !  Martha  !  "  —  and  I  cannot  help 
seeing  something  significant  in  that 
repetition  of  her  name j  it  seems  to 
intimate  that  this  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  spoken  of  this  fault,  — 
"  Martha  !  Martha !  thou  art  careful 
and  troubled  about  many  things  ;  but 
one  thing  is  needful  ;  and  Mary  hath 
chosen  the  good  part  ;  I  cannot  deny 
her  the  privilege  she  so  loves." 

But  at  length  into  this  happy  house- 
hold  trouble  comes.     Lazarus  is  sick. 


Immediately  the  sisters  send  a  message 
to  Jesus,  as  to  a  family  friend.  He  re- 
ceives the  communication  as  perfectly 
natural  and  proper  ;  he  does  not  rebuke 
the  freedom  ;  he  testifies  the  liveliest 
sympathy  at  the  intelligence  ;  he  con- 
verses upon  it  with  his  disciples.  But 
he  does  not  immediately  obey  the  im- 
pulse of  his  affections.  He  has  higher 
thoughts  of  the  occasion,  and  blends  the 
objects  of  his  public  mission  with  the 
offices  of  private  friendship.  After  two 
days,  when  all  was  over,  he  goes  to 
Bethany.  How  natural  to  the  most  in- 
timate friendship  is  that  which  follows  ! 
The  sisters  learn  that  he  approaches 
their  dwelling.  Martha  arises  and  goes 
to  meet  him  ;  and  she  says  with  some- 
thing like  reproach  as  well  as  confi- 
dence, "  If  thou  hadst  been  here,  my 
brother  had  not  died."  Then  she  re- 
turns into  the  house,  and  says  secretly 
to  Mary,  —  there  must  be  no  loud  tones 
in  the  house  of  affliction,  —  in  whispered 
accents  she  says,  "  The  Master  is  come, 
and  calleth  for  thee."  He  would  see 
the  one  dearest,  and  most  in  sympathy 
with  himself,  in  that  trying  moment. 
Mary  goes  forth  and  repeats  the  tender 
expostulation  that  her  sister  had  uttered, 
"Thou  didst  not  come,  —  oh!  if  thou 
hadst  been  here,  my  brother  had  not 
died  !  "  Jesus  had  spoken  to  Martha  the 
consolatory  words,  "  Thy  brother  shall 
live  again."  She  had  replied,  almost 
querulously,  "  I  know  that  he  shall  rise 
again  in  the  resurrection  at  the  last 
day."  Calmly  he  answered  in  that  sub- 
lime declaration,  "  I  am  the  resurrec- 
tion and  the  life  ;  he  that  believeth  in 
me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he 
live.  In  that  living  breath  of  God's 
love,  in  which  I  live,  there  is  no  death. 
Immortal  life  and  blessedness  embosom 
the  soul  that  lives  in  that  love."  But 
when  he  sees  Mary  weeping,  he  is 
touched  with  an  emotion  be3'ond  utter- 
ance ;  the  human  sympathy  overcomes 
him  ;  he  groans  in  spirit  and  is  troubled. 
And  he  says  to  those  around,  "  Where 
have  ye  laid  him  ? "  They  say  unto  him, 
"Come   and   see."     Bending  over  the 


750 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


tomb,  Jesus  wept,  —  shed  tears  of  sor- 
rowing affection.  And  the  Jews  said, 
"  See,  how  he  loved  him  !  " 

Soon  after  we  find  Jesus  again  with 
his  friends  in  Bethany.  It  was  perhaps 
liis  farewell  visit.  It  was  only  six  days 
before  the  fatal  passover.  The  grateful 
sisters  made  a  supper  for  him.  IVIartha 
again  was  busy  with  serving.  But  Mary 
took  a  very  costly  ointment  of  spike- 
nard, and  anointed  his  feet,  and  wiped 
his  feet  with  her  hair,  and  the  house 
was  filled  with  the  odor  of  the  ointment. 
Then  broke  forth  reproaches  from  some 
around,  as  if  this  were  a  waste.  And 
Jesus  said,  with  protective  rebuke,  tak- 
ing the  part  of  this  lovely  disciple,  "  Let 
her  alone  ;  against  the  day  of  my  bury- 
ing has  she  kept  this.  The  poor,  do  ye 
say,  might  have  been  benefited  by  it? 
—  pleading,  with  hard  and  hackneyed 
spirit,  the  ever  just  claim.  Yes,  the 
poor  indeed  must  be  helped  ;  ye  have 
them  always  with  you,  but  me  ye  have 
not  always.  The  claims  of  the  poor 
may  yield,  for  the  time,  to  this  rich 
and  fragrant  effusion  of  love.  And 
verily  I  say  unto  you,  wherever  this 
Gospel  shall  be  preached  in  all  the 
world,  there  shall  this,  which  this  wo- 
man hath  done,  be  told  for  a  memorial 
of  her  !  " 

Looking  at  this  whole  narrative,  say, 
was  there  ever  anything  more  lovely  and 
majestic  in  human  friendship  than  this? 

I  must  not  dwell  longer  at  present  on 
illustrations  of  this  nature,  in  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  relieve  the  char- 
acter of  Jesus  from  that  sort  of  magis- 
terial abstraction,  which  it  is  too  apt  to 
wear  to  our  thoughts,  and  to  show  it  to 
you  as  penetrated  by  living,  generous, 
and  beautiful  affections. 

There  is  another  view  of  it,  to  which, 
with  like  intent,  I  wish  to  draw  your 
particular  attention.  ♦!  mean  the  sin- 
lessness  of  the  Christ.  I  have  said 
that  it  is  regarded  mainly  as  a  negative 
quality.  It  is  looked  upon,  I  believe, 
as  something  merely  harmless,  and 
therefore  tame  and  uninteresting ;  or 
as    something   merely    miraculous,   and 


therefore  as  inimitable  and  without 
merit.  It  is  admirable,  no  doubt  ;  it 
is  something  to  be  wondered  at  ;  but 
there  is  notliing,  I  fear,  to  the  common 
apprehension,  strong  and  high,  and  at 
the  same  time  truly  human  in  it. 

Now  native,  passive  innocence — in- 
nocence without  effort  or  struggle  —  is 
not  to  us  the  highest  and  noblest  qual- 
ity. To  hold  the  steady  rein  over  pas- 
sion and  appetite  ;  to  feel  the  impulse 
that  may  carry  us  too  far,  and  yet  never 
to  suffer  i't  to  carry  us  too  far  ;  to  stand 
in  the  presence  of  some  stupendous 
temptation,  and  yet  to  stand  firm,  un- 
faltering, and  immovable,  —  this  is  the 
highest  grandeur  that  can  be  attained 
in  this  world.  And  this  grandeur,  I 
conceive,  we  are  to  ascribe  to  Jesus. 
We  are  to  remember  that  "  he  was 
tempted  in  all  points  as  we  are,  yet 
without  sin."  Then  must  he  have 
known  what  the  human  tendencies  to 
evil  were,  while  he  perfectly  controlled 
them.  Then  was  it  possible  for  him 
to  sin,  and  his  refraining  was  a  volun- 
tary act.  Then  must  the  senses  have 
spread  their  allurements  before  him, 
and  he  must  have  resolutely  forbid- 
den to  them  any,  the  least  indulgence, 
even  in  thought.  What  else  are  we 
taught  in  the  account  given  of  his 
temptation  in  the  wilderness?  Appeals 
were  made  to  appetite,  to  ambition,  and 
rash  reliance  upon  divine  interposition  ; 
and  he  firmly  rejected  them  all.  Why 
is  celebrated  his  submission  in  Geth- 
semane  to  the  Will  above,  that  had  or- 
dained for  him  a  painful  death,  unless 
there  were  in  him  a  natural  dread  of 
such  a  death  ?  Why  his  forgiveness  on 
the  cross,  if  indignation  against  cruel 
enemies  were  not  the  involuntary  im- 
pulse of  wronged  and  persecuted  in- 
nocence ? 

What  glory  there  is  here,  beyond  the 
reach  of  mere  innocence  and  beyond 
the  power  of  mere  miracle  !  Great  men 
have  conquered  kingdoms  and  mastered 
thrones.  Men  of  great  mental  power 
have  sounded  the  depths  of  philosophy 
and  soared  to  the  lieights  of  imagination. 


CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND    IMITABLE. 


751 


They  have  painted  or  described  pictures 
of  surpassing  moral  beauty.  But  show 
us  the  great  man,  or  the  inspired  genius, 
who  has  held  all  the  perilous  tendencies 
of  human  nature  in  strong  and  over- 
mastering control  ;  against  whom  the 
scrutiny  of  eighteen  centuries  cannot 
allege  one  fault ;  wlio  in  the  secret  and 
sublime  consciousness  of  his  own  soul 
c  in  say.  "  I  am  innocent ;  which  of  you 
convinceth  me  of  sin  ?  "  Show  us  the 
great  man  who  in  the  hidden  hour  of 
secrecy  and  impunity,  ay,  and  in  the 
hidings  of  his  own  bosom,  alone,  unseen, 
unimpeachable,  has  held  every  human 
passion  in  absolute  check  ;  who  never 
saw  an  hour  or  a  moment,  in  which  he 
could  not  bathe  his  conscience  in  sweet- 
est innocence,  and  bow  his  soul  in 
fearless,  unreproaching  communion  with 
God.  The  world  has  not  shown  one 
such.  In  that  awful  sanctity  and  sub- 
limity, in  that  '"holy  of  holies,"  has 
never  stood  but  one  being  on  earth, — 
Jesus  of  Nazareth.  How  does  he  stand 
apart  and  alone  in  that  majesty  !  What 
an  unapproached  eminence  is  that !  He 
could  have  sinned  :  he  did  not  sin.  He 
could  have  failed  to  his  great  office : 
he  did  not  fail.  Say  not  that  this  is 
more  than  human.  Say  not  that  this 
is  beyond  all  human  power.  You  know 
not  what  human  power  is,  till  you  have 
put  it  all  forth  ;  and  till  you  have  brought 
about  it,  by  the  might  and  confidence  of 
prayer,  all  the  power  of  God  to  help  it. 
Oh!  we  know  not,  —  shame  to  our  indo- 
lence and  apathy  !  —  we  know  not  what 
we  might  do  and  be.  But  Jesus  knew 
and  proved  it  What  an  awful  purity 
and  power  was  that  in  the  depths  of  the 
Christ-spirit,  in  that  great  anointed  Soul ! 
What  battling  is  there  of  all  the  world's 
legions  and  empires,  like  that  of  sin 
with  the  secret  heart  !  Well  is  he  who 
gained  the  victory  in  this  conflict  the 
Lord  of  the  spiritual  creation.  Well 
does  he  stand  at  the  head  of  a  long  suc- 
cession of  ages  ;  well  that,  with  anniver- 
saries of  joying  for  him  or  sorrowing 
with  him,  he  is  celebrated  to  this  day, 
and  celebrated  forever ! 


With  the  same  view,  i.  e.,  to  bring  the 
great  Example  as  far  as  we  can  within 
the  range  of  our  sympathy  and  imitation, 
let  us  look  at  the  sufferings  of  Jesus.  It 
is  common  to  regard  them  as  myste- 
rious ;  as  superhuman,  or  as  having 
some  peculiar  relation  to  the  deliver- 
ance of  mankind  from  sin  and  misery. 
But  if  he  suffered,  leaving  us  an  ex- 
ample, there  must  be  sometliing  for  us 
to  comprehend.  Paul  says,  "  That  I 
may  know  him,  and  the  fellowship  of  his 
sufferings."  And  indeed,  was  there  ever 
anything  more  touchingly  human  than, 
from  the  account  that  is  given,  were  his 
sufferings  ?  Observe  him  and  listen  to 
him  in  Gethsemane.  When  he  came 
there,  he  said  to  his  disciples,  "  Sit  ye 
here,  while  1  go  and  pray  yonder."  He 
would  be  alone  ;  and  yet  not  altogether 
alone,  for  he  took  with  him  Peter  and 
the  two  sons  of  Zebedee.  And  was 
there  not  something  remarkable  in  the 
selection?  Peter  needed  strengthen- 
ing ;  and  it  was  for  the  two  sons  of 
Zebedee  that  their  mother  had  asked, 
that  they  should  sit,  the  one  on  his  right 
hand,  and  the  other  on  his  left,  with  him 
in  his  glory  ;  and  who  had  said,  "  We 
catt  drink  of  the  cup  that  thou  drinkest 
of."  He  would  rebuke  their  worldli- 
ness  ;  he  would  have  them  see  wliat 
that  cup  was.  For  there,  he  began  to 
be  sorrowful  and  very  heavy.  And  he 
said,  "My  soul  is  exceeding  sorrowful 
even  unto  death  ;  tarry  ye  here,  and 
watch  with  me."  "  And  watch  with 
me  !"  what  more  tender  and  relying  ap- 
peal to  friendship  could  there  be  than 
that!  And  he  went  a  little  farther,  and 
fell  on  his  face,  and  prayed,  saying. 
"  O  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this 
cup  pass  from  me  ;  nevertheless,  not  as 
I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt."  Oh  !  look  not 
upon  this  as  a  scenic  show,  as  a  fair- 
seeming  model  only:  as  if  he  knew  that 
he  must  fall  into  the  bloody  hands  that 
waited  for  him,  and  made  this  prayer  of 
submission  only  as  a  proper  example. 
No,  no,  sincerely  he  said,  "  If  it  be  pos- 
sible,"—  doubtless  he  thought  it  was 
not  J  but  it  inis^ht ;  he  knew  not  how. 


752 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


And  then,  having  prayed  thus,  he  re- 
turned to  the  little  company  of  friends, 

—  all  he  Jiad,  to  help  him  in  that  hour  ; 
and  he  finds  them  asleep:  and  he  says, 
especially  to  Peter,  lately  so  loud  in  pro- 
fession, "  What !  could  ye  not  watch 
with  me  one  hour?"  —  and  then  con- 
siderately adds,  —  "  the  spirit  indeed  is 
willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak."  And  he 
went  away  the  second  time,  and  prayed, 
saying,  "  O  my  Father,  if  this  cup  may 
not  pass  away  except  I  drink  it,  thy  will 
be  done  !  "  And  the  third  time  he  went 
and  prayed  in  the  same  words.  /«  the 
same  words.  How  touching  is  that 
repetition  !  How  natural  is  it  to  a  mind 
exhausted,  absorbed  by  sorrow  and 
agony,  to  seek  no  variety  of  expression, 

—  to  say  "  the  same  words  "  !  And  was 
it  bodily  suffering  alone  that  invested 
him  with  its  horrors  ?  Listen  to  him 
upon  the  cross,  —  "  Eloi,  Eloi,  lama 
sabachthani,  —  my  God,  my  God,  why 
hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? " 

A  stoic  might  say  that  this  was  weak. 
But  in  the  grand  simplicity  of  the  Christ- 
spirit  there  was  no  pride,  no  braving  of 
pain  and  agony,  no  assumption  of  what 
was  not  in  it,  and  never  was  in  any 
rational  nature,  —  an  indifference  to  pain 
and  agony.  Not  in  any  stoic  pride,  not 
in  any  martyr's  defiance  of  his  persecu- 
tors, did  Jesus  find  his  resource ;  but  in 
patience,  in  submission,  in  God.  But 
was  all  sorrow  —  agony  ?  Oh  no  !  With 
what  a  vision  all-triumphant  did  he  look 
through  it  to  the  end  !  and  for  the  joy 
that  was  set  before  him,  endured  the 
cross  ! 

This,  my  brethren,  is  the  example 
that  we  are  to  follow.  It  is  this  that  is 
especially  commended  to  us  in  the  em- 
blems of  Christ's  suffering  and  patience 
that  are  set  before  us  this  day.  It  is 
this  which  we  understand  by  the  observ- 
ance of  the  Lord's  Supper. 

We  are  about  to  pass  to  that  observ- 
ance. I  say,  we  are  about  to  pass  to 
it ;  for  in  my  view,  it  is  properly,  and 
so  ought  to  be  regarded,  a  part  of 
our  morning  service  and  meditation. 
It  is  so  to  me.     I  shall  not  refuse  to 


adopt  the  usage  of  giving  the  benedic- 
tion at  the  close  of  this  part  of  the 
service  :  it  can  never  harm  us  to  say, 
"God  bless  us!"  The  benediction  is 
truly  nothing  but  a  short  prayer.  And 
there  will  be  an  interval  for  all  who 
wish  to  retire,  to  do  so.  But  I  shall 
then  proceed  to  the  ritual  commemo- 
ration which  follows,  as  a  part  of  our 
morning  worship  and  meditation.  I 
shall  not  enter  into  it,  as  some  awful 
peculiarity,  some  Eleusinian  mystery, 
tliat  is  to  be  set  apart  and  shut  up  by 
itself.  It  was  not  originally  any  such 
thing,  but  was  a  portion  of  the  stated 
worship  of  the  whole  body  of  believers. 
I  have  been  commemorating  Christ. 
I  have  been  reverently  remembering 
him  in  this  whole  morning's  discours- 
ing. I  shall  simply  continue  to  do  so. 
I  have  remembered  him  with  words  ; 
I  shall  now  remember  him  with  sym- 
bols. Both  are  of  the  same  character 
as  expression.  Both  are  a  setting  forth 
of  what  we  believe  and  would  feel. 
The  symbol,  as  expression.,  is  no  more 
solemn  than  the  word.  It  means  no 
more  than  the  word.  It  binds  no  more 
than  the  word,  if  we  inwardly  believe 
and  feel  it ;  for  no  bond  can  be  stronger 
than  a  man's  inmost  conviction  and 
feeling. 

With  these  views,  I  do  not  wish  to 
make  any  solemn  crisis  in  the  service, 
to  introduce  that  which  follows  ;  I  do 
not  wish  to  give  any  too  especial  an 
invitation  to  the  Communion.  When 
I  say,  "  Come  to  it,"  it  is  as,  when  I 
rise  to  pray,  I  invite  you  to  join  me, 
and  say,  "  Let  us  pray."  So  I  say  now, 
"  Let  us  remember  Christ  in  this  man- 
ner." As  many  here,  as  truly  desire, 
with  convinced  mind  and  earnest  heart, 
to  come,  let  them  come.  I  disclaim, 
this  Church  disclaims,  the  right  to  for- 
bid any  such.  And  yet  I  do  not  advise 
any  to  come  for  the  first  time  upon  any 
sudden  thought  or  impulse.  With  our 
modern  Protestant  ideas  upon  this  par- 
ticular religious  action,  some,  and  per- 
liaps  no  little,  reflection  is  necessary  to 
bring  our  minds  into  a  right  state  and 


CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND    IMITABLE. 


753 


determination  with  regard  to  it.  My 
own  reflection  upon  the  subject  comes 
to  this  :  here  is  an  act  of  solemn  and 
grateful  com?ncmoration  —  of  the  great- 
est and  divinest  being  that  ever  was 
in  this  world.  If  I  regarded  him  only 
in  this  light,  if  I  regarded  him  simply 
as  the  divinest  man,  I  should  feel  that 
this  act  was  fit  and  beautiful  ;  more  fit 
and  beautiful  than  any  of  the  commemo- 
rations of  the  great  and  wise  and  good 
that  ever  have  been  in  the  world.  It 
would  be  so  to  me,  even  if  it  were  not 
commanded  ;  even  if  it  were  an  invol- 
untary homage.  If  such  a  table  were 
spread  in  the  wilderness,  and  a  few 
were  gathered  around  it,  and  if  I  were 
passing  by,  a  weary  wanderer,  I  should 
feel  drawn  to  join  thpir  company,  —  to 
sit  down  with  them,  and  to  say,  as 
I  say  now,  "  Jesus !  Master,  Teacher, 
Guide,  Example,  Friend,  —  best  friend, 
purest  example,  holiest  teacher,  guide 
through  the  wilderness  of  time,  Master 
that  leadest  to  heaven,  —  so  let  me 
revere,  —  so  let  me  remember  thee." 


XVI. 

CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND 
IMITABLE. 

John  vi.  35  :  "And  Jesus  said  unto  them,  I  am 
the  bread  of  life  ;  he  that  Cometh  to  me  shall  never 
hunger ;  and  he  that  believeth  on  me  shall  never 
thirst." 

I  HAVE  read  to  you,  for  the  morning 
lesson,  a  part  of  the  sixth  chapter  of 
the  Gospel  of  John,  and  to  some  pas- 
sages in  it,  such  as  that  which  I  have 
t.iken  for  my  text,  I  wish  now  to  invite 
your  special  attention.  The  passages 
I  refer  to  are  those  in  which  Jesus  is 
represented  as  speaking  of  the  value, 
importance,  and  grandeur  of  his  work  ; 
of  his  office  and  person,  and  of  his  rela- 
tion to  the  world. 

Let  me  here  say,  that  in  these  dis- 
courses concerning  the  Christ  I  am 
addressing  myself  to  certain  mistaken 
impressions  which    prevail   about   him, 


without  undertaking  to  discriminate 
between  the  genuineness  of  the  three 
first  Gospels  and  the  last.  Here 
stands  the  record  as  the  body  of  Chris- 
tians receive  it ;  and  I  propose  to  com- 
ment upon  the  ideas  of  the  Christ 
which  they  commonly  derive  from  the 
general  reading  of  it. 

In  the  well-known  work,  entitled 
."  Ecce  Homo"  (behold  the  man),  the 
writer  maintains,  not  merely  that  the 
spirit  of  the  divine  Master  was  des- 
tined to  reign  over  the  world,  but  that 
he  would  reign  over  men  and  be  tlieir 
king  in  such  a  sense  that  the  highest 
personal  allegiance  to  him,  and  a  draw- 
ing of  all  spiritual  life  and  power  from 
him,  would  be  the  distinctive  character 
of  the  true  Christian  man. 

Now  to  this  construction  of  the 
language  of  the  New  Testament  I  do 
not  assent.  Believing  that  the  Spirit 
of  Jesus  is  the  example  for  his  disciples, 
that  his  love  and  patience  and  self-sac- 
rifice are  to  reign  over  men,  I  do  not 
admit  that  he  is  the  sovereign  of  the 
soul  and  of  the  spiritual  world  in 
the  sense  contended  for ;  such  that 
it  seems  to  exclude  the  supremacy  of 
God  himself.  I  think  that  this  theory 
is  at  variance  with  the  general  strain  of 
Christ's  own  teaching.  I  have  another 
construction  to  of¥er  of  those  passages 
in  which  Jesus  is  represented  as  speak- 
ing of  his  own  truth  and  purity,  of  his 
claim  to  reliance  and  homage,  and  of 
his  grand  relation  to  the  world ;  and 
as  I  have  no  doubt  that  these  pas- 
sages have  troubled  some,  if  not  many, 
thoughtful  readers  of  the  Gospels,  I  am 
the  more  disposed  to  take  them  up  and 
consider  them. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  general  object  which 
I  have  in  view,  rather  than  to  contro- 
vert the  particular  ideas  which  are 
presented  in  "  Ecce  Homo."  In  many 
passages  Jesus  is  certainly  represented 
as  speaking  of  himself  in  a  very  ex- 
traordinary manner,  unlike  that  of  any 
other  teacher  ;  with  a  self-assertion  and 
self-commendation  which  conflict  appar- 
ently  with   his  general    humility,   and 


48 


754 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


with  our  ideal  of  the   unconsciousness 
and  modesty  of  virtue. 

The  passages  are  such  as  these. 
"  This  is  the  work  of  God,  that  ye 
believe  on  him  whom  he  hath  sent." 
Believing  on  him,  let  us  say,  once  for 
all,  is  a  reverent  and  affectionate  receiv- 
ing of  him.  And  consider  how  strong 
the  language  is.  The  work  of  God  in 
the  soul,  the  highest  thing,  the  divinest, 
the  godlike,  is  the  hearty  receiving, 
embracing,  loving  of  Jesus  Christ. 
These  are  strong  words,  but  they  are 
self-evidently  true.  They  are  true  not 
in  some  theological  sense,  but  simply 
as  a  matter  of  experience.  If  1  ask  my 
own  mind  what  is  the  highest  elevation 
to  which  it  can  rise,  what  the  nearest 
approach  to  God,  I  feel  that  it  would 
be  that  believing  of  which  Jesus  speaks, 
that  receiving,  communing  with  him, 
that  realizing  of  his  ideal,  that  taking 
into  my  own  heart  the  love  and  loveli- 
ness of  his  spirit.  And  therefore  I  can 
understand  him  when  he  says  again, 
"  And  this  is  the  will  of  him  that  sent 
me,  that  every  one  that  seeth  the  Son 
and  belie veth  on  him  may  have  ever- 
lasting life."  That  is,  "everlasting 
joy,"  not  bare  life,  of  course,  not  bare 
continuance  of  being  ;  the  word  Hfe  is 
figurative,  and  means  the  soul's  life,  the 
fulness  of  all  good  in  the  heart  ;  it 
means  beatitude,  blessedness.  He  that 
believeth  on  me,  hath  not  only  blessed- 
ness, but  everlasting  blessedness. 

But  further ;  such  a  divine  thing  is 
this  coming  to  Christ,  that  the  call  to 
it  is  all  divine  ;  the  disposition  to  re- 
ceive him  is  of  God.  "  No  man  can 
come  to  me,  except  the  Father  draw 
him."  Draw  him,  not  with  elective 
force,  not  with  supernatural  grace,  — 
a  construction  which  weakens  and 
mars  the  teaching,  —  but  with  the 
drawing  of  love;  i.  e.,  only  by  love, 
love  of  God,  will  any  one  be  drawn 
to  me.  As  he  goes  on  to  explain  it, 
"  Every  man,  therefore,  that  hath  heard 
and  hath  learned  of  the  Father,  cometh 
unto  me." 

And   all   this   he  repeats  and  reiter- 


ates. "  He  that  believeth  on  me  hatli 
everlasting  blessedness.  I  am  that 
bread  of  life.  I  am  the  living  bread 
that  came  down  from  heaven.  Whoso 
eateth  my  flesh  and  drinketh  my 
blood,"  —  meaning  by  this  the  most 
intimate  participation  of  his  spirit  and 
life,  —  "  hath  eternal  joy.  He  that  eat- 
eth my  flesh  and  drinketh  my  blood, 
dwelleth  in  me,  and  I  in  him.''''  That 
is  the  explanation.  And  when  the 
people  murmured  among  themselves, 
saying.  How  can  this  man  give  us  his 
flesh  to  eat  ?  and  the  disciples  said, 
This  is  a  hard  saying  ;  who  can  hear 
it  ?  he  repHed,  It  is  the  spirit  that 
quickeneth  ;  the  flesh  profiteth  nothing. 
I  am  not  speaking  to  you  of  literal 
flesh  ;  the  words  that  I  speak  to  you, 
they  are  spirit,  and  they  are  life. 

Are  there  none  who  murmur  no7v  ? 
—  none  who  repeat  what  the  disciples 
of  old  said,  "This  is  a  hard  saying"  ? 
I  have  met  with  such.  One  said  this 
to  me :  "  That  I  must  love  all  good- 
ness, that  I  must  love  the  sum  of  all 
goodness  (which  is  God),  in  order  to  be 
blessed  eternally,  — -this  I  can  under- 
stand ;  but  must  I  love,  must  I  believe, 
receive,  embrace  by  faith,  this  very 
person,  or  never  find  happiness,  never 
attain  to  anything  good  or  blessed  ? 
Millions  of  heathens  never  heard  of 
him ;  has  no  one  of  them  ever  attained 
to  any  spiritual  blessing  or  blessed- 
ness ?  "  Another  said,  "  This  frequent 
self-assertion  of  the  Christ,  this  drawing 
of  the  attention  to  himself,  this  insisting 
upon  his  own  nearness  to  the  Father. 
and  the  Father's  love  and  approbation 
of  him,  saying,  '  I  do  always  those 
things  that  please  him,'  —  is  this  the 
fit  and  beautiful  garb  of  virtue  ?  We 
are  accustomed  to  say  that  the  highest 
things  in  humanity  —  genius,  bravery, 
heroism,  sanctity  —  are  unconscious, 
unexacting,  simply  content  to  be.  What, 
then,  are  we  to  think  of  this  apparent 
self-consciousness  of  the  Christ  ?  " 

Let  one  thing  be  borne  in  mind,  as 
we  pass  to  make  reply  to  these  natural 
suggestions,  —  and,    I   have    no  doubt, 


CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND   IMITABLE. 


755 


serious  difficulties  in  some  minds,  —  and 
that  is,  tliat  wliatever  Jesus  claims  for 
himself,  he  does  always  and  explicitly 
refer  to  the  Father,  as  the  Giver  of  all. 
There  is  no  want  of  modesty  or  humil- 
ity, unless  to  be  conscious  of  one's  own 
rectitude  at  all  be  such. 

In  reply,  then,  the  first  observation  I 
li.ive  to  make  is,  that  this  consciousness 
of  the  blessedness  of  rectitude,  of  the 
blessedness  of  love  and  purity  in  the 
heart,  where  that  blessedness  exists,  is 
inevitable,  and  that  the  utterance  of  it, 
in  certain  relations,  is  natural.  The 
pride  of  virtue  and  the  joy  of  virtue 
are  very  different  things.  Of  the  for- 
mer, there  is  not  in  Jesus  the  slightest 
evidence :  everything  he  referred  to 
God.  But  \\\?>  joy  was  most  intense; 
of  that  there  is  constant  proof.  That 
he  utters,  he  declares  in  the  strongest 
terms.  Was  it  any  derogation  from 
his  dignity,  that  he  should  do  so.? 
Why,  the  ordinary  Christian  con- 
sciousness, the  virtuous  consciousness 
of  good  men,  often  takes  this  ground 
in  relation  to  evil,  to  vice,  and  the 
misery  of  evil,  of  vice.  It  says,  not, 
"  I  am  good ;  "  —  so  Jesus  said,  "  Why 
callest  thou  >ne  good  ?  "  —  but  it  says, 
to  all  aberration  and  wandering  from 
the  right  way,  "/!/)/  course  is  happy, 
compared  with  yours."  The  Christian 
preacher,  with  such  imperfect  experi- 
ence as  he  has  of  the  blessedness  of 
piety  and  goodness,  often  kindles  and 
glows  with  this  theme,  the  blessedness 
of  religion.  The  Christian  parent  ex- 
postulates* with  his  erring  son  in  the 
same  terms.  "  You  are  seeking  hap- 
piness," he  says  ;  "  you  will  never  find 
it  in  the  path  of  wandering;  come  back 
to  us ;  come  to  the  simple  way  we 
taught  you  in  your  childhood ;  come 
back,  poor  wanderer,  to  the  prayers 
you  once  made  by  your  mother's  side." 
And  should  not  he  who  knew,  as  none 
other  ever  knew,  the  unutterable  joy 
of  purity,  of  love,  of  communion  with 
the  Father ;  who  had  that  which  all 
men  are  seeking,  a  sufficing  joy  in 
overflowing   fulness,  —  should    not   he 


say,  "  Come  unto  me ;  come  unto  me. 
all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy-Iader, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest ;  if  any  ma^ 
thirst,  let  him  come  unto  me  and  drink  , 
whosoever  drinketh  of  the  waters  o( 
earthly  pleasure,  sliall  thirst  again  ;  but 
whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that  \ 
will  give  him,  shall  never  thirst"  .''  U 
seeins  to  me  that  it  would  be  faithless- 
ness to  such  a  priceless  trust,  not  ti" 
speak.  It  would  be  to  hoard  and  locL 
up,  not  wealth,  not  knowledge,  but  ci 
more  precious  treasure,  and  one  for 
want  of  which  the  world  is  pining  anoi 
perishing.  Oh  !  no ;  one  must  speak, 
—  must  utter  forth  and  declare  the  }0\ 
of  the  Infinite  Presence,  else  the  \^tx[) 
stones  would  cry  out. 

And  let  it  be  more  distinctly  con- 
sidered, that  Jesus  came  —  that  he 
frequently  says  —  for  this  very  end;  to 
seek  the  wandering,  to  save  the  lost, 
to  reforin  the  world  from  its  errors  and 
corruptions,  to  make  a  new  impress, 
upon  the  human  soul,  of  the  loveliness 
and  blessedness  of  things  divine.  He 
that  has  such  a  mission  jniist  stand 
forth,  must  assert  hiinself,  must  put  for- 
ward his  personality  into  the  contest, 
and  reason  with  men,  —  must  say  I  and 
you,  as  Jesus  did  with  the  Jews.  An 
earnest,  large,  sympathizing  nature  can- 
not content  itself  to  speak  in  mere 
theses,  mere  general  propositions,  but 
must  come  into  closer  and  more  per- 
sonal contact.  The  greatest  natures 
have  always  shown  this  desire  to  com- 
municate themselves,  to  impress  their 
convictions  on  others,  to  make  otiiers 
sharers  of  their  light  and  joy;  great 
poets,  great  preachers,  speak  with  this 
intent. 

I  am  endeavoring,  you  perceive,  to 
open  to  you  the  natural  fountains  in 
the  mind  of  Jesus  ;  and  to  show  that, 
as  freely  as  any  one  ever  uttered  the 
great  swelling  thoughts  of  his  heart,  so 
freely  did  he.  We  must  not  look  upon 
him  as  a  magisterial  Instructor,  as  a 
mere  official  Teacher  ;  the  words,  Mes- 
siah, Mediator,  Redeemer,  lead  us  too 
much  to  think  merely  of  office  and  law 


756 


THE   TWO   GREAT  COMMANDMENTS. 


and  dispensation.  But  no ;  a  living, 
loving  heart  breathed  itself  out  in  the 
call,  '•  Come  unto  me,  come  to  me,  and 
1  will  give  you  rest."  And  that  call 
is  as  vital  now,  and  as  needful  now, 
as  it  ever  was. 

In  the  next  place,  I  must  observe, 
that,  as  I  read  tiie  C^ospel,  there  was,  at 
the  same  time,  a  certain  ////personality 
in  what  Jesus  says  of  himself.  When 
he  says,  "Come  unto  me,  believe  in  me, 
receive  me,  else  you  perish,"  I  under- 
stand him  to  speak  not  of  himself  merely 
as  a  certain  person,  but  with  a  more 
general  reference  to  himself  as  an  em- 
bodiment of  truth  and  hght  and  life. 
He  does  not,  as  the  language  literally 
would  imply,  —  he  does  not,  as  I  con- 
ceive, speak  of  his  own  personality  as 
the  ultimate  object  of  all  trust  and  love, 
for  his  design  was  to  lead  men  to  the 
Father.  He  means  to  say,  as  I  under- 
stand him,  that  that  divine  light  which 
shone  in  him,  stcch  as  that,  must  be 
accepted  of  men,  or  there  is  no  life  in 
them.  He  generalizes  that  of  which 
he  is  the  example.  Of  this  the  follow- 
ing language  is  a  remarkable  instance. 
"For  God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  who- 
soever believeth  in  him  should  not  per- 
ish, but  have  everlasting  life, — i.e., 
everlasting  blessedness.  He  that  be- 
lieveth on  him  is  not  condemned  ;  but 
he  that  believeth  not,  is  condemned  al- 
ready ;  because  he  believeth  not  in  the 
name  of  the  only  begotten  Son  of  God  ;  " 
i.  e.,  because  he  does  not  receive  into 
his  soul  that  divine  light,  that  blessed- 
ness, of  which  I  am  the  embodiment 
and  example.  And  that  this  is  a  gen- 
eral representation  not  appertaining  to 
him  as  a  person  merely,  but  to  the  light 
that  was  in  him,  appears  from  what  im- 
mediately follows.  "  And  this  is  the  con- 
demnation, that  light  is  come  into  tlie 
world,  —  not  that  I  have  come,  but  that 
light  is  come  into  the  world,  —  and  men 
loved  darkness  more  than  light,  because 
their  deeds  were  evil.  For  every  one 
that  doeth  evil,  hateth  the  light,  neither 
Cometh  to  the  light,  lest  his  deeds  should 


be  reproved.  But  he  that  doeth  truth, 
cometh  to  the  light,  that  his  deeds  may 
be  made  manifest  that  they  are  wrought 
in  God." 

These  two  observations  which  I  have 
now  made,  are  of  more  importance,  1 
conceive,  than  may  appear  in  the  ab- 
stract statement.  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Saviour  of  the  world,  speaks  to  men, 
speaks  to  us.  It  is  of  the  last  impor- 
tance, that  we  should  understand  him, 
and  fairly  and  truly  receive  the  impres- 
sion which  his  words  should  make  upon 
us.  If  this  impression  is  hindered  by 
any  misconstruction  on  our  part,  the  ut- 
most pains  should  be  taken  to  remove 
it.  This  divine  being  is  to  impress  us 
by  his  character,  his  life,  his  words,  by 
the  grandeur,  nobleness,  purity,  and  love- 
liness of  his  character.  If  we  feel  that 
he  unreasonably  presses  himself  upon 
our  attention,  our  faith  or  love,  this 
feeling  must  thwart  the  very  design  of 
his  coming.  Let  us  understand,  then, 
but  this  ;  that  here  was  a  being,  filled 
with  the  divinest  goodness  and  sanc- 
tity; that  he  held  in  the  bosom  of  his 
own  experience  a  treasure  of  inexpres- 
sible value  to  us ;  that  he  knew  the 
secret  of  all  welfare,  and  that  for  us  to 
know  it  is  worth  more  than  life  ;  that 
it  is  life,  peace,  joy,  blessedness  un- 
bounded and  everlasting;  and  then,  I 
ask,  what  call  of  his,  what  exhortation, 
what  word  of  entreaty,  could  be  too 
tender  or  earnest  or  urgent  ?  Then, 
can  we  not  receive  his  solemn  declara- 
tion, "  He  that  believeth,  he  that  re- 
ceiveth  into  his  heart  the  liglit  and  love 
that  I  have  found,  shall  be  saved,  be 
blessed  forever ;  and  he  that  believeth 
not,  he  that  rejecteth  the  living  joy  of 
faith  and  love,  must  be  miserable.  It 
is  but  the  utterance  of  what  is  to-day 
true,  and  will  be  true  forever.  It  is  true, 
whether  Jesus  had  uttered  it  or  not; 
it  was  true  before  he  uttered  it ;  it  is 
forever  true,  that  only  he  who  receives 
into  his  heart  a  love  and  purity  like 
that  of  Christ,  can  be  saved,  can  be 
blessed.  It  is  indeed  a  vital  and  mo- 
mentous truth,  but  it  is  not  an  odious 


CHRIST   INTELLIGIBLE   AND   IMITABLE. 


757 


or  dreadful  truth  ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
is  the  very  glory  of  our  nature,  that  it 
cannot  be  happy  in  any  other  way. 

But  I  must  yet  further  observe,  in 
tlie  third  place,  that  the  lofty  language 
in  which  Jesus  spoke  of  himself  cannot 
be  altogether  understood,  without  sup- 
posing that  he  regarded  himself  as 
raised  up  and  appointed  to  hold  a  pe- 
culiar relation  to  our  humanity.  No 
prophet,  no  moral  teacher,  ever  uttered 
such  words  as  he  did,  concerning  his 
relation  to  the  whole  world.  If  he  is 
looked  upon  but  as  other  prophets  and 
teachers,  his  language  would  seem  in 
some  cases  to  be  unbecoming  and  pre- 
sumptuous. "  I  am  come  a  light  into 
the  world.  And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up, 
will  draw  all  men  unto  me.  Neither 
pray  I  for  these  alone,  but  for  .those 
that  shall  believe  on  me  through  their 
word.  Go  and  convert  all  nations,  bap- 
tizing them  into  the  name  —  i.  e.,  the 
acknowledgment  —  of  the  Father,  and 
of  the  Soil,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

"And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up,  will  draw 
all  men  unto  me."  What  words  were 
these,  for  one  about  to  die  on  the 
cross  !  Only  a  thought  which,  b}'  di- 
vine right,  took  possession  of  the  ages 
beforehand,  could  utter  such  words. 
What  a  supernatural,  what  a  wonder- 
ful, what  a  sublime  confidence  was 
this  !  A  Hebrew  teacher,  of  but  the 
humblest  account  among  his  people, — 
and  that  the  most  despised  and  hated 
of  all  people ;  one  whom  this  very 
nation,  his  own  nation,  was  about  to 
reject  and  cast  out,  as  unworthy  to 
live  ;  who  foresaw  that  he  was  doomed 
to  suffer  as  a  convict,  a  malefactor,  and 
the  lowest  of  malefactors,  doomed  to 
the  most  ignominious  and  bitter  death, 
whom  the  public  law  was  about  to 
strike  with  opprobrium;  at  whom  the 
rabble  was  to  jeer  in  derision,  and  the 
chief  men,  the  highest  men  in  the 
country,  were  to  exclaim  in  wrath, 
"  Crucify  him,  crucify  him  !  "  —  he,  I 
say,  solitary,  forsaken,  smitten,  with  all 
the  world  against  him,  all  earth  darken- 
ing around  him,  and  dark  tlioughts,  too, 


in  his  own  soul,  which  broke  out  in  the 
sorrowful  soliloquy,  "  Now  is  my  soul 
troubled,  and  what  shall  I  say  ?  "  —  yet 
what  does  he  say  ?  How  calmly  does 
he  reason  !  Socrates,  too,  reasoned, 
and  said  to  his  friends,  "  Death  is  not 
to  be  dreaded  ;  it  may  lead  to  a  higher 
life  ;  let  us  hope  for  it."  But  what  did 
Jesus  say  ?  "  Father,  the  hour  is  come, 
and  I  come  to  thee."  And  then,  1  re- 
peat, how  calmly  did  he  reason,  and 
with  what  a  lofty  thought  !  "  Except 
a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and 
die,  it  abideth  alone  ;  but  if  it  die,  it 
bringeth  forth  much  fruit."  And  then, 
looking  through,  looking  above,  looking 
beyond  that  dark  hour,  he  says,  "  And 
I,  if  1  be  lifted  from  the  earth,  will 
draw  all  men  unto  me." 

And  how  have  all  the  ages  since 
answered  back  to  that  astonishing  ex- 
pectation !  Strong  as  the  language  of 
Jesus  is,  concerning  himself,  his  mis- 
sion, and  his  place  in  the  world,  history 
has  sanctioned  it,  to  the  very  letter. 
Read  and  ponder  the  contrasted  por- 
tions of  that  history.  Its  beginning  is 
the  despised  Judaea,  termed  by  Roman 
pride,  and  in  the  Roman  speech  of  that 
day,  "a  scowl  upon  the  face  of  the 
world."  Yes,  in  Judjea,  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  ago,  walked  by  her  humble 
waysides  a  being  who  has  not  only 
been,  through  all  these  centuries,  the 
most  revered  and  exalted  among  men, 
but  who  has  set  up  in  the  world  a  new 
idea,  a  new  order  of  greatness  ;  one 
whose  life  was  of  such  solemn  and 
majestic  significance,  that  every  act  and 
word  of  his  is  famiharly  told  in  these 
far-off  centuries  ;  that  every  incident 
and  person  connected  with  him,  —  the 
circumstances  of  his  birth,  his  youthful 
visit  to  the  temple,  the  humble  names 
of  his  friends,  the  woman  at  the  well 
of  Samaria,  the  night-shade  of  Geth- 
semane,  the  traitorous  kiss,  the  vainly 
washen  hands  of  the  wavering  Pilate, 
the  tears  of  Peter,  the  crown  of  thorns, 
and  the  prayer  of  the  thief  upon  the 
cross,  —  all  rise  into  stupendous  in- 
terest and   "randeur.     Nothing:  did  he 


758 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


touch,  but  it  has  assumed  a  character 
of  greatness.  Down  upon  the  stream  of 
ages  have  been  borne  the  memorials 
of  his  hfe  and  death,  of  his  birth  and 
passion.  In  all  the  culiivated  nations 
of  the  world,  holy  days  and  times  and 
seasons  have  commemorated  all  that  he 
did,  and  said,  and  suffered.  And  it  is 
no  artificial  homage.  Deep  into  the 
hearts  of  millions  upon  millions  have 
sunk  the  words  that  he  uttered.  Before 
the  ignominious  cross  —  the  very  sym- 
bol of  his  humiliation  —  have  multitudes 
kneeled,  and  bathed  it  with  their  tears. 
And  Jerusalem,  through  whose  streets 
he  once  walked,  —  Jerusalem,  that  sit- 
teth  solitary  among  the  nations,  —  who 
of  us  that  could  visit  its  lonely  towers, 
who  of  us  that  could  enter  its  neglected 
gates,  would  not  be  glad  to  prostrate 
himself  ujjon  the  earth,  and  to  kiss  the 
very  ground  that  was  once  trodden  by 
the  feet  of  the  Son  of  God  ?  Well, 
then,  did  he  say,  "And  I,  if  I  be  lifted 
.up,  will  draw  all  men  unto  me." 

But  this  is  not  all.  Jesus  Christ 
bears  a  relation  not  only  to  the  ages, 
but  to  the  individual  soul.  Every  soul 
is  an  epitome  of  the  world.  It  is  not 
only  the  witness,  but  the  conscious  par- 
taker of  human  weal  and  woe.  The  in- 
terests of  Jiiimaniiy  are  vast :  the  course 
of  the  ao;es  is  majestic  ;  but  the  world, 
the  ages,  the  great  burden  of  humanity, 
the  stragglings  of  all  human  need,  and 
weakness,  and  weariness,  and  sorrow, 
and  erring,  are  in  nie.  I  am  a  world  to 
myself.  And  however  I  may  speculate 
about  the  world's  destiny,  I  can  feel  no 
destiny  so  intensely  or  so  awfully  as  I 
feel  that  which  is  embosomed  in  the 
overshadowed  depths  of  my  own  nature. 
And  with  this  great  burden  weighing 
upon  me,  what  am  I  ?  Poor,  weak,  frail, 
erring,  sinning,  suffering,  —  and  liable 
to  suffer,  what  and  how  long,  I  know 
not. 

Now  suppose  that  Jesus  had  never 
lived  in  the  world.  The  ages  have 
rolled  on  :  the  present  hour  has  come  ; 
and  I  live,  amidst  the  unnumbered  mil- 
lions   that   live,  but    with    a   need   and 


sorrow  as  vast  and  individual  as  if  there 
were  none  to  share  them  with  me.  I 
am  in  darkness  ;  or  I  am  one,  suppose, 
that  has  strayed  from  the  better  path. 
I  have  plunged  into  sin  and  misery  and 
despair.  I  have  lived  for  a  pampered 
body,  and  the  corrupted  body  has  im- 
prisoned me  in  its  dungeon  ;  or  I  have 
broken  the  laws  of  society,  and  crime 
has  imprisoned  me  in  a  literal  dungeon. 
The  lights  have  all  gone  out  from  my 
life ;  for  me  there  is  none  to  help,  none 
to  save ;  for  me  there  is  ho  God,  nor 
heaven,  nor  mercy,  nor  hope.  And  now 
suppose  that  some  pure  soul,  some  heav- 
en-sent friend,  some  minister  of  God's 
pity,  should  come  to  me,  —  from  earth 
or  from  heaven,  it  is  not  material,  —  that 
he  should  take  a  tender  and  generous 
interest  in  me ;  that  he  should  speak  to 
me  encouraging  words,  take  me  by  the 
hand  and  lift  me  up,  tell  me  and  per- 
suade me  to  believe  that  God  has  pity 
for  me,  breathe  from  his  own  loving 
heart  the  word  Father  into  mine  ear, 
convince  me  that  I  was  made  not  to  be 
a  child  of  despair,  but  a  child  of  God. 
Suppose  that  thus '  laboring  with  me, 
thus  talking  and  praying  with  me, — 
throwing  his  helping  and  loving  arms 
around  me,  he  should  at  length  lift  me 
up,  —  lift  up  my  sinning  and  despairing 
soul,  and  raise  me  from  darkness  and 
from  the  horrible  pit,  and  carry  me  forth 
to  the  light  of  day,  where  the  heavens 
should  be  bright  around  me  and  the 
earth  beautiful,  —  where,  as  1  looked 
around  me,  I  should  see  a  new  world  ; 
and  as  I  looked  upward,  I  should  see 
new  heavens  —  ay,  an  immortality  of 
joy,  opening  before  me  —  what  a  deliv- 
erance would  that  be  !  Oh  !  the  words 
were  never  found,  the  mortal  speech 
was  never  framed,  that  could  set  forth 
the  joy  of  that  dehverance  !  And  sup- 
pose, further,  that  this  pure  and  noble 
friend  had  taken  infection  from  that 
noisome  dungeon  where  he  found  me, 
and  had  died  to  save  me  !  What  could 
ever  be, — what  love,  what  saintliness, 
what  loveliness,  what  sacrifice,  what 
canonized  suffering,  could  ever  be  to  me 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 


759 


like  that  !  What  memory  could  there 
be.  in  all  the  world,  like  that '.  I  do  not 
desire  to  separate  the  death  of  Jesus 
from  every  other  death  endured  for  the 
rifjhteous  cause.  He  himself  Said,  '-The 
works  that  I  do,  ye  shall  do."  Every 
sufferer  for  the  right,  every  martyr  for 
truth,  dies  for  human  virtue,  dies  for  the 
world  ;  but  Jesus  stands  at  the  head  of 
all 

Such  is  the  ofifice  of  Christ,  the  Sa- 
viour, to  all  who  are  truly  touched,  pen- 
etrated, regenerated,  by  his  word,  his 
patience,  his  passion  and  his  victory: 
and  such  is  the  memory  of  him  in  the 
world,  through  all  ages.  It  is  a  natural 
claim.  It  is  natural,  simple,  reasonable. 
I  desire  it  to  be  no  other  to  any  man. 
That  is  what  I  have  sought  to  show  you. 
I  desire  no  factitious  or  forced  homage 
to  this  most  divine,  most  human  excel- 
lence. Can  you  believe  that  that  sub- 
lime image  of  suffering  and  love  has 
been  before  the  world, — has  been  im- 
pressed upon  the  world,  for  eighteen 
centuries,  without  the  ordaining  provi- 
dence and  will  of  God  ?  Can  you  believe 
that  all  the  signs  and  wonders  of  the 
early  time,  all  the  words  spoken  by  this 
wonderful  Being,  all  his  conscious  rela- 
tion to  the  whole  human  race,  should 
have  been  meant  for  less  than  to  pene- 
trate through  the  world,  to  penetrate  to 
us,  to  touch  all  hearts  with  that  living 
patience  and  dying  sorrow  ? 

And  it  has  penetrated  the  hearts  of 
millions  unnumbered,  and  in  a  manner 
so  remarkable  as  to  vindicate  the  aston- 
ishing expectation  of  the  crucified  Suf- 
ferer and  Lor!.  Other  great  teachers 
—  Sakya  Muni,  Zoroaster,  Confucius  — 
have  been  reverenced  and  held  in  re- 
membrance;  but  no  other  being  that 
ever  wore  the  human  form  has  been  so 
beloved.  How  deep  and  tender  that 
feeling  has  been,  is  evinced  by  what  is 
told  of  an  aged  man,  who  lay  upon  his 
dying  bed,  whose  failing  faculties  had 
ceased  to  retain  any  recognition,  even 
of  his  family  and  nearest  friends.  He 
was  asked  if  he  knew  one  and  another  ; 
and  his  answer  was,  "  No,  I  do  not  know 


them."  At  length  the  question  was  put, 
"Do  you  know  Jesus  Christ.'"'  "Oh, 
yes  !  " —  he  exclaimed,  the  last  conscious- 
ness gleaming  through  his  fading  eyes, 
—  "  Oh  !  yes,  he  is  my  Saviour  !  "  It  is 
the  last  glad  cry  of  Christian  faith,  when 
dust  descends  to  dust.  It  answers  back 
to  the  great  words  uttered  eighteen  cen- 
turies ago,  —  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life  ;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die." 


XVII. 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 

2  Cor.  v.  17  :  "Therefore,  if  any  man  be  in  Christ, 
he  is  a  new  creature ;  old  things  are  passed  away : 
behold,  all  things  are  become  new." 

To  be  "in  Christ,"  we  read  here,  is 
to  be  •'  a  new  creature."  When  the 
Romans  freed  a  slave,  they  said,  "  He 
is  born  again."  So  Jesus  said,  in  a 
religious  sense,  thou  must  be  "born 
again,"  must  be  a  new  creature.  To 
be  in  Christ,  the  Christ-life  in  the  soul, 
is  a  new  life  to  the  common  experience 
of  men,  —  new  motive,  new  power,  new 
patience  and  victory.  But  now  in  that 
new  life  old  things  will  pass  away.  Cre- 
ation implies  dissolution  ;  the  old  dies 
in  giving  birth  to  the  new.  So  we  see 
it  in  the  processes  of  nature.  As  St. 
Paul  said,  "  That  which  thou  sowest 
is  not  quickened,  except  it  die."  Life 
springs  from  death  ;  and  so  it  is  not 
contrary  to  the  analogies  of  natio'e  that 
life  immortal  should  spring  from  the 
grave.  When  the  spirit  is  born  into 
that  future  life,  the  body  is  left  behind, 
like  an  old  and  worn-out  garment ;  and 
so,  in  the  progress  of  the  religious  life 
here,  old  things  are  left  behind,  the  old 
things  that  pertain  to  our  spiritual  child- 
hood, ignorance,  imperfect  development, 
—  the  old  things  of  the  Jewish  dispen- 
sation, perhaps  Paul  meant,  —  they  pass 
away  ;  but  not  the  essential  realities  of 
truth  and  faith.  Tliey  abide  forever  ; 
they  are  things  that  are  new,  and  for- 
ever new. 


76o 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


This  is  the  point  of  view  from  which 
I  wish  now  to  speak.  The  old  in  re- 
ligion dies  out,  —  the  old  error,  the  old 
dispensation,  the  old  superstition  ;  but 
not  the  old  religion,  —  this  is  forever 
new  and  forever  fresh.  For  this  there 
is  no  decline,  no  decay  ;  for  it  is  the 
life  of  God  in  the  soul.  Upon  this  no 
darkness,  no  night-shade,  is  to  fall  ; 
religion  is  the  soul's  everlasting  day. 
Moods  of  mind,  modes  of  experience, 
no  doubt,  pass  away;  but  not  the  vital 
and  precious  experience  itself.  Thus 
institutions,  usages,  customs,  the  means 
that  minister  to  humanity,  decline  and 
die  ;  but  humanity  does  not  die.  And 
so  kingdoms  fall  ;  but  that  kingdom  of 
God,  of  which  it  is  said  that  it  is  within 
you,  never  falls. 

This  is  the  nature  of  all  progress. 
Compare  youth  with  manhood,  or  man- 
hood with  age  ;  compare  the  earlier 
with  the  maturer  periods  of  thought, 
of  knowledge,  of  opinion,  of  faith  or 
creed  ;  and  always  it  will  be  found, 
where  tliere  is  a  real  progress,  that 
some  things  drop  off  and  fall  away, 
and  that  better  things  come  in  their 
place. 

But  this  encouraging  view  of  things 
is  what  a  timid  conservatism  cannot  ac- 
cept ;  and  it  is  notable  to  see  how  many 
minds,  in  these  days,  are  disturbed  by 
anxiety,  distrust,  and  alarm  at  the  new 
developments  of  opinion  in  religion,  and 
in  science  and  politics  as  well.  It  is  not 
against  a  reasonable  conservatism,  but 
ao-ainst  this  great  and  anxious  distrust, 
that  I  would  now  speak. 

The  point  which  I  am  to  insist  on 
is  one  of  great  interest,  I  think,  to  the 
views  we  entertain  of  our  highest  life 
and  welfare  as  individuals,  and  of  the 
highest  life  and  welfare  of  the  world. 
These  are  the  aspects  of  the  subject 
under  which  I  shall  consider  it ;  and  in 
both  respects,  I  say,  we  are  apt  to  be 
discouraged  without  cause. 

Look  at  individual  life.  There  is  a 
youth  of  religious  experience  ;  and  how 
many  have  I  known,  who,  because  it 
was  a  season  of  great  excitement,  looked 


back  upon  that  as  their  best  time,  and 
lamented  its  departure.  There  is  a  youth 
of  religious  experience,  —  full  of  emo- 
tion, full  of  joy,  or,  it  may  be,  full  of 
concern,  fall  of  doubt  and  fear.  Oh,  it 
is  not  strange  that  upon  the  opening  and 
entrance  into  life,  when  the  mind  first 
awakes  from  thoughtless  childhood,  and 
looks  around  it,  and  begins  to  look  re- 
ality in  the  face,  —  it  is  not  strange  that 
there  should  come  down  upon  this  young 
life  the  awe  of  the  question,  What  am 
I  ?  Whither  am  I  going  ?  What  is  to 
become  of  me  ?  What  shall  I  do  to  be 
saved  ?  But  time  goes  on  ;  experience 
deepens  ;  questions  are  struggled  with 
and  settled  ;  and  the  soul  sinks  into  deep 
and  calm  assurance.  \\.  knows  now  what 
it  only  believed  before.  Now  God  is  not 
a  Being  to  be  sought  only  in  morning 
and  evening  prayers  ;  but  his  presence  is 
an  abiding  reality.  Jesus  Christ  speaks 
to  his  thought  as  never  man  spake.  The 
life  of  the  soul  is  more  to  him  than  all 
other  life. 

It  may  be  in  old  age  that  all  this  is 
most  felt.  It  may  be  in  old  age  that  a 
man  more  truly  lives  than  he  ever  lived 
before.  The  body  decays  ;  the  limbs 
tremble  with  weakness  ;  the  eye  grows 
dim  ;  the  ear  is  dull  of  hearing.  But 
it  is  not  so  with  the  life  within.  There 
all  is  fresh  and  strong,  ay*  and  perhaps 
joyous  and  gay.  The  work  of  life  is 
done,  —  and  well  that  it  is  done  ;  the 
battle  is  fought,  and  it  was  a  good  fight, 

—  so  Paul  found  it.  The  affections  have 
freer  play  than  they  had  amidst  the  strife 
and  turmoil  of  life  ;  the  things  that  are 
divine  are  more  real  and  sure  than  ever ; 
earth  recedes,  with  all  its  little  interests 
and  anxieties,  and  heaven  is  opening 
and  widening  to  the  view. 

There  is  a  youth  of  life,  too,  as  well 
as  of  religion,  concerning  which  the 
same  mistake  is  made  ;  for  there  is  an 
idea  of  youth  as  the  only  good  time,  as 
the  especially  happy  period  of  life.  It 
is  an  idea,  I  will  venture  to  say,  which 
needs  the  correction  of  a  wiser  thought, 

—  I  might  say,  of  a  higher  civiliza- 
tion of  mind  and  thought.     It  properly 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 


761 


belongs  to  the  older  ages  ;  it  is  the  un- 
cultured, unspiritualized,  barbaric  idea, 
which  sums  up  all  the  good  of  life  in 
thews  and  sinews,  in  health  and  beauty, 
in  animal  spirits,  in  the  excitements  and 
enjovments  of  pleasure  and  passion.  All 
common  speech,  you  know,  all  poetry, 
all  essay-writing,  is  full  of  that  idea. 
They  give  the  undisputed  palm  to  youth, 
and  sigh  for  the  possibility  of  bringing 
it  back  again.  The  treasures  of  expe- 
rience, which   a  lifetime  has  gathered, 

—  stored  knowledge,  ripened  wisdom, 
strengthened  faith,  and  purified  love, — 
seem  to  be  of  no  account,  and  quite 
unthought  of,  in  comparison.  It  is 
as  if  the  mature  man,  trained,  taught, 
learned,  accomplished,  wide-reaching  in 
his  grasp,  full  of  all  that  makes  the 
highest  life,  should  look  back  to  the 
impulsiveness  and  ignorance  of  child- 
hood as  the  best  time.  No,  there  are 
better  things  in  life  than  childhood  or 
youth  ever  knew.  Doubtless  old  age 
has  its  disadvantages,  —  not  in  having 
more  sickness  and  pain,  for  I  doubt 
whether  in  the  average  experience  of 
life  this  is  true.  But  doubtless  there 
are  things  that  grow  old  and  pass  away, 

—  the  vigor,  the  beauty,  the  passions, 
ay,  and  follies,  too,  of  early  life  ;  but 
these  are  not  the  greatest  things,  nor 
the  best  nor  the  happiest  things,  in 
our  being.  I  would  not  give  up,  may 
the  aged  say,  the  views  I  now  have 
of  life  and  life's  welfare,  the  results  of 
thought  and  experience,  the  ideas  of  re- 
ligion that  have  been  growing  clearer 
and  brighter  and  brighter  to  me  every 
year  of  my  lifer,  the  ideas  of  God,  and  of 
the  great  and  good  Providence  over  the 
world  and  the  universe,  —  no,  I  would 
not  give  them  up  for  all  that  restored 
youth  could  bring  back  to  me.  So  all 
worldly  enjoyments  are  of  the  things 
that  pass  away.  Usage  and  familiarity 
wear  them  out.  The  only  way  to  relish 
them  at  all,  the  only  means  by  which 
they  can  be  made  to  satisfy  the  passing 
hour,  is  to  vary  and  increase  and  in- 
tensify them.  "More,  more,"  the  thirsty 
soul   says  ;   "  more  pleasure,  and  ever- 


increased  variety  in  it  ;  more  praise, 
and  yet  more  of  it  ;  more  gold,  more 
splendor  of  apparel  and  garniture,  more 
drink,  more  feasting,"  —  till  by  and  by 
excess  "cloys  the  hungry  edge  of  appe- 
tite," repetition  dulls  enjoyment,  pleas- 
ure palls,  and  gold  grows  dim  to  the 
aged  and  dying  eyes.  But  there  are 
things  which  no  repetition  can  ever  ren- 
der dull,  no  familiarity  tame,  no  excess 
a  siarfeit.  These  are  the  things  that 
are  great  and  divine,  —  truth,  goodness. 
Love  and  Perfection  Infinite.  This  is 
the  stronghold  of  our  very  nature  upon 
progress,  upon  happiness,  upon  immor- 
tality. 

For  if  the  things  that  take  hold  of  the 
highest  in  us,  of  the  very  religion  of 
our  being,  were  to  decline  in  power 
the  more  we  study  them  ;  if  they  must 
share  the  fate  of  a  world  that  is  passing 
away,  immortality  itself  would  be  no 
blessing,  but  utter  misery.  And  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  no  mean  argument  for 
our  immortality,  that  religion,  that  pure 
and  holy  affection,  is  the  one  thing  in 
the  soul  which  is  ever  fresh,  ever 
young,  ever  growing  in  beatitude  and 
beauty ;  and  that  from  the  crumbling 
edge  of  this  world,  from  the  borders  of 
the  grave,  rise  the  most  impassioned 
yearnings  for  a  higher  life  beyond. 

I  am  speaking  now,  and  first,  of 
individual  experience.  I  insist  that 
what  in  us  is  the  best  of  us,  never 
grows  old  ;  that  seventy  years  do  not, 
nor  would  a  thousand  or  million  years, 
bring  any  dulness  or  decay  into  the  life 
divine ;  that  there  is  this  grand  and 
marked  peculiarity  in  our  being,  this 
ever  fresh  unfolding,  this  looking  out 
to  immortality:  as  the  sphinx  —  a 
human  head  on  an  animal  body  —  has 
been  said  to  be  "animalism  looking 
out  to  humanity,"  so  in  our  sphinx-like 
mystery  of  body  and  soul  is  humanity 
looking  out  to  some  unrealized  and  no- 
bler being.  There  are  old  things  that 
pass  away  ;  but  they  are  temporary  and 
transient  ministries  to  the  spirit's  en- 
during life  :  as,  in  nature,  the  bark  and 
husk  which  decay  and  fall  off  are  nour- 


lC2 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


ishing  and  protecting  an  ever  fresh 
growth  within. 

But  what,  then,  is  all  this  that  we 
hear  about  dulness  in  religion,  —  more 
about  dulness,  alas  !  in  religion  than  in 
anything  else  ?  What  is  this  coldness 
and  dearth  in  churches  and  congrega- 
tions, of  which  so  much  complaint  is 
made  ?  What  is  this  dying  out  of  re- 
ligion in  some  individual  minds  .''  Old 
things  pass  away,  and  nothi7ig  becomes 
new.  Some  persons  seem  to  outgrow 
their  religion,  and  come  to  look  upon 
it  as  a  youthful  illusion.  Some  who 
were  piously  educated  become  scep- 
tics, materialists,  even  Atheists.  There 
are  those  who  rationalize  themselves 
into  absolute  coldness  and  death.  They 
reason  away  one  thing  after  another 
that  they  once  believed,  till  nothing  is 
left.  Some  fall  away  from  all  Church 
relations,  or  rid  themselves  of  all  bonds 
to  sect  and  creed,  and  are  accounted  to 
have  no  rehgion  at  all. 

What,  I  repeat,  is  to  be  said  of  all 
this.''  Two  things.  One  is,  that  those 
who  have  fallen  away  from  all  the  relig- 
ion they  ever  had,  never  had  any  worth 
the  name.  They  have  been  catechised 
and  worried  into  religion,  or  driven  into 
it  by  fear,  accepting  it,  perhaps,  with 
selfish  joy,  merely  as  a  refuge  from 
perdition,  or  they  have  taken  it  as  a 
prescription  from  their  spiritual  guides, 
without  having  been  led,  in  either  case, 
to  understand  its  nature,  or  to  see  and 
feel  the  true  and  rational  grounds  of  it. 
As  it  is  with  knowledge,  so  it  may  be 
with  religion.  The  pupil  may  be  so 
taught,  and  is  sometimes  so  taught 
in  our  schools,  as  never  to  be  inspired 
with  the  true  love  of  knowledge  ;  and 
his  books  and  lessons  are  flung  away, 
when  they  are  done  with,  as  a  burden 
and  weariness.  Old  things  have  passed 
away,  and  there  is  nothing  in  him  to 
become  new. 

The  other  thing  to  be  said  is  this  : 
that  much  may  pass  away  from  religion, 
and  instead  of  its  being  impaired,  it 
may  be  strengthened  by  the  change. 
What  has  fallen  off,  havinir  served  its 


purpose  for  the  time,  has  left  it  un- 
shackled for  a  freer  and  fresher  growth. 
Bondage  in  the  world's  religion  was 
inevitable,  and  had  its  uses,  but  free- 
dom is  better  and  stronger.  As  Pagan- 
ism was  succeeded  by  Judaism,  and 
Judaism  by  Christianity,  and  religion 
has  been  ever  growing  in  vigor  and 
purity,  so  may  it  be  with  individual 
experience.  A  man  may  become  freer 
from  sectarian  bonds,  from  creed-wor- 
ship, and  from  Bible-worship,  and  all 
the  while  more  profoundly  interested 
in  vital  religion  ;  less  and  less  a  Cal- 
vinist,  a  Presbyterian,  a  Methodist,  or 
an  Episcopalian,  and  more  and  more 
a  Christian.  He  may  become  large 
enough  to  embrace  all  in  his  charity, 
and  to  transcend  all  in  his  devotion  and 
earnestness.  For,  of  this  I  am  sure, 
that  with  every  true,  sincere,  and 
thoughtful  man,  religion,  the  love  of 
God  and  of  all  that  is  godlike,  sinks 
ever  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  roots 
of  his  being. 

I  have  said  that  the  relation  between 
the  old  and  the  new,  which  I  am  en- 
deavoring to  set  forth  in  this  discourse, 
has  regard  as  to  individual  life,  so  also 
to  the  views  we  entertain  of  the  highest 
life  and  welfare  of  the  world.  Let  us 
look  a  little,  so  far  as  the  time  may 
serve,  into  this  broader  field. 

The  world  is  troubled  and  anxious 
about  itself.  It  is  a  sick  world,  and 
needs  some  healing  hand.  It  is  a  dis- 
ordered world,  and  wants  peace.  And 
now,  especially  ;  for  now  are  coming 
into  the  world,  —  unlooked  for,  I  be- 
lieve, by  most  person!,  —  now  are 
coming,  nay  and  have  come,  political 
troubles,  huge  strides  of  immorality 
especially  in  the  quest  of  gain,  and 
alarming  scepticism  in  religion.  Old 
systems  are  crumbling  to  pieces  on 
every  side,  as,  1  think,  they  never  were 
before.  Question,  doubt,  scepticism, 
it  is  true,  have  always  been  in  the 
world  ;  but  they  never  went  to  the 
roots  of  things  as  they  do  now. 

But  I  am  not  willing  to  let  doubts  or 
fears    press    upon   my  mind   or   yours, 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 


76: 


as  a  disheartening  burden.  I  believe 
that  all  we  fear,  and  rightly  fear,  is 
to  come  out  well.  I  believe  that  the 
power  of  good  in  God's  world  is 
greater  than  the  power  of  evil  ;  and 
therefore  1  look,  not  for  the  destruc- 
tion, but  for  the  building  up  of  order, 
virtue,  and  religion,  in  the  days  that  are 
to  come.  He  who  does  not  expect 
himself  to  see  those  days,  he  who  is 
standing  upon  the  verge  of  life,  cannot 
lose  his  interest  in  the  world  he  is  leav- 
ing ;  and  if  he  can  say  anything,  how- 
ever little  it  may  be,  that  leans  to  good 
hope  of  the  future,  I  deem  that  it  may 
be  titly,  though  modestly,  spoken,  as 
his  parting  word.  I  have  always 
thought  that  I  should  like  to  preach  in 
old  age,  —  to  stand  ijp  and  speak,  in 
the  decay  of  life,  of  that  which  never 
decays.  —  which  is  becoming  forever 
new,  while  all  things  else  die  and  pass 
away.  I  did  not  know  precisely  what 
I  should  wish  to  say  ;  but  I  have  been 
led  lately,  in  my  meditations,  to  put 
down  some  words  to  say,  which  I  am 
now  asking  you  to  hear. 

Old  things  pass  away ;  and  yet  all 
things  become  ne'v^^  This  is  my  theme; 
and  I  am  now  to  apply  it  in  a  larger 
view.  Decadence,  difficulty,  trouble, 
always  enter  into  this  world's  affairs ; 
but  I  believe  in  a  happy  issue.  And 
especially  there  are  three  grand  inter- 
ests which  are  always  thought  to  be  in 
peril,  but  which,  I  believe,  are  ultimately 
.secure  ;  there  are  tliree  things  on  which, 
in  fact,  the  welfare  of  the  world  reposes  ; 
on  political  justice,  on  social  virtue,  and 
religious  faith.  They  all  stand  in  the 
one  central  principle,  that  they  are  true; 
that  they  have  in  them  the  common 
element  and  essence  of  what  is  right  ; 
and  neither  of  them  can  prosper,  if  either 
fails. 

First,  then,  let  us  say  a  word  of  politi- 
cal justice  ;  for  without  it  neither  moral- 
ity nor  religion  has  any  fair  chance  in 
the  world.  Justice  is  an  attribute  of 
God.  It  is,  as  among  men,  always  a 
sacred  thing  ;  but  its  claim  becomes 
more  urgent  when  a  whole  people,  when 


a  nation,  demands  it.  And  there  can  be 
no  proper  justice  to  a  nation,  unless  its 
opinion,  its  will,  and  its  interests  are 
represented,  by  suffrage,  in  the  govern- 
ment. This  truth  is  fast  coming  to  be 
recognized  in  the  whole  civilized  world. 
The  old,  arbitrary,  unquestioned  rule 
over  men,  of  one  or  of  a  few,  is  passing 
away.  Wliat  is  to  come  in  its  place  ? 
How  will  the  new,  the  free  system  work  .'' 
This  is  the  great  political  question  now  ; 
and  upon  this  question  men's  minds  are 
divided.  Our  own  example  is  deeply 
distrusted  by  many  thoughtful  men 
abroad.  It  was  this  which  turned  away 
from  us  the  hearts  of  many  persons  in 
England,  in  our  great  and  terrible  civil 
war.  They  did  not  wish  this  Republic 
to  stand.  They  thought  the  experiment 
one  of  evil  omen  to  the  world,  and 
although  the  result  is  disappointing 
them,  and  encouraging  us,  thank  God  ! 
still  among  ourselves  there  are  not 
wanting  those  who  distrust  our  free 
system.  I  know  very  well  what  it  is  to 
feel  some  anxiety  on  this  subject,  ior  I 
have  felt  it  all  my  life.  But  I  feel  it  less 
and  less,  and  for  tliese  reasons.  First, 
because  the  free  system  is  founded  in 
justice.  It  is  not  right  that  one  man,  a 
hereditary  monarch,  or  that  several  men, 
an  aristocracy,  should,  at  their  sole 
pleasure,  set  up  a  government,  or  pre- 
scribe laws  for  a  whole  people.  It  is  no 
more  right  than  it  would  be  for  a  self- 
constituted  proprietor  to  divide  and  as- 
sign all  the  property  of  the  people  at 
his  pleasure,  —  taking  for  himself  what 
he  pleases,  and  giving  to  every  other 
man  in  the  community  what  he  pleases. 
There  are  other  things  precious,  besides 
property  :  life,  liberty,  education,  the 
pursuit  of  happiness,  and  the  common 
and  natural  claims  to  respect  and  influ- 
ence ;  and  when  I  say  that  all  this  should 
be  committed,  not  to  a  few  irresponsible 
persons,  but  to  the  common  judgment 
of  the  whole  body  of  the  people,  I  plant 
myself  on  the  foundation  of  obvious  and 
eternal  Riiiht,  which  it  is  the  tendency 
and  law  of  the  Will  Divine  to  set  up 
and  establish. 


764 


THE  TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


Secondly,  I  entertain  a  calm  and  un- 
disturbed confidence  in  the  ultimate 
prevalence  and  triumph  of  this  just  sys- 
tem of  government,  because  the  actual 
political  experience  of  nations  through 
ages  has  been  tending  to  this  point. 
Government  began  with  chieftainship, 
with  despotism  of  the  strong  over  the 
weak  ;  because  the  weak  had  neither 
power  nor  courage  to  resist.  As  the 
consciousness  of  manhood  grew  in  men, 
as  light  broke  in,  limitation  of  the  sover- 
eign power  has  marked  every  step  of  pro- 
gress ;  till  a  limited  monarchy,  as  it  is  in 
England,  and  will  be  more  and  more  in 
Italy  and  Germany  and  Russia,  is  made 
compatiljle  with  popular  representation 
in  the  government.  And  now,  when  the 
last  great  nation  is  built  up  upon  these 
shores,  it  is  a  Republic  pure  and  simple. 
Can  any  one  suppose  that  this  free  sys- 
tem, the  growth,  the  outcome  of  the  ad- 
vancing ages,  is  to  sink  into  the  abyss 
of  ruin  .'' 

I  know  that  there  are  difficulties.  We 
are  Reeling  them  ourselves.  There  are 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  settling  our 
national  affairs  into  peaceful  order,  since 
the  war.  There  are  especial  difficulties 
in  the  government  of  cities.  But  they 
are  not  irremediable.  There  is  a  remedy, 
if  the  people  will  only  seek  and  apply  it. 
It  lies  in  themselves,  in  their  own  spirit 
and  conduct.  Let  not  what  I  say  be 
thought  to  be  a  commonplace  abstrac- 
tion, a  mere  sentiment,  of  no  avail  to 
meet  the  case.  We  are  accustomed,  I 
know,  in  a  general  way,  to  admit  that 
education,  intelligence,  and  virtue  are 
necessary  in  a  free  State ;  but  the 
remedy  I  speak  of  is  more  specific,  and 
lies  deeper.  There  is,  I  venture  to 
maintain,  a  new  view  of  citizenship,  of 
what  it  is  to  be  good  members  of  a  free 
community,  which  has  never  yet  been 
well  and  truly  considered.  We  are  not  yet 
educated  up  to  a  due  sense  of  the  charge 
and  responsibility  which  we  have  taken 
upon  us.  The  notions  we  have  of  our 
relations  to  the  government  are  notions 
inherited  from  the  past ;  when  the  gov- 
ernment did  what  it  pleased,  and  all  that 


the  people  had  to  do,  was  to  submit ;  all 
it  had  to  do,  was  to  pay  taxes  and  keep 
the  peace.  We^  in  this  country,  have 
infinitely  more  to  do  :  to  take  upon  our 
very  hearts  a  feeling  for  the  common 
weal ;  to  take  a  brotherly  part  with  all 
our  fellow-citizens  in  the  political  order- 
ing of  things  ;  to  study  and  learn  our 
civic  duties  ;  to  attend  primary  meet- 
ings, to  vote,  to  serve  on  juries,  all  of 
us,  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low ;  to  let  no 
particle  of  influence  or  efficiency  we  pos- 
sess, be  wanting  to  the  common  weal 
and  work.  There  are  a  great  many  peo- 
ple among  us,  especially  of  the  rich,  and 
some  of  the  educated,  who  live  as  if  they 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  gather  property, 
or  to  get  their  books  around  them,  and 
enjoy  their  good  fortune,  and  to  let  who 
will,  take  care  of  the  commonwealth.  It 
will  never  do.  It  may  do  for  men  living 
under  arbitrary  rule  ;  but  for  our  society 
it  will  never  do.  It  is  an  altogether  false 
idea  of  hfe,  in  a  free  and  self-governed 
society. 

And  all  this  should  be  taught  from 
our  pulpits,  and  should  be  taught  in 
our  schools.  See  what  was  done  in  the 
Southern  schools  before  the  war.  The 
Southern  doctrine  of  State  Rights  was 
assiduously  taught  in  them.  The  public 
mind  was  thus  prepared  for  disunion. 
The  instruction  was  framed  to  meet 
that  exigency.  Now  let  the  youth  of 
the  whole  country  be  taught  another,  a 
deeper  and  greater  thing.  Let  them  be 
taught  that  true  republican  citizenship 
involves  a  perpetual  exigency;  that  the 
bond  of  conscience  can  no  more  safely 
be  taken  off  from  political  Hfe  than  it 
can  from  private  life.  It  can  be  taught; 
it  mtist  be  taught ;  and  the  time  must 
come,  I  believe,  when  it  -willhe  taught. 
I  trust  the  common-sense  of  human 
nature  for  thai.  The  time  when  it  is 
rightly  taught  and  thoroughly  felt  and 
acted  upon  may  be  far  off,  but  it  will 
come. 

But  next  to  political  self-government, 
as  a  subject  for  anxious  consideration, 
is  personal  self-government  ;  in  other 
words,  the  morals  of  society,  the  con- 


THE    OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 


765 


tluct  of  private  life.  To  make  a  society 
of  true,  temperate,  honest,  good,  and 
loving  men,  —  this  is  what  we  want  done, 
and  almost  despair  of.  How  is  it  to  be 
done  ?  Not  by  associations,  not  even 
by  churches,  but  by  every  man's  watch 
and  care  for  himself.  Or  if  there  must 
be  associations,  as  there  are  now,  for 
almost  everything,  I  would  that  we  could 
see,  for  once,  an  association,  ay,  or  a 
church,  of  Honest  Men  :  of  men  bind- 
ing themselves  in  every  action  of  their 
lives  —  in  barter  and  trade,  in  buying 
and  selling  —  to  be  honest ;  to  speak  the 
word  that  is  true,  to  do  the  thing  that 
is  right.  To  be  honest,  1  say;  cost  what 
it  will,  to  stake  everything  upon  that. 

On  what  high  and  holy  ground  to 
stand,  would  this  be  !  Down  in  low 
levels  far  beneath  this  too  many  are 
scrambling  for  gratifications  of  selfish- 
ness, pride,  sensuality,  and  especially 
for  that  which  ministers  to  all,  —  for 
gain.  This  universal  haste  to  be  rich,  — 
to  be  rich  as  the  best  thing  on  earth, 
—  is  it  to  stride  over  and  master  the 
world  ?  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  do  not 
believe  that  this  golden  calf  is  to  stand 
and  be  worshipped,  as  it  now  is,  beneath 
the  awful  heights  of  truth  and  righteous- 
ness that  are  to  spread  over  the  coming 
time.  Even  education,  the  common  en- 
lightenment of  men's  minds,  will  dis- 
solve and  break  it  in  pieces.  It  is 
not  the  most  thoughtful,  reflective, 
cultivated  class  that  is  possessed  with 
this  madness  for  accumulation.  Coarser 
faculties  are  content  to  be  absorbed  in 
that.  As  men  think  more,  read  more, 
gain  more  knowledge,  range  amidst  the 
delights  of  good  learning,  of  art,  poetry, 
music,  works  of  genius,  they  will  see 
that  there  is  something  better  than 
goods  and  gains,  and  the  avaricious 
passions  will  die  out  of  them. 

Gain  for  a  livelihood,  or  for  any  good 
ends,  is  one  thing  ;  but  gain  for  gain's 
sake,  is  another:  and  this,  I  believe,  is 
among  the  old  things  that  will  pass  away. 
It  must,  if  men  ever  come  to  know  what 
they  are,  or  for  what  end  they  were 
made.     They  will   not   always  think  it 


well,  or  enough,  to  concentrate  all  the 
activity  of  a  rational  and  immortal  na- 
ture upon  putting  a  few  more  pence  or 
pounds  into  the  till  or  purse.  It  will 
yet  seem  to  be  foolish  and  intolerable, 
to  live  for  that  alone  ;  yet  more,  to  live 
dishonestly  for  that.  To  sacrifice  every- 
thing for  gain  —  principle,  honor,  con- 
science, everything  for  gain  —  will  yet 
be  seen  to  be  insufferable  folly  ;  to  sacri- 
fice everything  for  conscience,  the  grand- 
est wisdom. 

Do  I  seem  now  to  be  talking  of  ab- 
stractions, which  do  not  come  home  to 
us  ?  When  a  man  stands  by  his  desk 
or  in  his  grain-field,  and  some  transac- 
tion of  business  is  before  him,  and  the 
question  is,  —  shall  I  contrive  or  repre- 
sent things  so  as  to  gain  ten  or  a  hun- 
dred or  a  thousand  dollars  by  dishonesty, 
or  shall  I  stand  true  to  the  right,  true  to 
my  inmost  convictions,  though  fortune 
falls,  though  the  heavens  fall,  —  is  that 
an  abstraction  ?  I  tell  you  we  shall  see 
more  and  more  men,  who  in  that  keen, 
cutting  trial  of  their  souls  will  stand  by 
the  right.  It  is  said,  there  are  fewer 
such  men  now.  It  may  be  so  for  the 
hour,  in  this  great  outburst  of  univer- 
sal free  action,  with  new  methods  and 
schemes  of  accumulation  devised  by 
unscrupulous  men.  Great  prizes  are  in 
the  lottery-wheel  of  business,  and  there 
are  great  rogues  to  snatch  them.  But 
these  false  ideas  of  wealth  —  of  wealth 
as  better  than  worth,  of  wealth  as  the 
chief  good  —  will  not  always  prevail. 
Men  must,  —  educated,  thoughtful  men, 
conscious  of  what  they  are,  —  must  see 
where  their  welfare  lies,  what  the  true 
end  of  their  being  is  ;  and  the  time  shall 
be  when  the  world  will  be  an  associa- 
tion of  honest  men. 

And  now,  in  fine,  if  neither  despotic 
government  nor  mean  and  hateful  dis- 
honesty can  live  and  thrive  in  the  face 
of  reason  and  right,  if  it  is  the  tendency 
of  all  just  thinking  to  put  them  down, 
is  there  any  reason  to  fear  that  religion 
will  decline,  and  die  out  in  the  world  } 

Yet  there  are  those  who  fear  it,  or 
who,  at  least,  are  troubled  with  anxieties 


•jGQ 


THE   TWO   GREAT   COMMANDMENTS. 


upon  this  point.  So  many  old  things 
have  passed  away  ;  so  many  old  ideas, 
old  ways  of  thinking,  old  traditional  be- 
liefs, are  slipping  from  men's  minds, 
that  conservative  persons  are  tempted 
to  ask  whether  anything  will  be  left. 

Indeed,  no  thoughtful  man  can  have 
watched  the  progress  of  scientific  in- 
vestigations for  the  last  few  years,  with- 
out being  concerned  at  their  bearing 
upon  our  primary  religious  beliefs.  Yet, 
after  all,  suppose  the  scientific  theories 
to  be  established  ;  what  do  they  amount 
to  ?  They  claim  to  go  back  to  the  ori- 
gin, and  trace  the  evolution  of  life  upon 
this  globe.  They  hold  that  all  life  'has 
proceeded  from  certain  original  germs 
implanted  in  nature;  or  that  a  certain 
substance  called  protoplasm  is  the  germ 
or  basis  of  all  life  ;  or  even  that  the 
forces  of  nature  produce  life,  without 
germ  or  protoplasm,  —  what  is  called 
"  spontaneous  generation."  Well,  sup- 
pose it  all,  or  any  of  it,  to  be  true. 
What  has  all  tiiis  to  do  with  the  Cause  ? 
It  is  all  modus  ope?-andi,  method  or  or- 
der of  the  creation,  not  Cause.  It  does 
not  in  the  least  preclude  me  from  see- 
ing Intelligence,  Wisdom,  Goodness, 
shining  throuj^h  all  forms,  through  germ 
and  protoplasm,  through  all  the  forms  of 
nature. 

Not  to  see  it,  is  to  be  blind.  It  is  as 
if,  when  a  human  mind  is  speaking  to 
me  through  bodily  organs,  I  should  see 
nothing  but  the  bodily  organs.  The 
mind  is  a  fact,  as  truly  as  the  tongue 
or  brain  is.  Intelligence  in  nature  is 
a  fact,  as  certain  and  manifest  as  visi- 
ble nature  is.  And  then,  as  to  this  hu- 
man mind,  concerning  whose  origin  and 
derivation  people  distress  themselves,  — ■ 
what  has  its  derivation  t6  do  with  what 
it  is  ?  What  if  my  predecessor  were 
an  ape,  in  the  long  procession  of  ranks 
and  orders  of  being,  from  mollusk  to 
man?  Still  I  am  a  man.  No  matter 
hoiv,  —  i.  e.,  in  what  order  of  events,  I 
became  such,  still  I  am  the  same.  And 
this  same,  this  being  that  I  am,  —  it  of- 
fends me  to  have  it  hustled  in  with  the 
rubbish  of  materialism  or  the  senseless- 


ness of  blind  agency.  Beyond  all  that 
matter  is  capable  of,  or  animals  ever 
knew,  here  is  something,  in  you,  and 
in  me,  —  how  shall  I  express  it!  —  a 
thought,  an  aspiration,  a  want,  a  sor- 
row, a  yearning  for  immortality,  and 
uplifted  hands,  a  crying  out  for  God,  for 
the  living  God  !  All  this  has  for  its 
counterpart,  religion.  The  one  cannot 
be  unless  the  other  is. 

Can  any  one  believe  that  this  surging 
up  of  humanity  to  the  highest  is  to  sink 
down  into  the  void  and  inane,  where 
nothing  is,  —  destined  to  fulfil  nothing 
better  than  the  dark  prophecies  of  ma- 
teriahsm  and  atheism  ?  Can  this  be  the 
end  ?  That  mark  of  progression  which 
is  upon  everything  else  in  man,  —  upon 
his  reason,  his  education,  his  love  of 
knowledge,  upon  the  science  he  so  ar- 
dently pursues,  —  that  mark  of  progres- 
sion, I  say,  is  it  to  be  erased  from  the 
very  crown  he  wears  upon  his  brow,  — 
his  religion  .''  Is  he  to  be  discrowned, 
and  cast  down,  and  sent  forth,  a  blind 
wanderer  and  outcast,  without  God, 
without  hope  ? 

And  who  is  it  that  says  this  ?  Not 
the  religious  man,  but  the  irreligious, 
who  professes  to  have  no  religion,  and 
to  want  none.  Is  this  a  fit  person  to 
decide  upon  such  a  point  ?  We  ask 
experts,  not  /^experts,  to  judge  of 
things.  Suppose  an  ignorant  person 
were  to  say  to  educated  and  learned 
men,  "  Your  education,  of  which  you 
think  so  much,  your  science,  which  you 
pursue  so  eagerly,  is  all  an  illusion,  yet 
to  die  out  of  the  world  ;  "  would  they 
think  much  of  his  opinion  ?  And  so, 
when  irreligious  sceptics,  learned  or 
worldly-wise,  tell  us  that  religion  is  to 
die  out,  we  can't  think  much  of  it. 
There  is  a  foolish  talk  I  sometimes 
hear,  about  faith's  having  been  greater 
in  the  dark,  middle  ages,  than  it  is  now  : 
credulity,  it  should  be  called.  Faith, 
true  faith,  deepens,  as  thought,  reason- 
ing, feeling,  the  heart's  great  search- 
ing, goes  deeper.  It  is  so  to-day.  As 
knowledge  grows,  as  culture  advances, 
there  are  more  and  more   men   whose 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 


767 


souls  are  fraught  full  with  a  swelling 
and  undying  sense  of  religion ;  who 
seek  after  God,  after  the  living  God, 
and  feel  that  all  the  interest  of  life  is 
gone,  if  that  great  and  all-hallowing 
Presence  is  gone  fronr.  the  world. 

No ;  religions  may  die  out  of  the 
world,  but  not  religion.  Forms,  usages, 
false  ideas  of  religion,  have  changed  and 
will  change,  but  not  the  central  reality. 
There  is  yet  much  of  what  is  called 
religion  in  the  world,  which,  I  have  no 
doubt,  will  die  out  of  it.  I  hope  it  will. 
I  listen  to  ideas  of  religion,  dishonoring 
to  reason  and  to  God ;  I  listen  to  prayers 
which  I  believe  will  pass  away  when  all 
things  become  new  ;  when  a  profounder 
veneration  and  a  more  awe-struck  sense 
of  what  it  is  to  pray,  will  come  in  place 
of  the  formality,  the  facile  routine,  the 
irreverent  freedom  of  too  much  of  our 
Church  praying.  "  Behold,"  said  an 
ancient  patriarch,  "  I  have  taken  upon 
me  to  speak  unto  God  !  Oh  !  let  not 
the  Lord  be  displeased,  and  I  will 
speak."  "Do  you  know  what  you  are 
doing?''''  —  I  am  sometimes  moved  to  say 
to  the  mere  ofHcial  priest,  uttering  words 
of  rote  and  custom,  —  do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  speak  unto  God;  to  lift  your 
thoughts  to  Him,  whose  Omnipotence 
and  whose  Omniscience  are  spread  over 
all  the  uncounted  millions  of  stars,  and 
countless  millions  more,  it  may  be,  as 
yet  unseen,  that  roll  and  shine  in  the 
boundless  infinitude  beyond  .''  " 

And  yet,  if  any  scientific  philosopher 
tells  me  that  such  an  incomprehensible 
Existence  must  be  merely  an  unknown 
Cause,  a  blank  abstraction  to  our  minds ; 
if  he  tells  me  that  affectionate  devotion, 
tliat  adoring  love,  cannot  rise  to  such 
inconceivable  Greatness,  I  answer,  "  Ls 
it  necessary  to  know  anything  wholly, 
in  order  to  love  it,  —  any  attribute,  power, 
or  person  ?  To  how  many  is  the  highest 
genius,  art,  or  learning,  on  earih,  beyond 
their  reach  to  comprehend !  Yet  do  they 
not  gaze  upon  its  creations  with  delight? 
So,  if  God's  greatness  is  beyond  my 
reach  to  comprehend,  yet,  for  the  very 
reason  that  it  is  infinite,  it  embraces  me; 


it  is  near  me  to  understand  or  feel.  I 
touch  the  circle  of  Infinitude,  though 
I  cannot  span  it ;  and  the  least  arc  of 
the  circle  is  hke  the  whole.  The  light 
that  streams  in  at  my  window  is  lovely, 
though  1  cannot  see  its  boundless  shin- 
ing. And  why  may  I  not  say,  God's 
presence  is  lovely,  though  I  cannot  com- 
prehend its  infinitude  .-"  What  a  fool 
were  a  man,  to  say  he  could  not  admire 
the  beautiful  ocean-bay  he  looked  upon, 
with  its  bending  shore  and  green  mounds 
swelling  around  it,  because  he  could  not 
see  the  whole  ocean  !  Nay,  it  is  more 
beautiful  because  it  is  part  of  the  great 
whole. 

I  know  God  in  his  works.  If  the 
written  page  of  a  book  expresses  to  me 
a  mind,  doth  not  this  boundless  volume 
of  the  creation,  in  which  intelligence  is 
manifest  as  plainly  as  in  a  book  ?  If  a 
human  countenance  shines  and  kindles 
all  over  with  love,  doth  not  — to  him 
who  can  truly  look  into  it  —  the  face  of 
nature,  living,  lovely,  loving  ?  How  en- 
trancing is  the  vision  of  its  beauty ! 
How  manifold  and  wonderful  the  Wis- 
dom beaming  from  every  feature  of  it, 
—  every  flower  and  tree,  every  mountain 
and  valley  speaking  to  him,  —  and  all 
filled  with  myriad  and  joyous  life,  from 
the  fluttering  insect,  up  through  all  ani- 
mal forms,  to  man,  —  and  man  himself 
made  to  behold  all  this  wonder,  all  this 
loveliness,  this  beneficence  !  My  gaze, 
as  I  look  upon  the  earth  and  sky,  the 
vision  of  my  soul,  meets  a  vision,  a  mani- 
festation, an  infinitude  of  Goodness.  I 
see,  —  I  do  not  merely  believe,  —  I  see, 
I  know,  that  an  Infinite  Love  reveals 
itself  through  all  life,  all  nature,  all 
being. 

I  have  attempted,  brethren,  to  speak 
to  you  of  this  great  assuring  trust,  of 
this  great  faith  of  our  being  ;  alas  !  with 
the  old  sense  of  failure  to  speak  of  it 
fitly.  But  because  it  is  inexpressible, 
it  is  none  the  less  assuring.  There  is 
something  in  us  too  deep  for  words  :  a 
sense  of  the  all-divine  and  beauiiful, 
which  is  its  own  assurance  of  being 
true   and    unfailing  ;    something  which 


768 


BASIS   AND    SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


will  never  die  while  anything  lives  in 
us.  No,  it  will  not  die.  No,  it  will  not 
die.  Greatly  say.s  the  Apostle,  "  For  I 
am  persuaded  that  neither  death  nor 
life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor 
powers,  nor  things  present,  nor  things 
to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor  any- 


thing else,  shall  be  able  to  separate  us 
from  the  love  of  God,  which  is  in  Christ 
Jesus  our  Lord."  Sound  out,  eternal 
anthem  !  —  "  Great  and  marvellous  are 
thy  works,  Lord  God  Almighty ;  just 
and  true  are  thy  ways." 


BASIS    AND    SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


AN   ADDRESS   BEFORE  THE   MINISTERIAL  CONFERENCE,  MAY  29,  1867. 


Brethren  of  the  Conference,  — 
I  shall  venture  to  speak  to  you  in  this 
discourse  on  subjects  that  belong  to  the 
time.  This  opens,  doubtless,  too  large 
a  field  to  enter  without  some  definite 
path  to  pursue  or  some  distinct  points 
of  view  being  taken  from  which  to  sur- 
vey it ;  and  I  hasten  to  say  at  once,  that 
the  few  thoughts  I  have  to  offer  will 
come  chiefly  under  the  heads  of  Basis 
and  Superstructure, — of  the  foundation 
in  religion  and  the  upbuilding.  These 
themes  present  a  framework  of  thought 
too  vast,  indeed,  for  discussion,  and  de- 
signed only  to  limit  it.  But  I  desire  to 
look  at  this  great  edifice  of  religion,  — 
to  "go  round  about  Zion,  and  to  mark 
well  her  bulwarks,"  both  because  of  the 
dangers  that  seem  to  assail  it,  and  be- 
cause I  am  sure  of  its  stabihty.  Never, 
certainly,  was  everything  in  religion 
called  in  question,  from  the  lowest  foun- 
dation to  the  topmost  stone,  as  it  is 
now ;  and  yet  never,  I  firmly  believe, 
was  there  so  much  true  religious  faith  in 
the  world  as  now.  If  this  seems  to  be 
a  contradiction,  I  do  not  understand  it  to 
be  so  ;  because  the  foundation-truths  of 
religion,  though  they  are  questioned, 
are  questioned  by  comparatively  few, 
while  the  general  faith  is  gravitating 
towards  them  more  and  more,  is  taking 
deeper  hold  of  the  very  roots  of  religion, 
and  "is,  therefore,  becoming  stronger  and 
more  vital.  Very  scepticism  to-da}'  is 
often  more  vitally  religious  than  was  the 


old  Orthodox  believing  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  whose  stability  is  so  much  vaunt- 
ed by  some,  and  whose  decadence  is  so 
unnecessarily  lamented  over  by  others. 
I  think  that  I  see  the  general  mind  sink- 
ing deeper  and  deeper  into  the  truest 
religious  convictions,  through  the  rents 
of  controversial  theology,  through  the 
chinks  of  bibhcal  historic  evidence  and 
the  breaking  up  of  ecclesiastical  au- 
thority. 

I  have  known  well' enough  what  it  is 
to  doubt ;  and  to'  doubt  concerning  the 
whole  dogmatic  creed  in  which  I  was 
brought  up.  I  once  gave  a  year  to 
retirement  and  study  to  examine  this 
creed.  I  examined  it ;  I  gave  it  up, 
point  by  point,  but  never  for  one  mo- 
ment did  I  lose  my  peace  of  mind.  I 
knew,  or  thought  at  least,  that  my  earthly 
prospects  were  endangered  by  my  in- 
quiries ;  but  my  inmost  tranquillity  and 
deepest  joy  were  never  for  a  moment 
disturbed  by  all  my  doubts  and  difficul- 
ties. And  why?  Because  I  felt  some- 
thino-  within  me  —  an  assurance,  a  cer- 
tainty—  that  lay  beneath  all  doubts,  be- 
neath all  dogmatic  creeds.  Nay,  I  say 
it  firmly,  that  beneath  not  only  all  dog- 
matic creeds,  but  beneath  all  writings, 
beneath  all  Scriptures,  beneath  all 
church  ordinance  and  authority,  beneath 
Christianity,  beneath  the  mission  of  the 
Christ  himself,  there  is,  in  the  solemn 
recesses  of  every  human  soul,  a  foun- 
dation of   religion  and  religious   truth. 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


769 


Jesus  himself  spoke  to  that  inner,  that 
diviner  sense  of  things  ;  else  as  a 
religions  teacher  he  could  not  have 
spoken  at  all.  And  if  I  be  reminded 
that  Paul  says,  "Other  foundation  can 
no  man  lay  than  that  is  laid,  which  is 
Jesus  Christ,"  I  answer,  this  is  true  of 
the  Christian  system.  Jesus  Christ  is 
the  foundation  of  that.  But  that  system 
reposes  on  a  foundation  beneath  it,  — 
the  everlasting  truth  that  underlies  all 
religions.  When  it  is  said  that  an  archi- 
tect lays  the  foundation  of  a  building, 
—  temple,  tower,  or  pyramid,  —  it  is  for- 
gotten, perhaps,  that  this  rests  on  a 
deeper  and  broader  foundation,  the 
foundation  and  basis  of  the  world. 

1  hardly  know  why  I  should  insist 
upon  this  position  with  any  special 
strength  of  statement.  It  is  the  simple 
and  acknowledged  truth,  I  think,  in  our 
religious  philosophy.  Certainly  it  is  in 
every  other.  All  knowledge,  all  science, 
rests  upon  an  original  basis  in  human 
nature.  All  art,  all  perception  and  cul- 
ture of  the  beautiful,  is  referred  to  an 
original  sense  of  beauty  in  the  human 
soul.  When  we  speak  of  the  most  re- 
markable instances  of  human  develop- 
ment ;  when  we  speak  of  Shakspeare, 
we  are  thinking  of  the  wonder  of  his 
genius  more  than  of  his  culture,  or 
means  of  culture.  And  even  if  we  were, 
with  the  utilitarian  philosophers,  —  not 
all  dead  yet,  —  to  refer  all  moral  and 
religious  sentiments  to  sensation  con- 
nected with  the  love  of  happiness,  low 
as  the  basis  would  be  compared  with 
the  grand  primal  intuitions  of  humanity, 
we  should  still  point  to  the  original  con- 
stitution of  human  nature.  I  am  not 
denying,  by  any  means,  the  importance 
of  culture,  of  the  upbuilding;  of  this  I 
shall  come  to  speak.  I  am  not  denying 
that  the  capacity  would  be  created  in 
vain,  unless  it  were  filled  with  some- 
thing;  but  I  am  insisting,  first,  upon 
this  point,  —  the  capacity,  the  founda- 
tion. 

But  now  what,  more  precisely,  is  this 
foundation  ?  It  is  intuition.  It  is  an 
intuitive  sense  of  moral  obligation.  .  It 


is  an  intuition  of  right,  of  justice,  of 
goodness,  and  the  beauty  of  goodness. 
It  is  also  an  intuitive  idea  of  God,  and 
comes  so  near  to  an  absolute  proof  of 
his  existence,  that  all  mankind  have,  in 
one  form  or  another,  received  it.  And, 
again,  the  doctrine  of  immortality  comes, 
if  not  from  a  positive  intuition,  yet  from 
a  notable  instinct  of  humanity  ;  proved 
to  be  such,  says  Guizot,  by  its  having 
existed  among  all  people,  from  the  rudest 
to  the  most  civilized.  Human  degrada- 
tion may  sometimes  appear  to  lend  but 
poor  countenance  to  that  faith.  "  Such 
poor  creatures  as  men  are,  —  many  of 
them  at  least, — can  they  be  immortal?" 
Some  one,  reporting  of  Coleridge's  con- 
versation, says  that  '•  he  talked  one  day 
of  the  sense  of  immortality  in  man,  and 
of  its  universality,  which,  in  his  opinion, 
caused  it  to  partake  of  the  nature  of 
instinct  in  animals.  The  only  time  I 
ever  saw  Lord  Byron,  he  added,  he 
pointed  to  a  man  in  a  state  of  brutal 
intoxication,  and  asked  if  I  thought  that 
a  proof  of  an  immortal  nature.  '  Your 
inquiry,  my  lord,  is,'  I  answered."  — 
"And  so  it  was,"  adds  the  reporter; 
"for  it  was  the  natural  instinct  shrink- 
ing with  abhorrence  from  that  degrada- 
tion,—  that  apparent  death  of  the  soul  " 
These,  then,  are  the  foundations  of  re- 
ligion; of  natural  religion,  of  all  religion, 
laid  and  embedded,  I  believe,  in  the  hu- 
man soul  by  the  hand  that  made  it. 

I  wish  now  to  single  out  from  this 
grand,  original  category  of  faith,  one 
point  as  the  subject  of  some  further 
argument  upon  the  foundations  of  re- 
ligion. I  mean  the  belief  in  God,  and 
especially  in  him  as  a  righteous  Being, 
a  good  Being. 

Why  it  is  that  our  nature,  our  whole 
mind,  demands  this  Being  as  the  object 
of  its  faith  and  adoration  ;  why  every- 
thing within  us  "cries  out  for  God,  for 
the  living  God,"  —  I  will  not  undertake 
to  say  or  explain.  It  may  be  because  a 
boundless  capacity  and  reach  of  thought 
naturally  demand  a  boundless  object, 
that  a  love  such  as  we  are  capable  of 
naturally  soars  to  an  infinitude  of  love, 


49 


770 


BASIS    AND    SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


and  cannot  stop  short  of  it.  It  is  not  — 
of  this  I  am  sure  —  a  mere  desire  of 
infinite  favor  and  protection.  There  is 
a  deeper  element,  a  diviner  passion,  in 
our  being,  that  seeks  its  great  Original. 
And  certain  it  is,  that,  if  that  central 
Light  be  extinguished,  all  in  us  is  dark 
and  desolate.  Strike  out  moral  i)ttuitifln 
from  our  religion,  and  the  corner-stone 
is  gone.  Strike  away  the  doctrine  of 
ivunortality^  and  its  loftiest  pinnacle 
falls.  But  strike  at  the  filial  faith  in 
God,  —  break  that  down,  and  everything 
tumbles  into  ruins. 

It  cannot  be  without  the  profoundest 
concern,  therefore,  that  every  thoughtful 
man  must  look  into  those  questions  con- 
cerning the  Supreme  Nature,  which  our 
minds  naturally  raise,  and  especially 
under  the  guidance  of  modern  science. 
It  is  not  the  "germ"  doctrine  of  Pro- 
fessor Darwin  that  troubles  me.  But 
when  we  think  of  the  extent  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  when  we  carry  our  views  beyond 
our  own  sidereal  system,  so  inconceiv- 
ably vast,  and  embrace  thousands  of 
other  systems,  of  perhaps  equal  extent ; 
and  when  we  reflect  tliat  all  this  may 
be  but  one  section  of  the  unbounded 
creation,  —  what  are  we  to  think  of  the 
Being  who  made,  who  sustains,  and 
who  governs,  the  infinite  whole?  Our 
minds  sink  overwhelmed  in  that  bound- 
less abysm  of  existence  ;  and  we  feel  as 
if  we  knew,  and  could  know,  nothing 
concerning  it,  —  nothing  but  that  it  is. 
"  I  am,"  seems  to  be  all  that  it  can  tell 
us.  Jonathan  Edwards  argues,  that  if 
any,  the  least  event,  thought,  or  motion 
in  the  universe  were  unknown  to  God, 
or  uncontrolled  by  him,  all  would  go  to 
ruin.  But  what  is  that  omnipotence, 
what  that  omniscience,  which  compre- 
hends every  event,  every  mind,  every 
prayer,  every  thought,  every  act,  every 
animalcule,  and  every  animalcular  mo- 
tion that  takes  place  at  every  moment 
in  the  universe  ?  Can  any  intelligence 
conceivable  by  us,  can  any  moral  attri- 
bute conceivable  by  us,  belong  to  such 
a  Nature  ?  Is  not  such  a  Being,  as 
has  been  contended,  strictly  and  utterly 


"unknowable,"  "unthinkable,"  by  us? 
If  utterly  unknowable,  if  in  every  re- 
spect so,  then  we  are  orphans  ;  we  are, 
to  all  spiritual  intents  and  purposes, 
atheists,  "without  God  and  without 
hope." 

But  I  do  not  yield  to  such  a  conclu- 
sion. The  argument  for  it  is  grounded 
on  the  essential  imperfection  of  all 
our  ideas  of  intelligence  and  goodness. 
These  we  mus.t  not  ascribe  to  God  ; 
therefore,  it  is  said,  we  can  ascribe 
nothing  to  him  but  bare  existence ; 
nothing,  i.  e.,  of  an  intellectual  or 
moral  nature.  But  I  make  here  a 
broad,  and  what  seems  to  me  a  very 
material,  distinction.  Our  mental  pro- 
cesses, embracing  succession,  reason- 
ing, comparison,  steps  of  thought,  and 
necessarily  implying  limitation,  are  one 
thing  ;  quite  another  is  our  intuition 
of  truth  and  right,  which  does  not 
involve  any  reasoning  nor  imply  anv 
limitation.  Intuition,  grand  in  every 
way,  is  grandest  of  all  in  this.  It  is 
the  archetype  of  the  Divinity  stamped 
on  the  soul.  It  is  the  symbol  of  eter- 
nal truth  and  right.  It  is  the  image 
of  God. 

If  it  were  not  so;  did  the  Infinite 
Intuition  of  the  true  and  right  differ 
essentially  from  ours  ;  did  the  Infinite 
Intelligence  differ  entirely  from  what 
we  understand  by  intelligence  ;  did  the 
Infinite  Goodness,  or  what  we  call 
such,  differ  altogether  from  all  we 
understand  by  goodness  ;  might  what 
we  worship  as  Infinite  Goodness  be  In- 
finite Malignity  for  aught  we  know,  — 
then  there  would  be  nothing  left  for  us 
to  revere  or  love,  and  all  inward,  true 
religion  would  be  struck  to  death  by 
such  fatal  scepticism. 

The  question,  broadly  and  abstractly 
stated,  is  this :  Does  a  thing's  being 
incomprehensible  make  it  altogether 
unintelligible  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  say 
that  the  very  correlative  of  incompre- 
hensibility is  a  certain  degree  of  intel- 
ligibleness.  We  do  not  say,  that  of 
which  we  know  nothing  is  incompre- 
hensible, but   that  of  which  we  know 


BASIS    AND    SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


771 


something.  And  it  would  seem  to  be 
an  obvious  distinction,  that  the  nature 
of  an  object  is  one  thing,  and  the  extent 
of  it  another  :  but  this  distinction  some 
kite  reasoners,  if  I  understand  them, 
do  not  seem  to  recognize.  We  do  not 
know  how  far  a  thing  extends  ;  and,  if 
it  extends  beyond  the  grasp  of  our 
conception,  we  do  not  know  what  it 
is  in  that  condition  of  inconceivable 
extension. 

Is  this  true  ?  Matter  spreads  to  an 
inconceivable  extent.  Does  it  follow 
that  it  loses  its  nature  in  that  exten- 
sion ?  Are  we  not  sure,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  it  continues  the  same  ? 
Mind  rises,  even  in  some  human 
beings,  —  certainly  it  may  in  superior 
beings,  —  to  a  point  that  we  cannot 
comprehend.  Do  we  not,  therefore, 
know  what  its  nature  is  ?  Does  intel- 
ligence, or  does  goodness,  by  extension, 
by  infinite  extension,  cease  to  be  in- 
telligence or  goodness  .''  Numbers  are 
capable  of  indefinite,  of  infinite  mul- 
tiplication. The  infinite  multipHcation 
we  cannot  comprehend.  Does  it  follow 
that  we  know  nothing  of  the  nature  of 
numbers?  Nay.  do  we  not  know  that 
the  nature  of  numbers,  though  infinitely 
multiplied,  must  continue  the  same  ? 
As  to  comprehending,  we  do  not  com- 
prehend anything  perfectly ;  and,  if 
comprehending  is  the  condition  of 
knowing,  we  do  not  know  anything. 
It  has  been  said  that  we  cannot  dis- 
tinctly comprehend  the  number  20. 
Certain  it  is,  that,  as  we  go  on  counting 
from  one,  our  ideas  grow  indistinct  at 
every  step  :  and  we  can  no  more  com- 
prehend a  million  of  units  than  we  can 
comprehend  an  infinity  of  them.  Nay, 
not  so  much  perhaps  :  for  we  have  a 
distinct  idea  of  infinitude,  but  we  have 
not  of  a  million  of  units.  But  is  it  not 
a  strange  thing  for  a  philosopher  to 
say,  you  cannot  comprehend  a  million 
of  numbers,  tlierefore  you  do  not  know 
what  the  nature  of  numbers  is  ;  or, 
when  carried  to  an  infinite  multiplica- 
tion, you  do  not  know  what  their  nature 
is,  in  that  infinite  multiplication  ? 


It  strikes  at  the  validity  of  all  knowl- 
edge to  say,  that  we  can  have  no  just 
idea  of  that,  in  its  nature,  which  we  do 
not  comprehend  in  its  entirety.  Tlie 
astronomer  understands  something  of 
the  systems  of  the  stars,  though  he 
does  not  understand  their  whole  extent. 
I  stand  before  the  spectacle  of  nature  : 
a  soul  in  me  meets  and  perceives  an 
Intelligence  and  a  Goodness  manifest 
in  the  objects  around  me,  manifested 
as  plainly  as  if  they  were  endowed  with 
speech,  and  uttered  the  thoughts  that 
are  breathing  and  shining  through 
them.  And  am  I  to  be  told  that, 
because  they  are  the  expression  of  an 
Infinite  Mind,  I  know  nothing  of  what 
they  mean,  or  of  what  that  mind  re- 
veals of  itself  through  them  ?  Does  the 
phrase,  "  God  in  nature,"  blot  out  al> 
life  and  light  from  nature  ?  As  we^' 
might  I  be  told  that  I  understand  noth 
ing  of  what  a  human  being  says  to  m" 
of  what  his  meaning  is  when  he  speak-; 
to  me  ;  for  his  meaning  derives  its 
character  from  an  Infinite  Mind  as 
truly  as  the  meaning  of  nature  does. 
And  surely,  if  I  could  go  on  studying 
mind  and  matter  for  ages,  or  forever, 
I  cannot  help  believing  that  they  would 
express  the  same  things.  And  yet  if 
I  could  go  on  till  I  comprehended  all 
created  matter  and  all  created  mind, 
came  nearest  to  the  Infinite,  compre- 
hended the  universe,  in  fact  ;  yet, 
according  to  these  reasonings,  I  should 
still  know  nothing  of  God  but  as  some 
unknown  force.  Who  can  yield  to  such 
reasonings  ?  Alas  !  for  tlie  scientific 
tendency  that  is  taking  tlrat  direction  ; 
that,  merged  in  material  objects,  sees 
not  the  light  shining  through  them ! 
No  ;  mind,  going  out  to  an  Infinite 
Mind,  brings  back  to  us  some  intelli- 
gible conceptions,  however  inadequate. 
From  that  boundless  deep  of  Being,  — 
the  illimitable  extension  of  our  own  be- 
ing, —  come  some  solemn  intimations 
of  its  nature.  But  now  we  are  told  that 
from  that  infinite  rebound  comes  —  noth- 
ing !  Pardon  me,  my  brethren,  if  I 
dwell  upon  this  subject  with  something 


772 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


of  indignant  earnestness.  It  is  as  vital 
to  me  as  my  existence.  Without  God, 
my  being  is  a  miserable  wreck,  amidst 
the  wrecks  of  things  around  me. 

But  I  maintain,  in  opposition  to  this 
philosophizing,  that  we  cannot  help 
thinking  of  intelligence  and  goodness 
as  attributes  of  the  Supreme  Nature. 
We  cannot  help  thinking  of  an  Infinite 
Intelligence  and  Goodness  any  more 
than  we  can  help  thinking  of  an  Infi- 
nite Cause.  The  Infinite,  as  truly  as 
the  Finite,  lies  in  the  very  categories  of 
thought  ;  and,  if  we  do  not  think  of  an 
infinite  nothing,  we  must  think  of  an  in- 
finite something.  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer 
does  think  of  an  infinite  something,  and 
he  calls  it  Force  or  Cause  ;  he  falls 
back  upon  that  ;  he  considers  that,  I 
suppose,  as  "  thinkable."  But  an  infi- 
nite Cause  he  can  no  more  comprehend 
than  an  infinite  Goodness.  And  if  he 
claims,  in  strict  philosophy,  the  right 
to  think  of  an  infinite  Cause,  why 
should  he  deny  the  right  to  think  of  an 
infinite  Goodness  ?  In  fact,  to  be  all 
the  while  writing,  thinking  of  infinitude, 
and  yet  to  deny  that  it  is  thinkable, 
seems  a  strange  thing.  Or,  if  we  con- 
template the  Supreme  Nature  under  the 
aspect  of  a  personal  Will,  is  a  will  any 
less  a  will,  because  it  is  almighty  ? 
It  is  a  completely  unauthorized,  and  in 
fact  an  unintelligible,  conclusion.  As 
James  Martineau  aptly  says  (in  a  pri- 
vate letter),  "  It  is  as  conceivable  to 
me  that  a  Will  should  make  a  solar 
system,  as  that  it  should  make  a  dew- 
drop  ;  or  a  forest,  as  that  it  should 
make  a  tree." 

I  feel,  brethren,  the  awfulness  of  this 
theme.  I  think  I  understand  how  it  is 
that  the  contemplation  of  such  a  stu- 
pendous Existence  should  tend  to  whelm 
all  distinctions.  But  I  believe  it  is  sim- 
ply the  tendency  of  our  weakness.  Still, 
I  believe,  —  after  the  perpetual  formula 
of  all  creeds,  —  I  believe  in  God  ;  I  be- 
lieve in  a  Father  in  heaven.  And  I  cling 
to  this  faith,  not  alone  because  of  my 
weakness,  but  because  I  find  that  it  is 
founded  in  a  just  philosophy.     I  do  not 


accept  it,  as  Mr.  Spencer  does  Anthro- 
pomorphism, as  a  simply  needful,  pro- 
visional faith,  which  is  yet  to  pass  away. 
I  believe  it  is  never  to  pass  away. 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  foundations 
of  religion  as  laid  in  certain  original 
ideas  of  Right,  of  God,  and  of  Immor- 
tality. 

But  a  foundation  is  of  no  value  un- 
less something  is  built  upon  it.  "  Thou 
believest  in  God  :  the  devils  also  be- 
lieve, and  tremble."  Thou  believest 
in  the  right,  and  in  the  immortality  of 
right  ;  but  transient  and  unsubstantial 
as  dreams  or  reveries  may  be  thy  virtue. 
It  is  but  a  reverie,  perhaps  :  how  shall  it 
be  formed  into  a  character  ?  It  is,  pos- 
sibly, but  a  professional  assumption,  or 
something  taken  at  second-hand  :  how 
shall  it  be  thoroughly  thought  out  and 
felt,  rooted  in  the  soul,  and  so  become  a 
deep  and  all-absorbing  reality  ? 

How^  —  this  is  the  question  now  be- 
fore us,  —  by  what  means,  in  what  way, 
through  what  agencies  and  influences, 
and,  most  of  all,  by  what  working  out 
of  the  great  problem  in  ourselves  ?  For 
it  is  a  personal,  and  sometimes  it  ap- 
pears as  if  it  were  a  fearful,  problem. 
Why  is  it  so  fearful .''  Why  is  it  so  diffi- 
cult to  solve  it  ?  Why  must  we  be  so 
anxious  and  troubled  for  ourselves,  ard 
for  all  men,  tipon  this  one  point?  It 
seems  so  easy  in  theory,  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult in  practice  ;  so  easy  and  beautiful 
simply  to  feel  the  Great  Presence  all 
around  as  the  very  light ;  and  to  breathe 
all  pure  and  gentle  affections  as  the 
very  atmosphere  ;  and  to  make  the  very 
ground  we  tread  upon  as  the  measured 
lists  of  those  who  run  a  race,  with  prog- 
ress at  every  step  and  certain  victory 
at  the  goal.  Why  is  it  so  far  otherwise 
with  the  common  experience  of  men  ? 
Does  it  not  seem,  at  times,  as  if  there 
were  some  obstinate  and  intractable 
lump  of  depravity  in  our  nature,  some 
radical  or  inherited  defect  in  our  hu- 
manity, to  account  for  its  disheartening 
failures  ?  Such,  I  am  well  assured,  is 
noi  the  true  philosophy  of  our  condi- 
tion.    Flesh  and  sense,  with  their  dan- 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


77: 


gerous  tendencies,  are  appointed  as  the 
.scaifolding  of  the  building  widiin  ;  in- 
terests, our  own  or  others',  urging  on 
the  workj  yet,  through  our  blindness, 
interfere  with  it ;  ignorance  of  what  the 
light  is  often  perplexes  us,  and  the  work 
is  to  go  on  amidst  doubt  and  struggle 
and  difficulty.  It  is  difficulty,  and  not 
facility,  in  all  human  endeavors,  in 
knowledge  as  well  as  in  virtue,  that 
produces   the   noblest  results. 

But,  amidst  it  all,  can  we  do  anything 
far  ourselves  or  others  ?  I  answer,  that 
we  can  do  everything,  God  helping  us 
'•to  will  and  to  do."  To  will:  I  place 
that  in  the  foreground  of  the  whole 
work.  The  true  Christian  is  a  self- 
made  man.  The  concentrated  will  to  do 
right  and  to  be  right  is  the  first  step 
in  conversion;  carried  out,  it  is  conver- 
sion. This  every  man  can  put  forth,  if 
in  no.other  way,  in  these  three:  by  ab- 
staining from  the  wrong  actions  to  which 
the  passions  impel  him ;  by  turning 
away  the  minds  attention  from  the 
wrong  to  the  right ;  and  by  the  diligent 
use  ot  all  proper  means.  He  cannot, 
perhaps,  will  virtue,  will  right  affections, 
into  existence.  In  this  sense,  I  should 
admit  the  old  doctrine  of  human  in- 
ability. God  creates  those  affections, 
not  man.  He  has  created  the  germs  of 
those  affections  within  us:  it  is  ours  to 
cultivate  them.  Just  as,  in  geometry, 
we  do  not  create  the  axioms  :  they  are 
created  within  us  ;  but  we  build  upon 
them. 

But  this  opens  to  us  the  broad  field 
of  our  inquiry.  What  is  to  be  done  to 
bring  men  to  this  will  and  endeavor  } 
In  other  words,  what  are  the  influences 
and  agencies  that  are  to  come  into  our 
contemplation  as  means  of  building  up 
religion  in  the  world  ? 

Let  us  take  account,  then,  first  of  the 
breadth  of  these  influences  ;  and  next 
of  their  place  and  power  in  the  Christian 
religion,  church,  and  ministry. 

In  their  breadth,  they  embrace  all 
that  forms  the  character.  Christianity 
takes  a  leading  part  ;  but  there  are 
many  things  beside,  to  be    considered. 


External  means  have  their  place,  but 
there  are  far  deeper  and  stronger  powers 
within.  Conscience,  the  sense  of  right, 
stands  first  ;  that  which  is  truly  the 
Spirit  of  God  within  us.  Fear,  doubtless, 
drives  many  to  religion  ;  a  very  ques- 
tionable influence,  and  producing  a  very 
questionable  result.  Far  more  profound 
is  the  sense  of  an  infinite  need,  wliich 
nothing  but  religion  can  supply.  And  I 
believe,  if  we  examine  our  own  minds, 
we  shall  find  that  what  has  earliest 
drawn  us  to  the  highest  things  is  the 
example  of  excellent  persons,  — of  our 
parents  and  friends;  example,  whether  in 
real  life  or  in  biography.  This  opens  to 
U3  the  whole  sphere  of  society,  and  indeed 
of  good  literature  (which  is  the  life  of 
souls),  as  the  field  of  religious  growth. 

The  field  is  wide,  as  wide  as  the 
world  ;  nay,  it  is  the  world.  Religion, 
it  has  been  justly  said,  is  an  "earth- 
made  thing  ;  "  and  that  was  said  by  our 
Ortliodox  missionary  brother,  Mr.  Nott, 
of  Wareham,  in  his  preface  to  an  ex- 
cellent little  volume  of  sermons,  enti- 
tled the  "  Birds  and  Lilies."  It  is  an 
earth-made  thing,  as  truly  as  it  is  a 
heavenly  breath  ;  and  all  things  should 
conspire  to  its  upbuilding.  It  is  not 
the  Bible  alone,  nor  the  Church  alone, 
nor  preaching  alone ;  but  it  is  Nature, 
it  is  life,  it  is  society,  it  is  business,  it 
is  daily  toil,  that  should  be  engaged  in 
this  great  ministration. 

And  all  this,  I  conceive,  should  be 
shown  and  taught  to  the  people.  In 
particular,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
we  should  preach  more  than  we  do  from 
the  teachings  of  nature.  That  was  the 
manner  of  the  Great  Teacher.  What 
is  the  view  that  most  men  have  of  the 
world  they  live  in,  —  of  the  material 
world  ?  The  old  desecration  of  it  is 
only  somewhat  modified.  It  is,  indeed, 
no  longer  regarded  as  directly  the  work 
of  Demiurge,  or  Devil ;  but,  to  men 
generally,  what  is  the  material  world  ? 
It  is  a  mere  clod  to  work  upon,  a  hard 
taskmaster,  or  a  ])lace  to  build  cities  in, 
or  to  open  roads  and  to  do  business,  or 
to  make  a  prosperous   career  ;  and  its 


774 


BASIS    AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


divine  laws  and  ministrations  do  not 
come  into  their  thouglits  once  in  a 
hundred  times  that  they  think  of  it. 
And  they  never  will  learn  any  spiritual 
lessons  from  it  till  they  are  taught 
something  of  what  it  means  ;  something 
of  the  philosophy  of  their  condition  ; 
something  to  make  them  understand 
that  their  daily  labor  is  good  for  them, 
—  is  essential,  in  fact,  both  to  their 
virtue  and  happiness.  To  make  this 
disparaged  world,  then,  a  religious 
sphere  ;  to  show  how  full  of  wonderful 
wisdom  are  its  laws  and  ordinances  ; 
to  make  daily  life  a  scene  of  honest, 
faithful,  and  pious  task-work,  —  this 
is  to  build  up  religion  :  and  prayer  and 
preaching  are  of  little  avail,  if  this  is 
not  accomphshed. 

And  the  social  sphere,  —  that,  first, 
which  is  technically  called  society  ;  so 
dull  and  vapid  often  for  want  of  thought 
and  the  free  play  of  thought  ;  so 
chilled  and  crippled  by  envy  and  am- 
bition ;  so  awkward  under  the  bond- 
age of  self-consciousness  and  the  mis- 
erable fear  of  one  another,  — what  free- 
dom, what  fresh  life  and  joy,  would  be 
poured  into  it  by  the  highest  religion, 
by  the  sense  and  love  of  a  heavenly 
Presence  all  around,  which  would  make 
"  the  whole  world  kin  "  !  Then,  next, 
the  social  problems,  —  all  that  concerns 
men's  social  rights  and  duties,  —  free- 
dom, suffrage,  obedience  to  law,  all  that 
helps  humanity,  must  come  into  the 
large  and  just  view  of  building  up  re- 
ligion. "  For  if  a  man  love  not  his 
brother,  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can 
he  love  God,  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  " 

The  love  of  God  is,  doubtless,  the 
highest  sentiment :  it  is  the  first  and 
great  commandment.  But  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  there  may  be  a  su- 
perstitious exaggeration  of  it,  as  com- 
pared with  the  love  of  man,  and  that 
not  alone  with  mystics  and  pietists.  "  If 
thou  bring  thy  gift  to  the  altar,  and  there 
rememberest  that  thy  brother  has  aught 
against  thee,  leave  there  thy  gift  before 
the  altar,  and  go  thy  way  ;  first  be  rec- 
onciled to  thy  brother,  and  then  come 


and  offer  thy  gift."  Wonderful  words  ! 
and  especially  for  the  age  in  which  they 
were  delivered.  Not  that  I  would  dero- 
gate anything  from  the  supreme  claim. 
No ;  I  join  with  the  mystics  and  the 
pietists,  with  Thomas  k  Kempis  and 
Tauler,  in  that.  One  Power,  that  binds 
the  universe  to  perfect  order ;  one  Jus- 
tice, that  sustains  the  right,  and  will 
tread  down  all  wrong ;  one  Wisdom,  that 
guides  the  stars  in  their  courses,  and 
the  footsteps  of  men ;  one  Love,  that 
embraces  all  creatures,  through  infini- 
tude and  eternity,  in  its  fulness,  —  this 
is  the  soul's  sufficiency  and  beatitude 
and  rest.  But  we  may  love  and  vener- 
ate in  ine7i  the  same  excellence  in  its 
nature,  that  we  love  and  venerate  in 
God.  "  The  second,"  said  the  Master, 
after  having  laid  down  the  first  com- 
mandment,—  "the  second  is  like  unto 
it:  thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  tiiy- 
self." 

But  it  is  time  that  I  come  to  what  es- 
pecially belongs  to  this  second  branch 
of  my  discourse,  —  to  Christianity,  to 
the  Church  and  its  ministrations. 

The  Church  has  its  theology.  Of 
what  weight  and  importance  is  this,  in 
promoting  virtue  and  piety  among  the 
people,  or  in  moulding  their  character  ? 
Something,  doubtless,  is  in  this  respect 
to  be  attributed  to  it,  but  not  every- 
thing, nor  even  the  principal  influence. 
Still,  what  a  man  believes,  must  have 
some  influence  upon  what  he  feels.  In 
fact,  what  he  feally  believes,  constitutes 
a  part  of  what  he  is.  But  so  has  reli- 
gion been  severed  from  all  rational  con- 
nection with  everything  else,  that  it  has 
been  possible  for  the  most  beautiful 
forms  of  character  to  grow  up  amidst 
every  variety  of  belief,  and  of  the  most 
monstrous  belief.  The  result  is  not 
logical ;  but  men  are  not  logical.  The 
result,  too,  is  somewhat  exceptional  ; 
and,  with  the  body  of  mankind,  what 
they  think,  must  have  a  great  deal  to 
do  with  what  they  are.  Mr.  Lecky  has 
drawn  a  terrible  picture  of  what  the  doc- 
trines of  exclusive  salvation  and  eternal 
perdition,  for  the  mass  of  men,  did,  to 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


IT: 


produce  a  general  inhumanity  and  the 
most  relentless  persecutions ;  and  it  is 
not  more  terrible  than  true. 

Within  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years 
there  has  been  a  remarkable  decadence 
of  controversial  theology,  and  especially, 
perhaps,  among  ourselves.  The  older 
men  among  us,  who  took  part  in  the 
controversy  with  the  Orthodox  faith, 
became  thoroughly  tired  of  it,  and  mostly 
in  their  preaching  turned  away  from  it. 
This  tendency,  I  believe,  has  gone  full 
far,  and  ought  to  be  checked.  The 
day  of  creeds,  it  is  said,  has  gone  by ; 
but  I  do  not  think  so.  The  day  of  dog- 
matic creeds,  if  you  please,  but  not  of 
vital  beliefs.  And  I  conceive  that  it  is» 
our  duty  again  to  spread  before  the  peo- 
ple, in  books  and  tracts,  the  views  we 
hold  of  religious  truth  and  of  religion. 
I  believe  they  are  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance in  building  up  a  rational,  cheerful, 
and  earnest  faith  and  piety. 

But  there  is  a  controversy  which  has 
arisen  among  ourselves,  and  is  of  more 
interest  to  us  than  any  we  have  with 
others  ;  and  that  relates  to  the  charac- 
ter of  the  claim  which  Christianity  it- 
self has  upon  our  reverence.  Has  it 
a  supernatural  claim  ?  Does  it  bear 
upon  it  the  stamp  of  miracle,  either 
in  the  character  or  in  the  works  of  its 
Founder  ? 

This  question  turns  upon  the  view  we 
take  of  the  Christian  records.  Are  they 
reliable?  Are  they  to  be  taken  mainly 
as  they  stand.''  Or  do  they  consist,  in 
considerable  part,  of  legendary  accre- 
tions that  grew  up  about  the  original 
story.'  Are  they,  in  part,  of  the  same 
unreliable  character  as  the  spurious  Gos- 
pels ?  We  have  a  body  of  such  Gospels. 
They  contain  internal  evidence  enough 
of  being  spurious.  No  one  can  read 
them  without  feeling  it.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Gospel  of  Nicodemus, 
or  Acts  of  Pilate,  which  is  evidently  a 
constructed  fiction,  all  these  writings 
are  full  of  improbable,  or  absurd  and  idle 
stories.  But  the  genuine  Gospels  bear 
all  the  marks  of  sobriety  and  honesty 
together,  and  are,  indeed,  every  way  of 


such  a  moral  tone,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  believe  that  the  writers  intentionally 
inserted  what  they  knew  to  be  mere  fa- 
bles, to  embellish  their  narratives.  And, 
if  they  had  given  simply  and  only  an 
account  of  Jesus  as  a  pure  and  sublime 
Teacher,  we  should  have  credited  them 
without  hesitation. 

It  must  be,  then,  a  distrust  of  all  mira- 
cles, that  leads  us  to  distrust  the  Evan- 
gelists. It  is  the  assumption  that  a 
miracle  is  in  itself,  and  altogether,  an  im- 
possible and  an  incredible  thing.  Are 
we  entitled  to  take  this  ground  ?  Is  the 
system  of  the  universe  such  a  system 
of  "  evolutions,"  rolling  up  everything 
into  their  folds,  that  it  is  not  left  to 
God  himself  to  change  or  reinforce  any 
power  in  matter  or  mind  ?  If  we  say 
this,  upon  what  grounds  can  we  say  it  ? 
Certainly  not  that  we  intuitively  know 
it.  And  if  upon  any  other  ground,  it 
must  be  that  we  know  all  the  facts  and 
possibilities  in  the  universe ;  which  we 
do  not  know. 

The  truth  is,  I  suppose,  that  the  rejec- 
tion of  miracles  does  not  depend  on 
argument,  but  upon  a  general  state  of 
mind.  It  is  that  state  of  mind  which 
Mr.  Lecky  has  described  in  his  admira- 
ble book  on  the  history  of  Rationalism 
in  Europe.  We  all  know  —  know  by 
experience  —  what  it  is,  and  we  all 
welcome  in  general  the  progress  of  Ra- 
tionalism. But  all  progress  goes  by 
swayings  back  and  forth  ;  and  the  ques- 
tion is,  whether  the  rationalistic  tenden- 
cy may  not,  on  this  subject,  go  too  far  ; 
just  as  every  other  tendency  —  liberty, 
equality,  democracy  —  may  at  times  ;.'0 
too  far.  It  certainly  may  be  so;  and  it 
would  not  surprise  me  to  see  a  reaction 
in  favor  of  miracles. 

But,  however  this  shall  be,  I  desire 
for  myself  to  touch  ground  amidst  the 
swayings  of  the  great  rationalistic  tide, 
and  not  to  be  carried  too  far.  If  there 
is  one  state  of  mind  that  is  unfavorable 
to  miracles,  there  is  another  that  is  fa- 
vorable to  them ;  and  it  may  be  the 
most  philosophical  of  the  two.  Is  the 
Supreme  Nature  an  infinitely  loving  Na- 


T]6 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


ture,  or  is  it  a  mere  impersonal  Force  ? 
When  1  am  most  impressed  with  God's 
tender  mercy  to  every  creature,  and  dis- 
miss the  childish  thought  that  it  cares 
less  for  this  world  because  it  is  one  of 
an  infinite  number;  when  I  see  what  a 
world  it  is,  and  feel  the  mighty  burden, 
upon  its  heart,  of  sorrows  and  strug- 
glings  and  perils  ;  and  when  I  behold 
that  immaculate  Wonder  which  rose  in 
the  world,  eighteen  centuries  ago,  to 
shine  with  healing  power  upon  all  the 
ages,  —  it  does  not  seem  to  me  irrational 
to  believe  that  this  grandest  interven- 
tion for  human  help  was  marked  by  the 
finger  of  God  with  some  special  empha- 
sis and  attestation.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  know  it,  —  this  is  not  a  matter  for 
dogmatic  and  unquestionable  statement ; 
but  that  my  mind  inclines  me  to  be- 
lieve it. 

The  question  here  belongs  to  the  phi- 
losophy of  Christianity,  and  not  to  its 
essence,  and  ought  not  to  alienate  or 
separate  its  true  friends.  I  see  as  good 
men  on  one  side  of  it  as  the  other. 
And  for  good  and  thoughtful  men  to 
hold  one  another  under  any  religious 
or  social  proscription  for  their  honest 
opinions  ought  to  belong  to  the  ac- 
cursed  intolerance  of  the  past. 

The  truth  is,  the  vitality  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion  lies  deeper  than  miracles. 
Tiie  mission  of  Christ  is  the  same  in  its 
object,  whether  attested  by  miracles  or 
not,  —  to  lead  us  out  of  darkness  into 
light;  out  of  distrust  and  despair  to 
filial  faith  ;  out  of  sin  and  sorrow  to 
holiness  and  blessedness.  Men  may 
be  so  led,  are  so  led,  without  ever  think- 
ing of  miracles  or  the  miraculous.  There 
are  miracles  in  the  human  soul,  —  at 
least  there  are  direct  and  divine  im- 
prints upon  it,  —  that  are  of  deeper 
import  than  any  that  are  externak  or 
ex'ceptional.  Christianity  itself  is  based 
upon  something  deeper  than  its  visible 
form  or  claim.  I  accept  it  as  the  best 
of  religions,  but  not  as  the  whole  of  re- 
ligion. "The  Christian  consciousness," 
though  that  phrase  is  constantly  pro- 
nounced as  the    final  word,  is    not  the 


final  word.  The  final  and  great  word 
—  Jesus  himself  being  witness  —  is 
God,  and  the  spirit  of  God  breathing 
in  the  human  soul.  Nothing  offends 
me  more  than  the  extravagant  claims  of 
the  Christian  dogmatists,  saying,  "  Noth- 
ing but  Christ,  nothing  but  Christ,"  — 
as  if  God  were  not,  and  the  presence 
of  God  were  nothing.  No :  it  is  not 
true  that  all  religion  lies  within  the  com- 
pass even  of  Cliristian  dogma  and  in- 
stitution. It  comes  also  from  the  way- 
side of  still  meditation.  It  comes  from 
the  midnight  stars.  It  comes  from  the 
clouds  of  eventide.  It  came  so  to  An- 
toninus and  Boethius,  and  many  another, 
,who,  without  written  law,  were  a  law 
to  themselves.  It  comes  from  converse 
with  good  men's  presence  and  example 
and  heroic  deeds.  It  comes  from  the 
biographic  page,  from  poetic  inspiration, 
from  pictures  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
from  the  deeps  of  music ;  from  wher- 
ever the  spirit  of  God,  like  the  unseen 
wind,  breathes  holy  refreshment  and 
healing  life  through  the  hearts  of  the 
children  of  men. 

But  I  am  dweUing  too  long  upon  this 
topic  ;  and  I  have  something  yet  to  say 
of  the  Church  and  its  ministrations,  as 
the  means  of  awakening  and  kindling 
a  religious  life  in  the  people.  I  must 
hmit  myself  to  a  few  words  upon  the 
Church  as  a  working  institution  (so  to 
speak)  ;  upon  preaching  and  the  man- 
ner of  the  Great  Preacher,  and  upon  the 
Ordinance  that  commemorates  him. 

With  regard  to  the  Church  as  a  work- 
ing institution,  I  have  often  thought, 
that  if  I  were  the  pastor  of  a  church  in 
town  or  country,  but  especially  in  the 
latter,  I  should  want  a  building  of  hard- 
ly less  capacity  than  the  church  itself, 
for  various  purposes.  I  should  want  a 
library-room,  and  a  reading-room,  and 
a  lecture-room,  which  sliould  also  be  a 
chapel  for  conference  and  other  religious 
services ;  and  also  one  or  two  rooms 
for  charitable  work.  I  would  make  this 
a  rallying-place  for  the  congregation, 
where  they  might  find  '•  books  and  work 
and  healthful  play  "  —  of  the   intellect. 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


71. 


Here  I  should  like  to  talk  to  them,  from 
time  to  time,  of  the  works  of  nature,  of 
the  world  they  live  in,  and  try  to  make 
them  understand  somethinjj  of  it.  I 
should  like,  too,  to  have  lectures  from 
the  more  intelligent  members  of  the 
congregation,  and  discussions,  confer- 
ence, questions  and  answers  upon  these 
subjects  ;  and  also,  at  times,  deeper 
roli;^ious  conference.  And  it  seems  as 
if  something  might  be  done  here,  to 
make  the  people  acquainted  with  the 
intellectual  world  they  live  in.  That 
grand  outcome  of  the  world's  thought 
which  we  call  Literature,  —  what  a  sad 
default  to  reason,  to  common-sense,  for 
persons  who  can  read,  to  pass  through 
this  life-sphere,  and  to  know  nothing  of 
its  sublimest  oracles  !  Men  read,  read 
much  perhaps,  but  what  ?  Ephemeral 
trash,  the  last  sensation  novel,  or  the 
newspaper  ;  and  they  know  little  or  noth- 
ing of  Plato  or  Epictetus,  of  Hooker  or 
Addison,  of  Milton  or  Burke,  hardly  of 
Shakspeare,  but  that  such  persons  have 
lived.  And  I  firmly  believe  that,  if  any 
pastor  would  take  up  this  plan  ;  if  he 
did  not  preach  so  much  ;  if,  instead  of 
wearing  himself  out  with  making  formal 
visits,  and  writing  so  many  sermons, — 
Dr.  Chauncey  said,  two  hundred  were 
as  many  as  any  man  should  write,  —  if, 
I  say,  he  would  meet  the  people  in  this 
way,  they  would  know  him  better,  and 
he  them  ;  and  altogether  they  might 
build  themselves  up  in  a  culture,  both 
of  knowledge  and  religion,  that,  for  a 
religious  congregation,  would  be  a  new 
thing  in  the  world. 

Such  gatherings  of  the  people  might 
be  on  one  or  two  evenings  of  the  week, 
or  on  Sunday  afternoons.  It  would  be 
better,  I  think,  than  to  listen  to  a  second 
sermon,  which  drives  out  the  first,  —  a 
custom,  too,  which  muddles  the  people's 
ideas  about  sermons  altogether,  so  that 
they  can  tell  less  about  them  than  of 
anything  else  they  liear  or  know.  There 
is  too  much  preaching.  There  is  too 
much  preaching  for  the  preacher.  There 
is  too  much  preaching  for  the  people. 

But  preaching,  —  this  is  the  second 


point  I  am  to  notice.  There  is  a  sigh, 
through  all  the  land,  over  dull  preach- 
ing. And  when  a  man  comes  along, 
who  touches  and  melts  the  heart  of  the 
people,  it  is  an  era  to  them  ;  they  re- 
member it  long  after.  I  am  speaking 
in  the  general.  I  know  that  we  have 
interesting  preachers  among  us,  and  a 
good  many  of  them,  —  more,  I  believe, 
than  any  other  people  have.  Still,  there 
is  a  sad  deficiency  ;  and  the  question  is, 
—  and  it  is  the  greatest  practical  ques- 
tion I  know,  —  How  are  we  to  pour  a  new 
and  quickening  life  into  the  pulpit  ? 

But,  first,  what  would  that  quickening 
life  be  ?  I  answer,  simple  earnestness, 
a  profound  impression  and  religious 
tenderness  in  the  preacher,  that  would 
touch  all  hearts  around  him.  I  know 
what  is  said  of  gifts,  of  genius,  of  en- 
thusiasm, as  not  belonging  to  every- 
body ;  and  I  admit  all  their  value  and 
charm.  But  1  maintain  that  there  may 
be  a  deep  feeling  of  religion  without 
them.  And  he  who  should  speak  to 
me  with  that  feeling,  —  he  even  who 
should  so  read  a  hymn,  or  a  Psalm  of 
David,  as  to  touch  my  heart,  —  would 
do  more  for  me,  of  that  for  which  I 
come  to  church,  than  the  most  splendid 
discourse  without  it.  The  splendid  dis- 
course I  can  read  at  home  ;  but  what  I 
go  to  church  for  is  impression,  —  to  feel 
the  power  of  religion.  I  recall  now  an 
aged  man  of  the  humblest  ability  and 
culture,  who,  when  he  stood  up  and 
prayed  in  the  meeting,  —  his  slender 
frame  and  white  locks  trembling  with 
emotion,  like  a  holocaust  of  love  and 
thanksgiving,  —  made  upon  me  more 
of  that  impression  than  any  other  re- 
ligious ministration  that  I  remember 
in  my  youth.  Mrs.  Kemble,  in  her 
"  Georgian  Journal,"  tells  of  her  read- 
ing the  words  of  Jesus  to  the  slaves. 
She  said  afterwards,  speaking  of  it, 
"  As  I  read  those  words,  I  wondered 
how  anybody  ever  dared  to  make  a 
commentary  upon  them."  I  do  not 
doubt,  that,  for  showing  what  those 
words  meant,  her  reading  was  better 
than  any  commentary.     I   remember  a 


//< 


BASIS   AND   SUPERSTRUCTURE. 


simple  woman  teaching  in  a  Sunday 
school,  who  so  pronounced  the  word 
God,  —  I  do  not  recall  anything  else 
she  said,  —  but  wlio  with  such  a  tender 
awe  pronounced  that  word,  that  it  was 
a  sermon  to  me,  such  as  few  could 
equal.  That  was  forty  years  ago  ;  but 
it  has  been  a  blessed  impression  upon 
my  mind  ever  since. 

But  how  is  this  sense  of  things  di- 
vine, this  rehgious  fervor,  to  be  ob- 
tained, which  makes  the  weak  strong 
and  the  simple-hearted  more  than  elo- 
quent? For  answer,  I  think  we  must 
go  to  our  religious  nurture,  and  to  the 
very  roots  of  it.  It  has  been  supersti- 
tious ;  it  has  been  based  on  false  ideas ; 
it  has  lacked  a  genial  and  inspiring 
warmth.  All  this  must  be  changed.  Re- 
ligious nurture  must  be  as  simple  and 
natural  as  that  which  awakens  the  love 
of  knowledge,  of  art,  of  beauty,  of  all 
things  lovely  and  beautiful.  Then,  if 
the  education  of  our  youth  in  school 
and  college  could  be  what  it  should  be ! 
Alas,  it  is  not  !  But  this  being  so,  I 
will  venture  to  say,  that  the  object  of 
our  theological  schools  should  be  more 
than  it  has  been  the  nurture  of  a  re- 
ligious spirit.  The  learning  obtained  in 
them  is  well  :  but  if  our  Theological 
Instructors  —  I  speak  it  with  all  respect 
for  them  —  could  gather  their  pupils  to- 
gether weekly  in  earnest  religious  con- 
ference, and  pour  an  enkindling  warmth 
into  those  meetings,  so  that  all  hearts 
should  be  touched  by  Jt,  so  that  the 
latent  and  slumbering  sensibility  should 
be  nursed  into  a  holy  fervor  and  joy,  I 
believe  it  would  be  worth  more  than  all 
the  learning. 

There  has  been  one  teacher  —  the 
great  Teacher  —  at  whose  feet  we  sit; 
and  his  words,  at  which  our  hearts  leap 
for  joy  or  tremble  with  awe,  were  not 
delivered  in  the  style  of  what  is  ordi- 
narily called  eloquence.  How  sober 
and  quiet  they  were  !  but  what  great 
words,  and  of  what  immense,  of  what 
unequalled,  power !  Gather  the  wisest 
men  of  all  ages,  and  not  one  of  them, 
nor  all  of  them  together,  could  do  for 


us  what  he  has  done.  A  power  lies  in 
the  simple  record  of  what  he  said  and 
did  and  suffered,  which  no  criticism  can 
shake,  —  which  even  Kenan's  does  not 
propose  to  disturb.  It  has  not  only  per- 
vaded, it  has  presided  over,  the  civiliza- 
tion of  nearly  eighteen  centuries ;  and 
if  anything  on  earth  is  of  heaven,  of  the 
very  providence  of  God,  it  is  this. 

A  word  now,  in  close,  upon  the  Ordi- 
nances of  the  Church,  which,  to  com- 
plete the  view  of  Church  influences,  I 
ought  to  speak  of. 

Baptism  has  its  fitness,  —  the  birth- 
time  rite,  the  celebration  of  a  most 
momentous  event,  the  thankful  recog- 
nition of  God's  goodness,  and  the  hum- 
ble recognition,  with  prayer  and  conse- 
cration, of  the  most  solemn  trust  that 
can  be  committed  to  mortals.  This  is 
naturally  fit  and  beautiful,  though  there 
be  no  express  Christian  warrant  for  it, 
except  when  applied  to  converts  from 
heathenism.  And  why  shall  not  the 
great  Eucharistic  Rite  be  regarded  as 
naturally  fit  and  beautiful,  —  the  affec- 
tionate commemoration  of  the  ever- 
revered  and  beloved  Master,  —  such 
visible  homage  to  that  wonderful  being 
who  stands  alone  in  the  world  in  the 
thoughts  of  all  who  have  ever  read  or 
known  of  him  ?  It  is  natural  to  do 
this.  Great  men  have  often  been  so 
commemorated  after  death,  —  are  now. 
For  a  few  years  the  memory  of  them 
has  been  so  kept  alive ;  but  this  memo- 
rial has  stood  through  all  the  Christian 
centuries.  It  seems  to  me  a  serious 
thing  to  lower  it  from  its  place,  and 
lay  it  aside.  Much  difficulty  as  I  feel 
about  the  too  commonly  mournful,  con- 
strained, and  superstitious  observance 
of  it,  I  cannot  do  that.  It  may  be  said 
that  the  Quakers  have  laid  it  aside, 
without  any  ill  consequence.  I  doubt 
that.  Quakerism  is  going  out  into  intel- 
lectual dispersion,  for  want  of  fixtures. 
A  solemn  memorial  altar  standing  in 
the  world  may  serve  to  bind  men  to 
the  great  Christian  allegiance.  I  am  as 
sensible  as  any  one  can  be  of  the  mis- 
taken ideas  and  manners  with  which  the 


THEISM   AND   ATHEISM. 


m 


Lord's  Supper  has  been  surrounded ; 
lliey  have  troubled  me  all  my  life.  The 
notions  of  the  communion,  as  a  test  or 
;i  profession  of  goodness,  rather  than  a 
help  to  it,  —  as  a  mark  on  the  sheep  of 
the  fold,  or  as  something  to  be  partaken 
of  with  preternatural  awe,  —  are  as  in- 
jurious as  they  are  wrong.  Cannot  some- 
thing be  done  to  correct  tiiem  ?  Can- 
not we,  as  pastors,  by  a  manner  in  this 
service  free  from  all  superstition,  by  a 
manner  simple,  natural,  cheerful,  affec- 
tionate, and  earnest,  do  something  to 
invest  it  with  a  new  character?  If  I 
should  hear  of  a  company  of  disciples 
that  came  together  in  a  cheerful  hearti- 
ness and  voluntariness  to  spend  an  hour 
or  an  evening  in  the  remembrance  of 
Jesus,  —  to  sing  hyrnns  to  him,  perhaps, 
as  of  old,  —  to  sing  anthems,  to  speak 


of  him,  to  admire  and  to  glorify  the 
divinest  man,  —  I  should  want  to  be 
there.  But  it  is  not  so  with  our  ordi- 
nary celebrations,  —  the  spirit,  I  mean, 
is  not  such.  We  are  too  literal.  We  fix 
our  thoughts  upon  the  symbols,  when 
it  were  better  that  the  symbols  were 
lost  sight  of  in  the  feeling  of  what  they 
mean.  The  letter  killeth,  the  form  kill- 
eth  ;  but  the  spirit  maketh  alive. 

But  the  spirit  maketh  alive,  —  this 
would  be  my  final  word,  if  I  had  any 
to  offer.  The  letter  killeth  ;  in  dogma, 
in  form,  in  institution,  the  letter  kill- 
eth ;  but  the  spirit,  —  the  breath  divine 
in  our  souls,  the  deep  and  living  sense 
of  religion  in  our  hearts,  underlying  and 
quickening  everything  else,  —  this  alone 
can  make  us  men;  this  alone  can  make 
us  preachers  to  men. 


THEISM   AND   ATHEISM:    A    TALK   WITH 
MY    NEIGHBOR.* 

From  the  "  Old  and  New,"  for  March,  1S73. 


Can  a  man,  I  said,  be  an  atheist  ? 
On  the  contrary,  do  not  the  laws  of 
his  mind  obhge  him  to  beheve  that  this 
universe  has  a  cause  ? 

'•  I  doubt  it,"  was  his  answer.  "  Comte 
was  an  atheist ;  Vogt  is  an  atheist.  I 
do  not  know  but  I  am  one  myself." 

I  am  amazed  to  hear  you  say  so. 

"  It  is  natural,"  he  replied,  "that  you 
should  use  that  word  to  express  your 
feeling:  and  I  do  not  say  positively  that 
I  am  an  atheist.  I  am  willing  to  rea- 
son the  matter  with  you  ;  but  I  confess 
that,  of  the  two  doctrines,  theism  seems 
to  me  the  more  amazing." 

How  is  that  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

"This  is  what  I  mean,  —  and  I  ask 
you  to  consider  it  :  if  the  cause  of  all 
tilings  is  intelligent,  this  intelligence 
must  embrace  the  knowledge  of  all 
:hings,  must  it  not  ?  " 


I  have  something,  I  susfsrested,  which 
I  wish  to  say  on  the  doctrine  of  om- 
niscience ;  but  what  is  it  that  you 
say  ? 

"  Think,  then,  I  say,  of  this  world, 
with  its  1.300,000,000  of  human  inhabi- 
tants, with  their  actions,  words,  and 
thoughts  ;  next  of  the  animate  crea- 
tion, with  its  200,000  or  300,000  spe- 
cies, hundreds  of  thousands  of  each 
kmd,  and  unnumbered  millions  of  some; 
think  of  the  animalcules  that  fill  the 
seas,  500,000,000  of  them  in  a  drop  of 
water;  think  of  the  action  and  inter- 
action upon  one  another  of  all  these 
living  organisms  that  fill  earth,  air,  and 
waters  ;  and  of  the  particles  of  matter 
and  forces  of  heat,  light,  electricity,  that 
contribute  to  make  up  the  inconceivable 
whole.  But  this  world  is  only  a  pin- 
fold in  the  universe.   Unnumbered  larger 


*  What  he  said  will  be  indicated  by  quctation  marks. 


78o 


THEISM   AND   ATHEISM: 


orbs  are  rolling  through  the  heavens, 
and  all  filled,  doubtless,  with  life,  as  the 
world  is, —filled  certainly  with  material 
atoms  acting  one  upon  another.  Can  we 
conceive  of  the  possibility  of  an  intelli- 
gence that  is  acquainted  with  all  this, 
from  worlds  to  atoms,  so  that  there  is 
not  one  of  them,  nor  one  of  their  mo- 
tions, of  which  it  can  be  said  that  God 
doth  not  know  it  ?" 

My  answer  to  this,  I  said,  is  two- 
fold. In  the  first  place,  our  limitation 
is  no  measure  of  the  illimitable..  It 
would  be  infinite  presumption  to  make 
our  conception  of  possibility  the  judge 
of  what  is  possible.  There  is  no  con- 
tradiction, no  absurdity,  in  the  idea  of 
such  an  infinite  intelligence.  Till  we 
know  what  omniscience  is,  it  is  not  for 
us  to  say  what  is,  or  is  not,  possible 
to  it.  But,  in  the  second  place,  my 
idea  of  omniscience  is  different  from 
what  you  have  represented  omniscience 
to  be.  It  used  to  be  argued  by  theo- 
logians, I  remember,  that  such  omni- 
science was  necessary  to  an  infinite  and 
unerring  government ;  that  if  the  small- 
est particle  in  the  creation  should  act 
upon  another  without  the  instant  cog- 
nition of  the  infinite  Ruler,  such  action 
might  introduce  a  principle  of  bound- 
less disorder  into  the  system.  If  they 
had  said,  without  the  control  of  the 
infinite  Ruler,  that  I  could  admit ;  but 
that  control,  I  conceive,  may  be  exer- 
cised by  the  imposition  of  law.  Sup- 
pose all  natures,  material,  animal,  and 
mental,  to  be  subject  to  laws,  —  mate- 
rial to  the  law  of  forces,  animal  to  the 
law  of  instinct,  and  mental  to  the  laws 
of  reason  and  conscience  ;  then  might 
they  be  left  to  run  their  own  course, 
and  so  might  they  fulfil  the  design  of 
their  existence  without  inspection  or 
intervention. 

"  Subject  to  law,  you  say  ;  that  may 
apply  to  matter  and  instinct,  but  is  man 
subject  to  the  laws  of  reason  and  con- 
science ?" 

Yes,  I  replied,  in  the  main,  and  the 
long  run,  he  is.  A  certain  liberty, 
doubtless,  is  given  him.     He  could  not 


be  a  moral  nor  an  improvable  being,  if 
he  were  held  fast  in  the  bonds  of  law, 
like  a  stone,  or  like  the  worm  that  crawls 
upon  it.  A  hberty  is  allowed  him  to 
sway  this  way  and  that,  into  temporary 
disobedience.  Still  the  laws  of  reason 
and  conscience  hold  their  place  in  him  ; 
they  are  not  deposed  by  rebellion  ;  and 
the  divine  and  lawful  sovereignty  may 
be  left  to  vindicate  and  establish  itself, 
as  it  will  in  due  time. 

"  It  does  not  yet,"  he  said.  "  I  do 
not  see  it.  All  things  go  on  without 
hindrance  and  without  help,  as  if  there 
were  nothing  in  existence  but  the  things 
themselves  ;  wrongs,  outrages,  murders, 
are  perpetrated  ;  slavery,  tyranny,  cruel 
wai",  grind  men  to  the  dust.  Why,  if 
there  is  an  almighty  justice  reigning 
over  the  world,  does  it  not  stretch  forth 
a  hand  to  rescue  and  save  ?  Why  was 
not  that  blasphemous  railer,  as  you 
must  regard  him,  —  he  who  rose  in  the 
godless  French  convention,  and  said, 
'  I  deny  that  there  is  a  God  ;  if  there  is 
a  God,  let  him  prove  it,'  —  why,  I  say, 
was  he  not  stricken  down  on  the  spot 
where  he  stood  ?  " 

Yes,  I  said,  the  poor  puny  blasphemer 
could  vent  his  breath  ;  the  brutal  tyrant 
can  crush  down  innocence  and  defy 
justice.  There  is  a  more  solemn  and 
merciful  control  over  the  world  than  the 
avenging  blow.  There  is  a  judgment 
more  deeply  founded  than  what  is  com- 
monly called  "  a  judgment "  upon  a 
man. 

'•Well,  you  say  so,"  he  replied;  "and 
of  course  you  think  so ;  indeed,  all 
the  world  thinks  so.  But,  opinion  and 
prejudice  apart,  what  ground  is  there 
for  thinking  that  anything  exists  but  the 
universe  itself,  —  any  creative  and  con- 
trolling Spirit .''  You  do  not  see  it ;  you 
do  not  feel  it ;  and,  strictly  speaking, 
you  have  no  intuition  of  it,  for  intuition 
cannot  go  beyond  j^^-consciousness. 
And  when  you  come  to  argument,  many 
philosophers  discard  the  argument  from 
design.  And  the  scientific  men,  now, 
are  tracing  back  life,  through  endless 
evolutions,  to  some  original  germ,  not 


A   TALK   WITH   MY   NEIGHBOR. 


781 


bigger,  perhaps,  and  no  more  vital  ap- 
parently, it  may  be.  than  a  grain  of  sand. 
Thev  seem  to  have  run  everything  out 
into  nothing.  I  do  not  see  anything 
behind  :  and  I  doubt  if  they  do." 

But  I  do.  If  that  original  germ  held 
infolded  in  it  what  has  flowed  out  into 
all  the  wonders  of  creation,  there  must 
have  been  something  different  from  the 
material  elements  that  compose  a  grain 
of  sand, —  something  behind  or  within 
it.  that  we  call  mind,  thought,  design, — 
a  foreseeing,  certainly,  of  what  was  to 
be  developed. 

"Mind,  thought,  design!"  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  may  we  apply  such  words, 
drawn  from  our  own  experience,  to  the 
Infinite?" 

Doubtless  we  must  do  so,  I  replied, 
with  qualification;  but  not  with  a  qualifi- 
cation that  excludes  the  radical  meaning 
from  them.  Design  is,  perhaps,  espe- 
cially a  questionable  word  ;  and  I  could 
wish  tliat  the  argument  from  design  had 
been  called  the  argument  from  an  intent 
or  purpose  manifest  in  nature.  Because 
design  carries  with  it  an  idea  of  con- 
trivance, of  construction,  of  mechanical 
adjustment,  which  we  have  no  right  to 
attribute  to  the  infinite  intelligence. 
The  purest  intellection  is  all  that  we 
may  dare  to  ascribe  to  it,  not  the  method 
of  its  action.  But  that  there  must 
be  something,  —  some  principle,  some 
power,  besides  dead,  inert,  unthinking 
matter,  I  hold  to  be  manifest  and  clear, 
—  the  dictate  and  demand  not  more  of 
a  devout  piety  than  of  the  soundest 
reason. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  I  think  it  will 
be  found  to  be  analogy.  You  look  upon 
some  well-adjusted  piece  of  mechanism, 
a  watch  or  a  cotton-gin,  and  you  know 
that  a  mind  devised  it;  and  when  you 
see  similar  adjustments  in  nature,  rea- 
soning from  analogy,  you  ascribe  it  to 
a  devising  mind.  But  analogy  is  not 
proof." 

But  I  say  that  analogy,  be  it  valid  or 
not,  is  precisely  what  I  propose  to  avoid. 
Imagine  that  you  had  never  seen  any 
machine  that  was  made  by  human  hands. 


Come,  then,  to  the  simple  fact  in  nature; 
and  there  are  facts  enough  vviiich  have 
no  analogy  to  human  work,  and  which 
furnish  the  proof  we  seek  for,  quite  in- 
dependently of  any  such  comparison. 
You  see,  and  cannot  denv,  that  in  nature 
there  is  a  certain  relation  of  one  thing 
to  another.  What  is  it  ?  It  is  a  relation 
of  means  to  ends.  It  is  not  merely  that 
one  thing  succeeds  another,  as  antece- 
dent and  consequent,  or  as  what  is  called 
cause  and  effect;  but  one  thing  succeeds 
another  in  an  order  which  indicates  pur- 
pose and  prevision,  —  which  indicates 
not  a  method  of  action,  but  a  principle 
of  action  ;  not  the  how  in  nature,  but 
the  ivhat  must  underlie  the  system. 
Nothing  can  come  out  of  a  system  which 
was  not  in  it.  In  matter  there  is  no 
intelligence  ;  but  here  is  intelligence  in 
unbounded  manifestation  all  around  us. 
Or  will  one  say  that  intelligence  is  an 
attribute  of  matter  itself,  as  gravitation 
or  growth  or  crystallization  is?  Then, 
it  is  all  a  dispute  about  words.  Then 
we  should  say,  for  this  would  be  the 
truth,  however  monstrously  it  may  sound, 
that  thinking  matter,  or  materialized 
thought,  is  God. 

I  say  that,  in  the  relations  of  things, 
there  must  somewhere  be  found  a  place 
for  thought.  Law,  which  science  so 
idolizes,  must  be  itself  mental,  or  pro- 
duced by  mind.  Mind  is  somewhere  in 
nature,  because  there  are  relations  in  it. 
It  is  a  vast  system  of  relations,  such 
that  the  whole  charm  of  science  lies  in 
this  interdependence  of  one  thing  upon 
another.  It  is  not  bare,  isolated  fact 
that  occupies  the  philosophic  student  of 
nature,  but  the  bearing  of  one  fact,  or 
class  of  facts,  upon  another.  Evolution 
is  the  quest  of  science  now;  that  is,  the 
flowing  out  of  one  thing  into  another, 
and  higher.  Theory  has  always  been 
the  passion  of  the  naturalist.  And  the 
naturalist  who  holds  the  sublime  theory 
that  all  things  have  proceeded  from  an 
Infinite  Wisdom,  finds  a  world,  a  universe 
of  things,  in  accordance  with  it.  Is  it 
not,  then,  the  natural,  fair,  and  reason- 
able impression  upon  our  minds  —  call 


782 


THEISM   AND   ATHEISM 


you  \\.  proof  ox  not  —  that  such  a  uni- 
verse of  relations  has  proceeded  from 
an  Infinite  Intelligence  ? 

I  am  taking  my  stand,  in  this  argu- 
ment, upon  nature  ;  and,  in  debating 
the  matter  with  you,  I  mean  to  do  so. 
I  know  that  some  thinkers  give  up  the 
argument  from  material  nature,  and  rely 
upon  the  nature  of  the  soul  alone.  But 
this  passes  with  you,  I  know,. for  noth- 
ing better  than  vague  presumption.  It 
amounts  only  to  this,  that  a  man  has 
such  impressions  and  convictions.  I 
perceive,  too,  that,  on  your  scientific 
theory,  you  might  say,  that  as  the  soil 
resolves  itself  into  vegetable  life,  and 
the  animal  organization  develops  in- 
stinct, so  the  human  develops  thought 
and  conscience,  —  all  springing  alike 
from  the  bosom  of  nature  ;  thought 
being  just  as  natural  a  product  of  the 
brain  as  sensation  is  of  the  nervous 
system,  or  vegetation  of  the  soil. 

I  would  embrace  in  my  own,  there- 
fore, the  whole  system  of  relations 
leading  up  to  and  including  man. 
Whether  —  as  reasoning  with  you,  at 
least — whether  the  nature  of  the  soul 
reveals  an  Infinite  Soul,  I  will  not  de- 
cide. Be  it  admitted  that  intuition  does 
not  prove  it.  Be  it  admitted  that,  as 
vegetable  life  does  not  of  itself  prove 
an  infinite  life,  as  animal  instinct  does 
not  prove  an  infinite  instinct,  so  nei- 
ther does  the  human  conscience  prove 
an  Infinite  Conscience.  Let  us  stand, 
then,  upon  the  solid  foundation  of  the 
world. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  this  is  getting 
down  to  the  grounds  of  things.  And  now, 
I  ask,  why,  when  we  see  the  principle  of 
order  and  adaptation  in  nature,  — adap- 
tation of  the  form  of  the  world  to  mo- 
tion, of  its  structure  to  the  habitation 
and  sustenance  of  living  creatures,  of 
its  mountains  to  the  rivers  and  plains, 
of  food  to  the  stomach,  of  breath  to  the 
lungs,  of  light  to  the  eye,  —  why,  I  re- 
peat, shall  I  not  say,  that  this  is  nature 
itself,  and  nothing  else,  —  that  it  is  the 
nature  of  tilings,  and  that  is  all  1 " 

Well,  I  do  not  object. 


"  You  do  not  object  ?  Then  you,  too, 
are  an  atheist." 

Let  us  see.  You  say,  or  suggest,  that 
the  nature  of  things  may  have  given 
birth  to  all  the  wonder,  wisdom,  and 
beauty  of  the  creation. 

"  Yes." 

Then  I  say  that  you  endow  what  you 
call  the  nature  of  things  with  all  the 
attributes  of  God.  If  the  natiire  of 
things  has  done  all  that  we  see  in  the 
universe  around  us,  then  the  nature  of 
things  is  intelligent,  then  the  nature  of 
things  is  beneficent,  nay,  lovely  and  glo- 
rious. It  is  all,  as  I  said  before,  a  mere 
dispute  about  words.  What  you  call 
the  nature  of  things,  I  call  God.  And 
it  is  no  escape  from  the  conclusion,  to 
say  that  things  are  evolved  from  one 
another  by  insensible  gradations,  and 
not  by  leaps  from  one  species  to  an- 
other. Intelligence  and  beneficence 
are  equally  in  all  things,  whether  they 
come  in  the  one  form  or  the  other. 

I  have  been  speaking  in  general  terms 
of  the  relation  of  one  thing  to  another. 
I  should  like  now  to  adduce  a  single 
instance,  to  show  hojv  manifest  is  the 
presence  of  intelligence  in  the  system. 

I  met  lately  with  a  statement  of  some 
one  of  the  modern  scientific  theorists 
(wlio  trace  everything  to  the  effort  of 
nature  to  perfect  itself)  upon  the  origin 
a7id  organ  of  seeing.  It  was  something 
to  this  effect,  —  that  some  nerve  in  the 
human  organization  may  have  caught 
the  first  sensation  of  light,  and  then 
that  in  the  natural  struggle  for  more 
liglit,  in  the  natural  effort  to  see,  at 
length,  by  slow  processes,  the  eye  was 
formed.  It  would  be  very  curious  to 
consider  how  the  parts  around  set  to 
work  to  produce  this  wonderful  piece 
of  mechanism.  It  must  have  been 
formed  in  some  way  ;  and  Dr.  Darwin, 
upon  his  theory,  must  say,  —  not  by 
direct  creation  of  the  orb  as  it  is,  but 
by  slow  accretions,  by  tentative  efforts 
of  the  nerve  of  seeing,  and  help  of  the 
parts  around  it,  to  improve  the  organ 
of  sight.  It  would  be  curious,  I  say, 
to  consider  how  these  blind  agents  set 


A   TALK    WITH   MY    NEIGHBOR. 


7S3 


to  work  ;  but  the  upshot  of  their  won- 
derful endeavors  is,  that  they  make  a 
httle  globe  of  gelatine,  —  why  /7t/f  does 
not  appear,  since  one  would  have  an- 
swered the  purpose — a  little  globe  of 
the  consistency  of  gelatine,  with  parts 
so  arranged,  one  behind  another,  as  to 
answer  the  purpose  of  lenses,  —  with 
one  dcjinitcly  formed  lens,  tlie  crystal- 
line, —  and  all  so  adjusted  as  to  cause 
the  rays  to  converge  and  fall  exactly 
upon  a  focus  at  the  bottom,  that  is,  upon 
the  retina;  at  the  same  time  coating 
the  surface  beneath  it  with  black,  so  as 
to  iiave  no  reflections  of  light  there  to 
disturb  the  impression.  And  so  wisely 
did  these  unintelligent  forces  of  nature 
work,  that  they  placed  the  eyes  in  hol- 
low recesses,  surrounded  with  a  bony 
ridge,  to  protect  tiiem  from  harm,  and 
then  formed  the  eyelashes,  those  ciliary 
guards,  to  keep  out  intrusive  dust  and 
insects,  and  then  placed  above,  the 
chevaux-de-frise  of  the  eyebrow,  to  pre- 
vent brine-drops  of  sweat  from  running 
down  into  the  eye  ;  and  they  hung  tlie 
little  orb  in  its  socket,  so  that,  like  the 
telescope,  it  could  be  turned  up  and 
down,  and  to  one  side  and  the  other,  and 
gave  the  pupil  the  power  of  contraction 
and  expansion  for  adjustment  to  the 
degree  of  light.  And  the  iris,  the  rain- 
bow of  the  eye,  let  us  not  forget  that. 
The  iris  doubtless  makes  vision  clearer, 
by  cutting  off  scattering  outside  rays  ; 
but  it  is  also  made  for  beauty,  for  expres- 
sion. The  sclerotica,  the  white  of  the 
eye,  might  have  been  drawn  quite  up  to 
the  pupil  ;  but  that  would  have  been 
hideous.  So  the  wondrous  artists  painted 
the  iris,  to  shine  with  gemlike  beaut}', 
to  kindle  and  glow  and  soften  by  turns, 
so  as  to  vary  with  every  mood  of  the 
mind.  And,  finally,  they  stretched  a 
telegraphic  line  of  nerve,  to  convey  the 
sensation  of  light  to  the  brain. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  candor  that 
I  did  not  expect,  "  I  cannot  deny  that 
"juch  a  construction  displays  intelligence 
as  truly  as  the  making  of  a  telescope. 
I  admit  that  this,  and  a  universe  of 
similar   indications,  proclaims   a  mind. 


if  anything  can  ;  and  it  is  grateful  to 
think  so.  Our  physicists,  by  tracing 
all  things  through  material  evolutions, 
back  to  an  unknown  beginning  almost 
infinitely  distant,  seem  to  remove  the 
prevalent,  ever-present  Divine  Cause 
from  men's  thoughts.  If  not  the  legiti- 
mate result,  it  is  the  natural  effect  of 
their  theories,  to  make  a  universe  void 
of  God." 

Yes,  I  replied,  they  pursue  truth  on 
certain  lines  of  thought  ;  they  do  not 
take  into  their  contemplation  those 
broader  and  grander  relations  which  the 
study  of  a  universe  unfolds.  They 
make  a  god  of  science,  and  only  a  myth 
of  religion.  Dr.  Darwin  is  satisfied 
with  saying,  when  obliged  to  admit  that 
the  ape  and  gorilla  have  no  idea  of  God, 
"  neither  have  the  rudest  tribes  of  men."* 
He  might  as  well  have  said,  neither  have 
babies.  The  question  about  what  is 
human  as  distinguished  from  animal, 
turns  upon  what  a  normal  and  developed 
humanity  is.  Man  is  a  religious  being  ; 
the  animal  is  not.  A  man  growing  up 
alone,  on  a  desert  island,  like  Auto- 
mathes,  of  the  old  story,  would  not  be 
social  ;  but  he  would  quickly  show 
that  his  nature  was  so,  when  brought 
into  the  presence  of  his  fellows.  And 
so,  when  the  idea  of  God  arises  in 
the  mind  of  the  most  uncultured  human 
being,  he  naturally  accepts  and  wel- 
comes it ;  while  all  the  education  in  the 
world  cannot  give  it  to  the  ape  or 
gorilla. 

The  savans  charge  the  theologians 
with  being  bound  up  in  their  own  pre- 
possessions and  prejudices,  excluding 
science.  It  might  be  retorted  on  them, 
I  think,  that  they  are  as  much  shut 
up  to  their  own  inquiries  and  theories, 
excluding  theology.  The  disappearance 
of  God  from  all  the  wonder  and  beauty 
of  nature  as  they  see  it,  so  unlike  the 
way  of  Newton  and  Kepler,  is  as  if  one, 
in  making  a  study  of  the  Apollo  di 
Belvedere,  should  be  occupied  alone 
with  its  materials  and  dimensions, 
should  examine  the  marble  of  which  it 

*  Descent  of  Man.  vol.  i.  chaps,  il.  and  iii. 


784 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF   GOD. 


is  composed,  analyze  its  elements,  and 
trace  it  back  to  its  original  formation, 
should  measure  the  height  and  breadth 
of  the  statue,  the  length  of  the  arms 
and  hands,  to  tlie  very  finger-nails,  and 
should  be  so  absorbed  in  the  task  as 
to  forget  the  divine  beauty  of  the  work, 
and  the  genius  that  fashioned  it. 

What  an  oversight !  What  a  void  in 
the  universe,  if  God  were  not  !  Think 
of  the  ranks  of  worshippers  stretching 
through  ages  ;  of  the  smoking  altars,  the 
choral  songs  of  thanksgiving  that  have 
engirdled  the  earth  ;  of  the  successive 
generations,  bowing  in  cathedrals,  in 
crowded  churches,  and  in  holy  retire- 
ments, —  all  lifting  their  eyes  to  —  noth- 
ing !  all  the  sublimest,  holiest,  most 
heartfelt  homages  in  the  world  cast  away 
from  the  history  of  men,  as  nothing  but 
mere  blundering  and  mockery,  as  if 
heaven  laughed  earth  to  scorn  !    I  should 


feel,  if  this  were  so,  as  if  there  were  no 
reality  nor  verity  in  anything.  It  would 
be  a  universe  of  mere  sham  and  show, 
—  a  universe  turned  upside  down,  more 
frightful  than  chaos. 

What  would  such  a  world  be  to  us 
who  live  in  it,  who  think  and  feel,  and 
struggle  and  suffer  1  Banish  all  design, 
all  intent,  all  creative  thought  and  love 
from  the  universe,  and  what  remains  ? 
Simply  a  cotistitutioii  of  tilings, \xv\x&v^?A- 
ing,  unmeaning,  unloving.  Then  what 
are  we,  and  what  shall  we  do  ?  Oh  ! 
build  an  altar  blacker  than  heathenism 
ever  saw,  than  ever  was  built  to  Moloch 
or  to  Mars ;  surround  it  with  woods 
darker  than  Dodona,or  than  Druid  oaks  ; 
pour  out  upon  it,  for  offering,  the  tears 
of  the  human  race,  and  lift  up  a  univer- 
sal dirge,  a  wail  of  despair,  over  the  ex- 
tinction of  all  that  is  dearest  and  holiest 
to  the  human  soul. 


ON   THE  VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE 

OF   GOD. 

From  the  "Old  and  New." 


There  is  a  feeling  in  many  thought- 
ful minds,  about  the  Divine  Infinitude, 
whicli  seems  to  cut  them  off  from  the 
knowledge  of  the  Divine  Nature.  Some 
profound  writers,  of  late,  have  been 
reasoning  about  the  infinitude  of  God, 
till  they  have  appeared  to  reason  away 
nearly  all  knowledge  of  him.  Their 
method,  the  path  they  have  pursued,  has 
been  one  of  negations,  and,  it  seems 
to  me,  a  descending  path,  —  a  path  not 
leading  upward  to  God,  but  downward 
and  away  frocn  him.  The  more  they 
study,  the  less  they  seem  to  know.  As 
if  the  sun,  while  they  gazed  upon  it, 
should  retire  and  retire,  and  dwindle  and 
sink  farther  and  farther  into  the  depths 
of  infinitude,  till  nothing  remained  but 
the  faintest  speck  of  light. 

I    would,    in   this   essay,    pursue  the 


opposite  course.  I  would  trace  the  as- 
cending path  to  the  knowledge  of 
God. 

There  is  a  natural  and  boundless  de- 
sire of  knowledge,  and  it  demands  a 
boundless  object.  It  is  the  first  human 
characteristic  in  the  child,  —  the  desire 
to  know.  It  grows  with  our  growth  and 
strengthens  with  our  strength.  I  would 
know  all  that  I  can  know.  I  would 
know  all  I  can  of  things  around  me. 
Nothing  can  be  presented  to  me,  no 
new  thing,  no  secret,  no  mystery,  but 
the  immediate  questions  arise,  —  What 
is  it  ?  and  what  is  it  for  ?  Yet  more 
would  I  know  all  of  my  kind  that  is  best 
worth  knowing.  I  would  know  all  that 
I  can  of  the  most  gifted  men  that  have 
acted  their  part  in  the  world.  I  read 
history,  biography,  —  I  read  books  for 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF  GOD. 


785 


this  :  I  want  to  know  what  the  noblest 
men  have  thought,  and  said,  and  written. 
And,  in  this  ascending  series,  surely  of 
all  the  beings  that  have  been  in  this 
world,  he  whom  I  most  desire  to  know, 
and  understand,  and  draw  nigh  to,  is 
Jesus  the  Christ.  If  I  could  penetrate 
into  the  secret,  into  the  sanctuary  of  his 
thoughts  and  life  ;  if  I  could  know  his 
innermost  meditation  and  trust,  and  pa- 
tience and  calmness, —  I  should  account 
it  better  than  to  understand  the  expe- 
rience of  any  other.  Let  all  Christian 
professions  be  put  aside  ;  let  any  one 
read  the  Gospels,  and  take  the  natural 
impression  ;  and  then  let  him  say 
whether  there  is  any  other  being,  that 
he  ever  read  of,  whose  experience,  whose 
thoughts  and  mind;  he  so  desires  to  un- 
derstand, as  that  of  him,  who,  many 
centuries  ago,  walked  by  the  hillsides  of 
Judasa,  dropping  words,  which,  gathered 
up  in  the  simple  and  inartificial  reports 
of  his  disciples,  have  been  read  and  re- 
membered in  all  the  civilized  world,  as 
no  other  have  ever  been  read  and  remem- 
bered. Libraries  have  been  written  con- 
cerning him  ;  and,  notably  to-day,  books 
are  multiplied,  coming  alike  from  men 
of  every  creed  and  no  creed,  which  show 
that  he  is  the  theme  of  universal  and 
unabated  interest. 

But  can  we  stop  here  1  When  we 
have  travelled  upon  the  path  of  ascend- 
ing excellence  to  the  highest  that  we 
can  find  on  earth,  then  does  there  not 
open  to  us  a  higher  perfection  for  us  to 
study  and  meditate  upon  ? 

That  such  a  perfection  exists,  all 
things  prove.  If  any  one  has  atheistic 
doubts,  I  would  ask  him  one  question. 
Has  something  originated  this  universe, 
or  nothing?  Does  some  cause  lie  be- 
hind it,  —  say,  rather,  is  interfused  with 
it,  —  or  no  cause  ?  Reason  cannot  hesi- 
tate which  alternative  to  adopt.  Much 
as  is  said  of  a  scientific  materialism  pre- 
vailing, or  atheism,  as  some  indignantly 
call  it,  yet,  after  all,  I  know  of  no  writer 
nor  man  who  refuses  to  believe  that  the 
universe  has  a  Cause. 

But  the  nature,  the  character,  of  this 


Cause,  —  do  we  understand  it .-'  Or,  as 
some  would  say,  can  we  understand  it  ? 
One  said  to  me  lately,  "  I  heard  of  your 
preaching  a  sermon  on  the  love  of  God ; 
and  that  you  said,  or  implied,  that  you 
loTed  God.  How  could  you  say  that .''  " 
"  Why  not  ?  "  I  said.  "Because,"  was 
the  reply,  "  that  cause,  power,  or  being, 
that  we  call  God,  is  infinitely  beyond 
your  comprehension,  —  is,  in  its  nature, 
utterly  unknown  to  you."  I  saw  at  once 
from  whence  this  reasoning  came,  and 
will  give  in  a  few  words  my  reply  to  it. 
It  came,  let  me  first  say,  from  a  habit  of 
mind  which  reasons  thus  :  God  is  infi- 
nite. We  speak  of  Infinite  Power,  Infi- 
nite Knowledge,  Infinite  Love.  When 
we  use  these  words,  we  necessarily  affix 
to  them  ideas  that  are  drawn  from  our 
own  experience.  Can  we  suppose  that 
Infinitude  in  God  is  but  the  expansion 
of  what  is  in  us  ?  More  precisely,  and 
to  come  to  the  very  point,  can  we  sup- 
pose that  Intelligence  in  God  is,  in  any 
respect,  like  intelligence  in  us  ?  or  that 
Love  in  God  is,  in  any  respect,  hke  love 
in  us  ?  I  answer,  with  the  solemn  reser- 
vation that  we  have  been  always  taught 
to  make  for  our  human  limitations,  that  I 
think  we  can.  And  this  is  the  ground 
I  take  in  answer  to  those  who  say  that 
God's  Infinitude  debars  us  from  know- 
ing anything  of  his  nature.  You  con- 
found things  that  are  entirely  diflferent. 
You  confound  the  nature  of  a  thing 
with  its  magnitude.  You  confound  com- 
prehension with  intellection.  You  say, 
that,  because  we  cannot  comprehend  a 
subject,  therefore  we  can  know  nothing 
about  the  kind  of  subject  that  it  is. 
That  would  debar  us  from  all  knowledge. 
We  do  not  comprehend  the  growth  of 
any  spire  of  grass,  or  the  life  of  any  in- 
sect about  us,  —  why,  or  how,  one  or  the 
other  of  them  is  what  it  is.  Do  we,  there- 
fore, know  nothing  concerning  its  quality 
or  structure  ?  The  growth,  the  life  of  each 
is  a  mystery :  do  we,  therefore,  make 
no  distinction  between  the  nature  of  a 
vegetable  and  the  nature  of  an  animal  ? 
Now,  to  apply  this  to  that  Infinitude 
before  which  we  all  bow  down  with  sol- 


50 


786 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF  GOD. 


emn  awe,  we  cannot  comprehend  infini- 
tude ;  we  cannot  comprehend  the  In- 
finitude of  God.  But  it  by  no  means 
follows,  that  we  cannot  understand  any- 
thing of  his  moral,  his  divine  nature.  If 
it  does,  farewell  to  all  religion  !  Let  us 
erect  the  Athenian  altar,  and  bow  down 
before  it, —  not  in  awe,  but  in  despair. 
But  it  is  not  so  with  us.  I  cannot  grasp 
the  Infinitude  of  God's  wisdom  and  good- 
ness, but  I  can  know  and  feel  something 
of  their  nature.  Humbler  instances 
might  show  us  this.  I  know  something 
of  what  thought  was  in  the  mind  of  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  but  I  cannot  compre- 
hend all  his  mind  or  knowledge.  Stand- 
ing upon  a  mountain,  I  look  upon  a 
forest  with  a  million  of  trees  in  it.  I 
cannot  count  them,  and  could  not  com- 
prehend them  all  if  I  could  count  them. 
But  I  can  understand  something  of  the 
nature  of  trees.  Looking  upon  the 
ocean,  it  were  vain  for  me  to  tell  or  com- 
prehend how  many  drops  there  are  in 
it ;  but  I  can  comprehend  something  of 
the  nature  of  each  drop,  —  can  analyze 
and  understand  it ;  or,  in  other  words, 
I  can  comprehend  something  of  the 
nature  of  water,  though  I  cannot  com- 
prehend an  ocean  of  it.  I  cannot  com- 
prehend infinite  space,  but  I  know  what 
space  is.  I  cannot  comprehend  the 
infinite  multiplication  of  numbers,  but 
I  know  what  numbers  are  ;  nay,  more, 
I  know  that  they  do  not  change  their 
nature  by  multiplication. 

Why  should  knowledge  or  love  be 
supposed,  by  increase,  to  change  its 
nature  ?  We  do  not  see  it  to  be  so, 
as  we  trace  their  progress  from  child- 
hood to  maturity.  The  method  of 
knowing  may  change,  but  not  the  es- 
sence ;  the  proof,  but  not  the  result. 
We  do  not  ascribe  the  processes  of  our 
mind  to  the  Infinite  Mind  ;  we  do  not 
ascribe  reasoning  to  it.  We  think  of  its 
knowledge  as  an  infinite  intuition  ;  but 
we  understand  what  intuition  is.  Om- 
niscience is  "all-knowing."  If  "know- 
ing "  loses  its  meaning  because  "  all " 
is  prefixed  to  it,  then  the  word  Omni- 
science is  without  meaning.      And  so, 


for  the  same  reason,  is  every  other 
word  by  which  we  speak  of  God  ;  and 
we  are  left  to  worship  an  unknown 
God,  —  that  is,  to  worship  nothing. 

Let  us,  then,  proceed  to  inquire  into 
the  nature  of  the  originating  cause. 
It  is  to  be  known,  if  at  all,  by  its  ef- 
fects. What  are  the  effects  ?  What 
is  this  system  of  things  around  us  ? 
It  is  full  of  relations  and  adjustments 
of  one  thing  to  another.  The  soil 
nourishes  vegetables  ;  vegetables  feed 
animals  ;  animals  serve  man,  —  work 
for  him,  feed  and  clothe  him.  In 
each  of  these,  science  finds  exquisite 
and  wonderful  arrangements.  Means 
subserve  ends.  Ends  in  turn  become 
means.  Nothing  stands  apart ;  noth- 
ing stops ;  but  things  go  on,  so  to  say, 
in  logical  sequence.  Animals  produce 
their  like.  The  bird  chips  the  shell  ; 
—  and  how  is  this  done  ?  Let  us  dwell 
upon  this  instance  a  moment,  as  stand- 
ing for  thousands  of  similar  indications. 
The  shell,  this  little  prison,  is  found  to 
be  cut  all  round  the  diameter  of  its  in- 
ner surface,  so  that,  in  hatching,  it  falls 
apart.  And  how  does  the  little  pris- 
oner, the  embryo  bird,  contrive  to  do 
that  ?  It  is  so  folded  in  the  shell  that 
its  bill  lies  against  the  part  to  be  cut. 
But  this  is  not  all.  Upon  its  bill  grows 
a  little,  hard  excrescence,  like  a  knife 
or  a  saw.  With  this  tool  it  cuts  its 
way  out  ;  and  soon  after  it  is  freed, 
the  excrescence  —  the  knife,  no  longer 
wanted  —  falls  off.  Now,  I  do  not 
care  what  this  provision  is  called. 
Some  philosophers  object  to  the  word 
design.  They  talk  of  development, 
evolution,  tendency.  They  tell  us,  and 
truly,  of  a  correlation  of  forces.  All 
may  be  resolved,  it  is  thought,  into  one 
simple  principle,  —  motion  ;  nay,  all 
may  be  resolved  back  into  a  simple 
germ.  Be  it  so.  But  germ  and  prod- 
uct, or  force,  or  motion,  whatever  it 
be,  it  all  proceeds  in  a  certain  order, 
in  a  certain  relation  of  one  thing  to 
another. 

Now,  here  is  intelligence.  It  is  in 
these    thinjrs,   whatever   be    the   cause. 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF   GOD. 


787 


It  is  ]uie ;  it  is  in  the  structure  of 
every  plant  and  animal,  —  in  man  above 
all.  Intelligence  is  here,  however  it 
came  to  be  here.  By  what  indication 
could  intelligence  be  proved  to  be  any- 
where, if  it  is  not  manifest  in  such  a 
system  as  this  ?  If  a  book  were  opened 
before  me,  containing  only  a  jumble  of 
words,  having  no  relation  to  one  an- 
other, I  should  say,  Here  is  nothing,  or 
nothing  but  idiotcy.  But  if  the  book 
had  an  orderly  construction  of  words, 
conveying  a  meaning,  I  should  say, 
Here  is  intelligence  ;  within  the  covers 
of  this  book  is  intelligence. 

In  the  same  way,  that  is,  by  observa- 
tion, goodness  is  proved  to  be  in  this 
system  of  things.  All  conscious  exist- 
ence is  naturally  happy.  No  one  can 
look  with  healthy  eye  upon  the  world 
in  general,  whether  of  brute  or  human 
life,  without  seeing  this.  Animalism  is 
naturally  happy.  Intellect  is  naturally 
happy.  The  human  affections  are  natu- 
rally happy.  There  is  one  attribute  of 
animal  life,  which,  as  illustrative  both  of 
intelligence  and  goodness,  is  especially 
significant ;  and  that  is  instinct.  With- 
out any  reasoning,  without  any  deliber- 
ation, without  knowing  why,  the  whole 
animal  creation  is  guided  to  its  food,  to 
its  way  of  life,  and  thousand-fold  enjoy- 
ment. It  is  the  veliicle  of  an  intelligence 
not  its  own.  Suspend  this  all-directing, 
this  omniscient  guidance,  take  away 
tlie  electric  spark  from  this  vast  tissue 
of  animal  nerves  and  fibres,  and  the 
whole  system  would  fall  into  collapse 
and  utter  ruin.  The  light  shines 
throtigh  it,  and  the  medium  knows  no 
more  of  it  than  the  glass  knows  of  the 
sunbeam  that  passes  through  it. 

And  now,  is  it  reasonable  —  nay,  is 
it  possible  —  for  a  rational  being  to  do 
anything  else  but  ascribe  all  this  mani- 
fest intelligence  and  goodness  to  the 
great  Originating  Cause  ?  Can  he  set 
up  mere  impersonal,  blind  tendency,  in- 
stead of  Infinite  Knowledge  and  Good- 
ness ?  When  you  read  the  pages  of  a 
book,  and  find  them  full  of  thought,  you 
cannot  doubt  that  somebody  wrote    it. 


—  some  mind  produced  it.  You  would 
be  thought  a  fool,  if  you  said  that  all 
these  words  and  sentences  dropped 
from  the  dictionary,  and  fell  into  their 
places  by  "natural  selection."  And 
will  any  one  say  that  all  the  words 
and  sentences  of  this  infinite  volume  of 
the  Creation  dropped  into  their  places 
without  any  perception  or  idea  of  their 
relations  to  one  another,  on  the  part  of 
the  Originating  Cause  .'* 

But  it  may  be  said,  "  Why  did  not 
the  Infinite  Intelligence  and  Goodness 
make  every  creature  perfect  and  per- 
fectly happy  ?  "  What  is  this  impos- 
sibility which  the  objector  demands  ? 
That  the  creature  should  be  made  as 
God,  —  free  from  all  ignorance,  error, 
imperfection,  and  trial  ?  If  these  things 
exist  of  necessity  in  a  created  system, 
then  the  only  question  is.  Are  they 
turned  to  good  account  ?  Do  trials  and 
sufferings  in  the  human  lot  tend  to  make 
men  better,  or  worse  ?  Does  humanity, 
does  the  world,  rise  or  sink  under  the 
discipline?  Certainly  it  rises,  —  it  im- 
proves. Certainly,  to  suffer,  to  strug- 
gle, to  resist  evil,  to  conquer  temptation, 
is  an  upward  path  for  individual  man, 
and  a  path  in  which  millions  have 
walked.  So,  we  are  bound  to  judge, 
must  a  finite  and  free  moral  nature 
work  out  its  own  wisdom  and  welfare. 
We  see  that  its  trials,  faithfully  met, 
minister  to  this  end;  and  no  reasonable 
being  can  doubt  that  this  was  meant 
to  be  their  ministry.  And  if  they  were 
meant  for  this,  then  is  the  system  be- 
nevolent in  what  is  darkest.  As  well 
object  to  any,  to  all  education,  because- 
it  costs  efforts  and  pains.  A  wealthy 
man  founds  a  seat  of  learning.  There 
will  be  difficulties  and  trials  for  the 
pupils'  minds,  —  difficulties  and  trials 
incident  to  the  process,  inevitable  in 
the  ascent  from  ignorance  to  knowl- 
edge. Does  any  one  deny,  for  this  rea- 
son, the  value  of  such  an  institution, 
or  the  benevolence  of  its  founder  .'' 

Look  at  that  training  of  studious 
youth.  See  what  unfolding  of  the  no- 
blest faculties  there  will  be  ;  what  foun- 


788 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF  GOD. 


tains  of  wisdom  and  knowledge  unsealed; 
what  hierarchies  of  science  built  up  ; 
what  authors,  orators,  statesmen,  will 
come  forth  from  these  haunts  of  study, 
to  enlighten,  delight,  improve,  and  guide 
the  world!  Is  this  the  work  of  man 
alone,  as  it  seems,  perhaps,  to  him  who 
looks  upon  it  ?  Nay,  it  is,  in  the  im- 
planting of  all  the  germs  of  this  culture, 
God's  work.  This  could  not  be  done  for 
brutes.  The  Cause,  that  is  behind  and 
above  all  causes,  has  given  all  the  pow- 
ers and  faculties  and  means  that  have 
made  a  noble  seat  of  learning  to  stand 
upon  the  spot  which  otherwise  might 
have  been  a  barren  heath,  or  a  waste 
common,  wandered  over  by  wild  sav- 
ages. And  such  a  school,  with  such 
toil  and  pains  and  patience,  is  this  uni- 
verse made  to  be. 

And  suppose  it  were  not  so.  Imagine 
the  very  reverse  to  exist  of  that  which 
we  see.  Suppose  that  the  whole  crea- 
tion, of  which  we  are  a  part,  were  one 
mass  of  deformity  and  misery  ;  that  all 
plants  and  trees  grew  gnarled  and  mis- 
shapen; that  all  flowers  were  black,  and 
exhaled  offensive  odors  ;  that  all  ani- 
mals were  hideous  to  the  sight ;  and 
that  the  human  constitution  bred  only 
disease  and  pain,  and  the  human  soul 
was  intelligent  and  sensitive  only  to  see 
and  feel  the  all-surrounding  horror  ;  and 
that,  instead  of  being  beneficently  adapt- 
ed to  one  another,  all  things  were  in  a 
state  of  contradiction,  thwarting,  and 
confusion  :  what  should  we  think  ?  I 
doubt  if  there  would  be  any  atheists 
then.  It  would  be  felt  that  there  was 
ill-will,  an  infinite  ill-will,  that  worked 
such  ill  upon  us.  No  philosopher,  I 
judge,  would  then  be  found  coldly  specu- 
lating about  the  origin  of  things  and 
complacently  imagining  that  blind,  im- 
personal laws,  heaving  senseless  evo 
lutions,  causeless  tendencies  of  thinqs, 
were  the  authors  and  agents  of  such 
horrible  disaster  and  misery.  Why, 
then,  should  not  the  goodliness  and 
beauty  of  all  things  around  us;  and  the 
natural  joy  of  our  own  existence,  be  at- 
tributed to  a  cause  altogether  different 


in  its  character,  and  equally  real  in  its 
intent  ? 

But,  in  truth,  such  is  the  overflowing 
beneficence  of  things  ;  so  are  our  minds 
wrapped  up  in  its  investment ;  so  is  it 
the  thought  and  spirit  of  every  scene 
around  us,  that  the  very  familiarity  and 
the  inborn  assurance  of  it  make  it  less 
distinct,  less  impressive,  less  intentional 
to  us.  We  glide  down  the  smooth 
stream  :  all  is  right,  all  is  as  it  should 
be.  We  are  so  content  and  happy  that 
we  think  of  nothing  but  the  stream  and 
its  verdant  banks  ;  and  it  is  only  when 
we  are  flung  upon  the  hard  rock  of 
affliction  and  misery,  that  we  lift  our 
hands  to  heaven,  and  say,  "  Why  has 
the  Almighty  Will  dealt  with  us  so?" 

But  this  is  not  the  ordinary  habit  of 
our  minds.  The  testimony  of  human  ex- 
perience and  feeling  is  the  other  way. 
Naturally  we  feel  that  we  do  not  owe 
our  existence  and  condition  to  a  malig- 
nant cause.  Naturally  we  feel  that  we 
were  made  not  to  be  miserable,  but  to  be 
happy.  Naturally  we  feel  bound  not  to 
be  bad,  but  good.  Whatever  evils  there 
be,  or  seem  to  be,  in  the  system,  yet  the 
preponderance  of  good,  or  of  good  ten- 
dency, is  such  that  our  minds  naturally 
lean  that  way.  The  main  tide  of  human 
thought  runs  in  that  direction.  Let  any 
one  malign  the  good  order  of  things, 
the  good  Providence,  or  the  good  Being 
who  is  over  all,  and  the  whole  world 
brands  him  as  a  traitor  to  reason,  to 
common-sense.  Considering  what  we 
do  suffer,  this  is  a  powerful  testimony. 
If  the  universal  feehng  and  judgment 
of  men  have  weight,  this  is  entitled  to 
special  consideration. 

And  now,  if,  in  accordance  with  tlie 
general  convictions  of  mankind,  we  be- 
lieve that  we  can  know  something  of 
the  character  of  God,  though  we  cannot 
comprehend  his  infinitude  ;  and  if  what 
we  do  know  and  see  around  us  is  perfect 
wisdom  and  goodness  ;  then,  to  cultivate 
this  knowledge,  to  study  this  transcen- 
dent perfection,  and  to  grow  into  its 
likeness,  is  surely  the  most  rational  as 
well  as  the  highest  aim  of  our  behig. 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF   GOD. 


789 


Nothing  can  justly  seem  more  strange, 
more  astonishing,  or  more  lamentable, 
than  the  absence  of  this  aspiration  from 
our  literature,  from  our  science,  and  ap- 
parently from  the  lives  and  thoughts  of 
most  men,  and  even  of  most  cultivated 
men  around  us.  The  Buddhists,  the 
Brahmins,  and  even  the  Stoic  Sages,  put 
shame  upon  us  in  this  respect.  "  They 
sought  the  Lord,  if  haply  they  might 
f?el  after  him  and  find   Him." 

But  I  will  not  take  on  the  tone  now 
of  complaint  or  rebuke.  Rather  would 
I  patiently  reason  with  myself  and  with 
others,  to  remove  obstacles  and  to  open 
the  way  to  the  highest.  There  are  ob- 
stacles besides  moral  alienation.  The 
theme  is  full  of  awe,  and  few  have  come 
to  see  that  it  is  equally  full  of  light  and 
joy.  Nay.  by  many,  God  is  regarded 
not  as  Infinite  Love,  but  rather  as  In- 
finite and  All-repelling  Wrath.  Then 
tlie  laws  of  nature  —  its  unbroken  order, 
the  ever- flowing  stream  of  its  benefi- 
cence —  turn  away  our  thoughts  from 
a  real  benefactor  ;  and  the  very  argu- 
ments for  gratitude,  sad  to  say,  lull  it 
to  sleep.  We  have  much  to  do  in  re- 
sistance to  these  tendencies.  Devotion, 
a  constant  sense  of  God's  presence,  a 
habit  of  seeing  his  will  and  wisdom  in 
everything  around  us,  —  this  is  the  top 
and  crown  of  human  culture,  and  it  will 
cost  us  care  and  patience  and  prayer  to 
rise  to  it. 

But  what  grandeur  of  elevation,  what 
fulness  of  joy,  can  compare  with  that? 
I  cannot  doubt  that  most  thoughtful 
persons  are  sensible,  and  are  satisfied, 
that  a  heart  full  of  love  and  gratitude 
to  God  would  be  a  blessing  and  a  joy 
beyond  all  others  ;  a  strength  in  weak- 
ness, a  calmness  in  trouble,  a  trust  and  a 
solace  in  affliction,  beyond  every  other. 
"But  ah,"  they  say,  "how  to  get  the 
love  and  gratitude  !  "  And  they  rest  in 
this  vague  and  sad  feeling  of  estrange- 
ment or  indifference,  without  ever  con- 
sidering what  they  are  to  do  to  draw 
nigh  to  the  all-quickening  truth. 

Let  me  say.  then,  that  there  are  va- 
rious ways  of  looking  at  the  manifesta- 


tions of  God  in  Nature  and  in  religion, 
and  that  only  one  of  them  can  help  us. 
There   is    the   worldly  and    thoughtless 
way,  that  sees  nothing.     There  is  the 
hard  scientific  way,  that  sees  nothing  but 
facts  and  laws.     And  there  is  the  rever- 
ent and  affectionate  view,  that  which  is 
emphatically  the  Christian  view.      For 
Jesus  first  taught  men,  with  trust   and 
tenderness,  to  say,  "Our  P'ather."   Why, 
tiien,  cannot  he  who  would  thus  know 
God,  cultivate  this  habit  of  looking  at 
his  works  and  ways  ?     He  is  surrounded 
with  manifestations  of  an  Infinite  Intel- 
hgence  and  Goodness.     They  are  here, 
I  say.     They  are  manifest  and  undenia- 
ble.     Even  if  he  were  an    atheist,  he 
would  be  bound  to  survey  these  mani- 
festations  with  admiration  and  delight. 
But  he  is  not  an  atheist :  he  believes  in 
God.      What,    then,    are   these    works, 
these  elements  and  agencies,  that  sur- 
round him  }     They  are  sent  and  meant 
for  his  good.     "  The  round  world  and 
all  that  is  in  it;"  the  abundance  and  va- 
riety of  its  products  for  food  and  build- 
ing and  clothing;  mountains  and  valleys, 
oceans  and  streams,  light  and  shadow, 
day  and  night,  —  are  all  forever  appeal- 
ing to  his  admiration,  to  his  mind's  high- 
est thought  and  holiest  feeling.     Why, 
then,    when    evening   folds    him    in    its 
shadow  and  lays  him  down  to  his  night- 
ly rest,  does  he  not  say,  "  There  is  a 
care    for    me  "  ?      Why   does    not    the 
morning's   beam   wake   him    to    thanks- 
giving ?     I    say   that   a   rational    being 
should  charge  himself  to  think  of  this. 
How  is  it  that  when  food  and  refresh- 
ment come  from  all  around  him,  —  how 
is  it,  that  when  his  whole  being  is  inter- 
fused with  a  divine  beneficence,  he  sel- 
dom  thinks   of  anything  but  senseless 
elements  ?      The   fragrance   of  flowers 
might    be    to    him    as    the    incense    of 
praise.      The    sweet-  and   healthful   air 
might  breathe  with  inspiration.      In  the 
fruit     that    hangs     upon    our    summer 
boughs    he    might   taste   and   see    how 
good  the  Lord  is.     Oh,  purposeless  and 
thoughtless  life,  that  suffers  itself  to  be 
moulded   by  material   influences,   when 


790 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE    OF   GOD. 


celestial  grace  and  goodliness  breathe 
all  around  it,  and  are  seeking  to  win  it 
to  sympathy,  to  love,  and  thanksgiving  ! 
The  complaint  of  many  is,  they  "'■  can- 
vot  come  nigh  to  this  divine  benefi- 
cence." But  it  comes  nigh  to  them. 
It  "compasses  their  path  and  their  lying 
down,  and  is  acquainted  with  all  their 
ways." 

This  religious  homage  to  what  is 
divine  in  nature  is  a  true,  just,  and 
reasonable  feeling.  It  is  not  fanati- 
cism ;  it  is  not  presumption  ;  it  is  the 
simple,  logical  result  of  the  premises. 
Either  there  is  a  God,  or  there  is  no 
God.  If  there  be  no  God,  then  there 
is  no  place  for  moral  admiration,  for 
reverence,  gratitude,  or  love,  If  there 
is  a  God,  then  there  is  the  same  in- 
trinsic reason  for  studying  reverently 
and  earnestly  what  is  written  on  the 
earth  and  sky,  as  there  is  for  studying 
a  volume  that  is  written  by  human 
hands.  Do  we  try  to  understand  only 
that  which  is  on  a  level  with  ourselves  ? 
No  :  we  strive  to  rise  to  loftier  minds, 
—  to  minds  that,  in  their  soaring,  are 
almost  out  of  our  reach.  We  are 
afraid  of  being  pietists  ;  but  we  are  not 
afraid  of  being  artists,  poets,  orators. 
We  are  not  afraid  of  being  enthusiastic 
critics  upon  the  great  works  of  genius. 
We  labor  to  appreciate  the  fineness  and 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  their  thoughts. 
We  are  eager  to  know  all  t.hat  we  can 
of  the  men  that  have  interested  and 
charmed  us.  Is  all  this  swelling  enthu- 
siasm to  stop  and  turn  away  when  it 
appro'aches  the  shrine  of  the  Infinite 
Glory  and  Beauty  ? 

If  we  were  houseless  and  helpless, 
hungry  and  desolate,  and  some  human 
benefactor  were  to  come  and  give  us  an 
abode,  and  replenish  it  day  by  day  all 
our  life  long,  we  could  never  think  of 
him  without  a  vivid  sense  of  obligation. 
But  we  should  be  houseless  and  home- 
less, destitute  and  miserable,  without 
a  divine  provision  for  us.  I  expect 
some  of  my  readers  to  pause  and  hesi- 
tate upon  such  a  comparison.  They 
will  say,  "  We  know  men  ;    we  under- 


stand their  feelings  and  can  sympathize 
with  them  ;  but  we  do  not,  in  this  wise, 
know  God.  We  dare  not  to  say  that 
we  sympathize  with  God."  Let  us  not 
be  misled  by  words.  If  there  is  an 
Infinite  Being  who  loves  his  creatures  ; 
if,  by  unnumbered,  million-fold  redu- 
plications of  evidence  he  has  shown 
it  ;  if,  especially,  he  has  formed  us 
to  love  excellence,  and,  therefore,  his 
own  supreme  perfection,  —  then  there 
is  accordance,  and  may  be  union  and 
communion  between  us  and  him.  I 
stand  firmly  upon  the  ground  I  have 
already  taken.  Intelligence  and  good- 
ness are  here  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to 
refer  them  to  any  cause  but  an  Infinite 
Intelligence  and  Goodness.  To  say 
that  all  this  around  us,  and  all  these 
thoughts  and  feelings  in  our  own 
breasts,  have  sprung  from  the  evolu- 
tions of  blind  and  senseless  forces  and 
agencies,  is  as  intolerable  logic  as  it 
is  bad  theology.  Still,  to  some  minds 
wrapped  in  speculation,  which  has 
deadened  their  natural  feeling,  the  old 
and  wearying  trouble  and  doubt  return. 
I  do  not  disguise  the  difficulty.  The 
divine  does  not  come  to  us  as  the  hu- 
man does.  Shrouded  in  the  infinitude 
of  its  attributes,  silent,  unseen,  un- 
known in  much  that  belongs  to  it, 
unimagined,  unimaged  to  us  by  any 
visible  form,  it  seems,  to  our  weakness 
and  blindness,  hidden,  far  off,  and  un- 
approachable. So  Job  complained  of 
old  :  "  Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might 
find  him  !  Behold  I  go  forward,  but  he 
is  not  there  ;  and  backward,  but  I  can- 
not perceive  him  :  on  the  left  hand 
where  he  doth  work,  but  I  cannot  be- 
hold him  ;  he  hideth  himself  on  the 
right  hand,  that  I  cannot  see  him." 

But  there  ate  those  who  do  not  thus 
complain,  to  whom  God  is  a  reality, 
such  as  nothing  else  is,  who  live  habitu- 
ally in  his  presence  ;  but  I  think  they 
are  few.  What  is  it  that  makes  this 
difference  ?  Is  it  a  more  affectionate 
nature  in  some  than  others  ?  Is  it 
imagination,  —  the  faculty  that  realizes 
the  objects  of  thought  .''     Is  it  a  mind 


THE   VALIDITY    OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF   GOD. 


791 


that  is  naturally  touched  with  the  sense 
of  what  is  sublime  and  lovely  ?  Per- 
haps it  is  all  of  these;  but  it  would 
naturally  be,  more  than  anything,  in  a 
true  religious  consciousness,  a  juster 
view  of  the  object  of  the  soul's  adora- 
tion and  love.  In  this  respect  the 
ages  advance,  and  we  stand  on  van- 
tage-ground. And  yet  here  arises  a 
question  of  profound  concern  to  our 
modern  experience.  The  degree  of 
interest  which  one  will  take  in  any 
being  will  depend  on  the  congenialness 
and  the  relations  between  them.  The 
old  idolater  worshipped  with  terrible 
sincerity,  for  he  saw  a  hand  that  might 
strike  him  down.  The  Hebrew  re- 
garded Jehovah  as  his  nation's  God  ; 
and  in  Christianity  there  have  been 
views  of  God,  as  rescuing  certain  elect 
persons,  having  from  eternity  concen- 
trated his  purpose  and  love  upon  them, 
which  have  awakened  raptures  of  self- 
ish gratitude.  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  the  sectarian  convert  has  been 
altogether  selfish,  nor  that  the  Hebrew 
thought  was  altogether  local.  David's 
song  of  praise,  we  cannot  but  see,  often 
bursts  over  all  such  barriers.  But  cer- 
tainly we  have  come  to  entertain  larger 
and  juster  thoughts  of  a  Benevolence 
which  has  no  favorites  ;  which  is  good 
to  all;  which  neither,  as  a  man,  loves 
us,  nor,  as  an  idol,  threatens  us,  but 
which  embraces  all  creatures  with  a 
universal,  impartial,  and  invisible  be- 
neficence ;  and  this  is  the  cause,  in 
part,  of  that  decay  of  passionate  emo- 
tions and  pietistic  fervors,  which  char- 
acterizes the  present  age.  And  now 
we  have  to  resist  the  tendencies  and 
dangers  of  our  time.  We  have  to 
break  through  the  environment  with 
which  infinitude  and  immutability  and 
silence  and  universal  law  surround  the 
Incomprehensible  God.  We  have  to 
learn  to  delight  in  his  goodness  because 
it  is  diffusive  and  universal  ;  and  thus 
may  we  come  to  find  a  new  place,  a 
rest,  and  a  home,  and  an  all-sufficiency 
in  the  bosom  of  Infinite  Beneficence. 
I  believe   that   place   will   be   found. 


I  believe  that  a  new,  a  higher  piety  will 
come.  It  must  come  if  the  world  is  to 
rise  and  not  to  sink ;  for  piety,  that  is, 
love  of  the  All-Divine  and  Beautiful, 
is  the  highest  thing.  Those  who  do 
not  believe  in  human  progress  may 
think  otherwise  ;  but,  for  me,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  this  social  and  moral  system 
of  our  religion  and  very  civilization  is 
not  to  run  down  into  an  unbelieving, 
brutish,  and  godless  world.  A  piety 
will  come  which  will  not  be  local,  oc- 
casional, exceptional,  but  will  be  the 
pervading  spirit  of  life,  —  when  men 
shall  not  say  to  one  another,  "  Know 
the  Lord,"  for  all  shall  know  him,  from 
the  greatest  to  the  least.  Once  let  men 
come  to  look  upon  the  creation  around 
them  as  it  is ;  once  let  them  see,  not 
things  alone,  but  the  divine  light  and 
life  that  stream  through  them  ;  and 
then  shall  every  day  open  revelations  ; 
then  shall  the  bird  upon  the  wing  and 
the  flower  in  the  field  speak  to  them  of 
God ;  then  shall  the  ocean  roll  anthems, 
and  the  streams  murmur  hymns  ;  and 
the  heavens  shall  be  telling  the  glory  of 
God,  and  the  whole  earth  shall  be  filled 
with  his  praise. 

And  man,  who  is  made  in  the  image 
of  God,  —  man  himself,  who  beholds 
all  these  revelations,  —  shall  we,  in  this 
survey,  pass  by  him  ?  Humanity  is  a 
clearer  revelation  of  God  than  the  ma- 
terial universe  ;  for  what  can  the  natu- 
ralist find  in  earth  or  ocean,  —  what 
can  the  astronomer  see  in  the  starry 
heavens,  —  that  tells  him  of  the  unseen 
God  like  his  own  invisible  thought  ? 

The  thinker  is  nearer  to  the  source 
of  thought  than  aught  beside.  Man 
stands  nearest  to  God.  Child  of  some 
heavenly  parentage  he  must  be,  —  child 
of  wisdom  and  love, —  else  why  does 
he  lift  his  eyes  to  heaven,  taught  to 
love  and  adore  ?  The  poorest  creature 
in  the  world  may  look  upward,  and  say, 
"  My  God."  He  who  may  say  that 
needs  no  other  argument  for  praise. 
That  man  would  be  envied  who  could 
call  but  his  earthly  sovereign  his  pro- 
tector and  his  friend. 


792 


THE   VALIDITY   OF   OUR   KNOWLEDGE   OF   GOD. 


And  it  is  not  individual  man  alone, 
but  congregated  man,  that  moves  our 
wonder  and  thanksgiving.  From  what 
infinite  urn  is  poured  forth  this  flood  of 
human  affections,  human  love,  enthu- 
siasm, and  adoration  ?  What  is  it  that 
has  built  up  in  this  world  great  systems 
of  social  and  over-ruling  order, — great 
hierarchies  of  literature  and  science 
and  art  and  religion.  —  and  is  now, 
more  than  ever,  stirring  the  human 
heart  to  self-development  and  progress  ? 
It  will  not  stop  nor  pause  till  it  has 
brought  forth  a  consummation  grander 
than  has  ever  yet  been  seen  or  im- 
agined. Jesus,  —  the  greatest  prophet 
and  power  that  has  appeared  in  the 
world  to  lead  on  this  consummation,  — 
he  said,  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
like  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  which 
is  indeed  the  least  of  all  seeds;  but, 
when  it  is  grown,  it  is  the  greatest 
among  herbs,  and  becometh  a  tree,  so 
that  the  birds  of  the  air  come  and  lodge 
in  its  branches." 

And,  if  we  speak  of  the  infinitude 
of  God  as  removing  him  from  us,  let 
us  not    forget  that  there   is  a  kind    of 


infinitude  in  man,  a  range  of  boundless 
desire  and  aspiration,  —  the  impress 
upon  his  nature  of  the  Infinitude  from 
which  it  came.  We  lift  our  thoughts, 
we  stretch  out  our  hands,  to  the  Infi- 
nite ;  and  nothing  else  can  satisfy  us. 
That  great  word  —  God,  —  the  one 
word  that  stands  alone  in  its  magnifi- 
cence and  beauty,  —  I  cannot  under- 
stand, though  superstition  may  shrink 
from  it,  and  materialism  may  seem 
willing  to  blot  it  out,  how  any  rational 
mind  can  live  far  from  it.  How  does 
it  penetrate  all  the  depths  of  our  being, 
—  striking  every  chord  of  love  and 
wonder  and  delight !  How  does  it  irra- 
diate the  earth  and  the  heavens  with 
its  splendor  and  loveliness  !  How  does 
it  bring  calmness  and  breathe  peace 
into  all  souls  when  it  conies  !  "  O 
God  !  thou  art  my  God,"  says  the 
Psalmist :  "  early  will  I  seek  thee. 
My  soul  thirsteth  for  thee ;  my  flesh 
longeth  for  tliee.  Because  thy  loving- 
kindness  is  better  than  life,  my  lips 
shall  praise  thee.  Thus  will  I  bless 
thee  while  I  live :  I  will  lift  up  my 
hands  in  thy  name.*' 


INDEX. 


Ability,  not  a  measure  of  capacity  for  the  high- 
est good,  Tyj- 

Abuse  of  good  things  no  objection  to  the  things, 
127.  Should  be  reformed,  not  the  things  de- 
stroyed, 12S. 

Accumulations  of  property,  the  moral  principles 
which  should  govern,  256.  Scripture  warnings 
against  the  perils  attending,  25S.  Passion  for, 
leads  to  sacrificing  the  end  of  life  for  the  means, 
269.  Lawful  reasons  for  desiring,  270. 
Large,  an  unfair  distribution  of  the  rewaids 
of  industry,  273. 

Addison,  his  view  of  the  Supreme  Being,  accord- 
ing to  Soanie  Jenyns,  287. 

Affections,  religious,  as  well  as  other,  require  to 
be  cultivated,  660. 

Affliction,  rarer  than  happiness  in  the  world,  100. 
Increase  of,  by  unbelief,  683.  Grandeur  of 
Christ's  example  seen  in,  722. 

African,  the  inferiority  of  the,  330.  If  weak  and 
childish  to  be  treated  as  a  child,  332.  Com- 
mon humanity  of  the,  not  recognized  by  the 
Southern  mind,  333. 

Allston,  criticism  of  the  paintings  of,  310.  Criti- 
cism of  the  Jeremiah  of,  313. 

Ambition,  life  opens  a  sphere  for,  735.  The  true 
rebuke  of  disappointed,  738. 

Amiableness,  not  holiness,  733. 

Andover,  Dewey  enters  Theological  Seminary  at, 
iv. 

Annoyances,  petty.  714. 

Anthracite  coal,  how  to  obtain  a  lasting  fire  from, 

300- 

Apostolic  language,  application  of,  to  present 
times,  435. 

Appearances,  keeping  up,  degrading,  708. 

Appetites,  the,  commonly  regarded  as  enemies, 
corrupters  of  the  soul,  557.  Plea  against  this 
charge,  from  their  uses,  559  ;  from  what  they 
teach  and  demand,  560  ;  from  the  inversion  of 
the  natural  relations  of  the  body  and  mind  pro- 
duced by  vice,,  563.  Uses  of,  559.  Have  bad 
tendencies,  560.  Teach  moderation,  560;  self- 
denial,  561  ;  activity,  562.  Not  one  of,  can  be 
spared,  605. 

Approbation  of  goodness  implies  a  feeling  of 
goodness,  510. 

Arians,  the  early  fathers,  496. 

Aristides,  story  of,  644. 

Art,  the  servant  of  virtue,  125.  Requires  the 
stamp  of  mind,  307.     What  it  includes,  308. 

Artist,  work  of  the  true,  307. 


Arts,  the,  a  just  representation  the  object  of,  309. 
Principles  of  culture  and  criticism  in  all,  the 
same,  310.  Of  design  require  a  wide  ana  gen- 
erous culture  of  the  whole  man,  315.  A  scepti- 
cal age  not  one  of  great  achievement  in,  V4- 
Highest,  will  never  produce  a  revolting  imp"res- 
sion,  316. 

Atheists,  many  have  recognized  the  divine  glory, 
670. 

Atonement,  Unitarian  view  of  the,  345.  Pre- 
eminence given  by  Paul  to  the,  373.  True 
dignity  and  importance  of  the,  373. 

Attainment,  our  spiritual,  as  unsatisfactory  as 
material,  744. 

Atterbury,  Bishop,  on  allegories  in  Scripture, 
467.     On  the  language  of  the  Apostles,  471. 


Ballads,  if  successful  must  appeal  to  the  best 
sentiments,  11.  Of  England  urge  a  sense  of 
duty,  particularly  on  military  men,  590. 

Baxter,  quotation  from,  on  the  certainties  of  re- 
ligious faith,  361. 

Beauty,  of  the  human  countenance,  48.  Moral 
tendency  of  the  love  of,  569.  The  sense  of, 
innate,  569. 

Belief,  in  the  Scripture  use,  482.  Statement  of 
personal,  in  one  God,  in  man,  in  goodness,  in 
prayer,  6S9.  Of  a  man  must  influence  his  life, 
774- 

Bellows,  Henry  W.,  D.D.,  tribute  of,  to  the 
character  of  Dewey,  v. 

Beneficence,  of  God,  conscious  existence  testifies 
to  the,  58.  Of  things,  overlooked  in  prosperity, 
788. 

Benignity  of  God,  the  universe  one  revelation  of 
the,  40,  41.  Nature  and  the  mission  of  Jesus 
another,  41. 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  quotation  from,  on  light,  ^52. 

Bible,  Unitarian  theory  of  the  inspiration  of  the, 
369.  Authority  for  that  theory,  370.  The 
books  of  the,  to  be  regarded  and  interpreted  as 
other  books,  406,  407.  Doubtful  passages  in, 
need  qualified  persons  to  understand  them, 
408.  A  fallible  book,  459.  Contents  of  the, 
463.  Books  of  the,  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  contents  of  the  books,  475.  Demands  of 
the.  4S2.  Purpose  of  the,  490,  491.  Grandeui 
and  beauty  of  the  records  of  the,  685. 

Bible  stories,  the  charm  of  the,  219. 

Body,  organization  of  the,  55-?,  554.  Points  of 
the,  common   to   (he    animal    organism,    555 ; 


794 


INDEX. 


superior  to  that  organism,  535-557-  A  won- 
derful moral  structure,  561.  Teaching  of  the, 
561.  Care  and  training  of  the,  562.  Union 
of  mind  with,  5S4. 

Books,  religious  tendency  of,  125.  Examples 
of  close  reasoning  in  religious,  187.  Good, 
cannot  be  written  by  bad  men,  224.  Luxuries, 
284.     Prodigious  multiplication  of,  285. 

Boston,  Dr.  Dewey,  minister  of  New  South  So- 
ciety in,  V. 

Bridgewater,  bequest  of  the  Earl  of,  522. 

Buckle,  History  of  Civilization  by,  524. 

Bulwer,  quotation  from,  on  verse,  308. 

Burial  rite,  in  Egypt,  522.  Peculiar  to  man, 
613.     The  result  of  a  sentiment,  613. 

Burnst,  Bishop,  quotation  from,  on  inspiration, 
472. 

Burnet,  Thomas,  Rev.,  theory  of  the  earth  of, 
541. 

Business,  the  moral  end  of,  235,  251.  Individual 
talent  rightly  comes  into  play  in,  240.  Obliga- 
tions of  seller  to  buyer  in,  241.  End  of,  some- 
thing more  than  success,  252.  A  scene  of 
moral  action,  253.  Folly  of  retiring  from,  255. 
Commendable  reasons  for  retiring  from,  255. 
The  perils  of,  259.  Honorable  character  of  the 
upright  man  of,  261.  Changes  of,  in  modern 
times.  265,  266.  May  be  a  means  of  mental 
culture,  270.  Rule  of  an  eminent  banker,  on 
the  relation  the  amount  of,  done  should  bear  to 
capital  invested,  274. 

Byron,  his  melancholy  view  of  life,  98. 


Calamities,  the  lesson  of,  335.  Teachers  of 
wisdom,  340. 

Calvinism,  Five  Points  of,  381.  An  artificial  sys- 
tem, 399.  The  theory  of,  on  morals,  502. 
This  theory  at  issue  with  moral  philosophy, 
50'?.  At  war  with  literature,  common  sense, 
and  common  conduct  of  mankind,  505.  Diffi- 
culty of,  to  sustain  itself  in  the  public  mind, 
507.  Inconsistency  of  its  admission  of  a  con- 
science in  men  and  its  idea  of  total  depravity, 
510.  If  true,  should  produce  a  feeling  of  sad- 
ness, 512.  Lack  of  literature  produced  by, 
512.     Cannot  be  proved  true,  513. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  quotation  from,  on  men  deserv- 
ing of  honor.  271. 

Casablanca,  lesson  taught  by,  89. 

Ceremonial  rites,  insufficiency  of,  to  Luther,  483. 

Chalmers,  quotation  from,  on  the  uniformity  of 
nature,  590. 

Channing,  Rev.  William  Ellery,  D.D  ,  Dewey 
invited  to  be  assistant  of,  iv. 

Character,  value  of,  48.  Gradations  in,  among 
men,  194.     Test  of,  in  the  social  relations,  699. 

Charity,  unwise  forms  of,  270 

Clieerfulness,  not  dependent  on  wealth  or  poverty, 
80. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  a  superficial  observer,  6. 

Childhood,  the  world's  experimenter,  575.  Crisis 
in  the  passage  to  maturity,  575,  576.  Union  of 
elders  in  training,  5S2.  Uncompensated  labor 
for,  5S2.  Feebleness  of,  designed  to  strengthen 
the  family  bond,  583- 

China.  subjection  in,  652. 

Christ,  the  effect  upon  human  character  of  perfect 
imitation  of,  iii.  Wherein  the  life  of,  is,  and 
wherein  is  not,  an  example  for  us,  112,  113. 
Character  of  the  teaching  of,  150.  Theory  by 
which  a  double  nature  in,  can  be  proved,  36S. 


Relation  of  the  cross  of,  to  our  sins,  and  to  the 
pardon  of  sin,  377,  378  ;  to  virtue,  379.  The 
idea  of,  received  from  the  Gospels.  753,  754. 
What  believing  on,  is,  754.  Joy  of  virtue  in, 
755.  The  office  of,  to  his  disciples,  758,  759. 
Beloved  more  than  other  teachers,  759.  Mean- 
ing of  the  term  to  be  in,  759.     See  Jesus. 

Christian,  a  man  may  be  more  of  a,  by  losing  sec- 
tarian bonds,  762. 

"  Christian  Examiner,"  Dewey  a  contributor  to 
the,  iv. 

Christianity,  a  religion  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
human  nature,  22,  28  ;  and  to  the  whole  nature, 
23.  Allows  individuality,  25.  Perverted  by 
erroneous  views  of  religion,  145.  As  held  by 
Unitarians,  a  religion  of  power  and  strictness, 
400.  The  spirit  of  the  world  a  hidden  foe  to, 
441.  Founded  on  miracles.  448.  Influence  of, 
on  the  feudal  system,  655.  Controversy  on 
supernaturalism  of,  775. 

Christian  missions,  commendable  points  of,  687. 
Some  reasons  for  the  failure  of,  687. 

Christians,  ancient  fellowship  of,  438.  Hostility 
between  the  world  and,  in  apostohc  times,  440. 

Christian  sects,  each  has  something  right  in  its 
system,  6S7.  Points  worthy  of  general  accept- 
ance in  the  services  of  several,  6S7. 

Church,  needs  of  the,  as  a  working  institution, 
776.     Ordinances  of  the,  778-779. 

Cicero,  illustration  from,  of  the  Alexandrian  corn 
merchant,  245.     On  Solitude,  657. 

City,  a  great,  a  sphere  of  moral  action,  60. 

Civilization,  Guizot's  statement  regarding,  637. 
Movement  of,  upon  barbarism,  as  shown  in 
British  rule  in  India,  642.  Childliood  of,  in 
Southern  Asia,  649.  Youth  of,  in  Greece,  652. 
Rome,  law-maker  and  diffuser  of.  652.  In 
Central  and  Western  Europe,  653. 

Civilizations,  accomplishments  of  the  old,  52S, 
529. 

Colonization,  a  help  to  human  progress.  641. 

Comfort,  a  utilitarian  word,  676.  Not  felt  merely 
in  solitude,  676. 

Comforts,  of  society  task  and  improve  the  intel- 
lect, 301. 

Commerce,  the  civilizer  of  nations,  253.  Liberty, 
scienc2,  and  religion  followers  of,  253. 

Commercial  immorality,  277. 

Common  sense,  46,  568.  Leads  to  distinctly 
moral  conclusions,  569.     A  moral  censor,  569. 

Competition,  not  forbidden  by  Scripture,  139.  In 
trade  only  to  be  restrained  by  fairness  and  hon 
esty,  242.  An  annoying  form  of  selfishness  ; 
a  trial  of  society,  579. 

Comte,  Auguste,  quotation  from,  against  reli- 
gion, 116-  Task  undertaken  by,  in  his  Philos- 
ophie  Positive,  524. 

Conceptions,  suggest  their  opposites,  53. 

Condorcet,  Marquis  de,  anecdote  of,  657. 

Conduct,  often  at  variance  with  sentiment,  221- 
225.  Principles  of,  to  be  distinguished  from 
rules  for,  237. 

Conscience,  the  all-pervading  power  of  God,  49. 
According  to  Calvinism,  depraved,  503,  510. 
51 1.  What  it  is,  538.  Working  of  a  mis- 
guided, 566.  Authoritative,  570.  Executive, 
571.  No  escape  from,  571.  Sure  to  overtake 
the  transgressor,  572.  Apparent  ascendency 
given  to  intellect  over,  606,  607.  In  man  in 
spite  of  himself,  665.     The  voice  of  God,  668. 

Conscription,  remark  of  Napoleon  on  the,  627. 

Contracts,   the  feelings  not  to  decide  the  right 


INDEX. 


795 


and  wrong  of,  237-238.  Definition  of,  240. 
Definition  of  fraud  in,  241.  Mutual  advantage 
the  basis  of,  246.     Views  of,  245-246. 

Controversy,  drives  men  to  exti-enies  of  opinion, 
462. 

Conversion,  true,  196-197.  Jewish  views  of,  409. 
Early  Christian  views  of,  409.  Present  Chris- 
tian views  of,  410.  Arguments  for,  and  objec- 
tions to,  41 1-412.  Regarded  as  identical  with 
obtaining  religion,  413.  True  view  of,  414-415. 
In  Apostolic  times,  434. 

Courtesy,  beauty  of,  700. 

Covetousness,  the  guilt  of  inordinate,  20. 

Creation,  all  beautiful,  45,  46.  The  design  in, 
518,  519.  Human  culture  the  end  of,  632. 
Moral  freedom  the  principle  on  which  the  end 
of,  is  to  be  secured,  632. 

Credit,  too  great  expansion  of,  imprudent,  274. 
The  dangers  of,  275.  Dishonesty  in  the  use  of, 
275,  276. 

Creed,  not  a  certainty,  but  an  inference,  354;  a 
theory,  480. 

Creeds,  decline  of,  775. 

Criticism,  principles  of  true,  310,  311.  Apt  to 
overlook  all  but  first-rate  excellence,  311. 

Culture,  no  successful,  without  moral  feeling,  31  ■5. 
The  cultivation  of  the  whole  man,  314.  True, 
315.  The  end  of  Providence,  574.  Examina- 
tion of  the  interior  and  trying  conditions  of, 
599.  Indefiniteness  of  the  process  of,  601. 
Costs  according  to  its  degree,  661.  Impossi- 
ble to  brutes,  788. 


Daily  experience  a  spiritual  discipline,  57. 

David,  the  sin  of,  219.  Imprecations  of,  his  own 
imperfection,  not  due  to  the  Spirit  of  God,  465, 
466.  Dr.  Durell  on  the  imprecations  of,  473. 
Allowance  for  the  imprecations  of,  6S5. 

Dead,  voices  of  the,  131-138.  Works  of  the, 
131.  Memories  of  the,  132.  The,  not  shut 
off  from  communication  with  us,  136. 

Death,  the  lesson  of,  94,  233.  The  victory  over, 
celebrated  by  the  sacramental  table,  95.  Con- 
solations in  view  of,  104,  105.  A  good  man's 
possible  thoughts  on,  107,  108.  Darkness  of, 
to  unbelief,  137.  Preparation  for,  200.  Sud- 
den, why  dreaded,  201.  Sudden,  preparation 
for,  opposed  to  the  import  of  Scripture,  202. 
Habitual  readiness  for,  207,  341.  Regarded  by 
most  men  as  an  evil,  614.  An  evident  and 
original  part  of  the  system  of  the  world,  614 
The,  threatened  in  Scripture,  614.  Part  of 
the  natural  course,  614,  615.  Isolation  of  the 
event  of,  615.  Value  of  this  isolation,  618. 
Pain  attending,  616.  Influence  of,  on  life,  as 
an  epoch  in  the  moral  course,  617  ;  as  near,  617  ; 
as  inevitable,  618  ;  as  admonitory,  by  filling  tlie 
world  with  toucliing  and  sublime  memorials, 
61S  ;  and  giving  a  grandeur  to  life,  618.  The 
lot  of  all,  683.  Appointed  by  God  for  good, 
6S3.  Cannot  be  resisted,  684.  Sceptical  quo- 
tations from  Mirabeau  on,  683.  The  Christian 
way  to  meet,  6S3. 

Depravation,  as  distinguished  from  depravity  of 
nature,  349.     Total,  382. 

Descent  from  the  Cross,  Guerin's  picture  of  the, 
316. 

Design,  the  argument  from,  5 1 7.  Dispositions  to 
discredit,  517.  Enforcement  of  the  argument 
from,  517.  In  the  vegetable  world,  519.  In 
the  animal  world,  520.     in  man,  520. 


Despondency,  nothing  in  human  condition  pecu 
liarly  calling  for,  598.  Grounds  for  not  enter- 
taining, 598. 

Despotism,  better  than  no  government,  622,  626. 
American  disposition  to  do  injustice  to,  626. 

Devotion,  argument  for,  springs  from  the  struc- 
ture of  the  soul,  675.  Reasonableness  and 
grandeur  of,  677.  Trials  of,  under  modern 
science,  690.  The  loftiest  tendency  of  our 
nature,  699. 

Dewey,  Orville,  born  in  Sheffield,  in  1794,  ix. 
Early  influences  shaping  character  of,  ix.  Gra- 
duated at  Williams  College,  ix.  Early  desire 
to  be  a  preacher,  ix.  Difficulties  in  the  way, 
ix.  Enters  Andover  Theological  Seminary,  x. 
Changes  in  religious  faith,  x.  Leaves  Ando- 
ver unsettled  in  opinions,  x.  Invited  to  Glou- 
cester, X.  Invited  to  Boston  to  assist  Dr. 
Channing,  x.  Value  to  him  of  his  intimacy 
with  Dr.  C,  X.  Marries  Miss  Louisa  Farn- 
ham,  X.  Settled  at  New  Bedford,  x.  Diffi- 
culties of  his  work  there,  x.  A  contributor  to 
the  Christian  Examiner,  x.  Visits  Europe, 
X.  Returns  to  Sheffield,  X.  Invited  to  Church 
of  the  Messiah,  N.Y..  xi.  Receives  degree  of 
D.D.  from  Harvard  College,  xi.  Renewed  ill- 
ness, xi.  Revisits  Europe,  xi.  Returns  to 
Sheffield,  xi.  Delivers  course  of  Lowell  Lec- 
tures, xi.  Minister  of  New  South  Society  in 
Boston,  xi.  Returns  to  Sheffield,  xi.  Dies 
there,  aged  88,  xii. 

Dewey,  Paul,  iii. 

Difficulty  inevitable  to  the  system  of  things,  712. 

Discouragement,  argument  against,  77,  78. 

Distinction,  appreciation  of,  in  rude  times,  yi^y. 

Divine  Providence,  impartiality  of,  shown  by  the 
inequalities  caused  by  nature,  79. 

Divinity  of  any  great  man  may  be  proved  by  evi- 
dence similar  to  that  with  which  the  Trinitarian 
tries  to  prove  the  Deity  of  Jesus,  494. 

Domestic  virtues,  fostered  by  rigors  of  climate,  79. 

Doubts,  essential  in  the  process  towards  belief, 
355-357;  utility  of,  362. 

Draper,  work  of,  on  the  intellectual  development 
of  Europe,  524. 

Durell,  Dr.,  on  David's  Imprecatory  Psalms,  473. 

Duties,  unreasonable  desires  not  the  measure  of, 
239- 

Earth,  how  made  habitable,  542.  Means  of 
warming  the,  543,  544.  Condition  and  charac- 
ter of  the  first  inhabitants  of  the,  632.  Early 
cosmogonies  of  the,  649. 

Ecce  Homo,  points  of  dissent  from  the  writer  of, 

753-  754- 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  force  of  the  argument  in  his 
work  on  the  Will,  if  man  be  totally  depraved, 
500. 

Effort  and  struggle,  a  good  condition,  600. 

Egmont,  Count,  644. 

Election,  Unitarian  view  of  the  doctrine  of,  350. 
Orthodox  view,  384. 

Electric  spark,  developed  by  friction,  an  illustra- 
tion from,  ill  the  moral  world,  58. 

Elihu,  argument  of,  in  the  book  of  Job,  665. 

Envy,  dependent  upon  nearness  in  competition,  5. 

Epistles,  local  and  special  references  of  the,  429, 
430.  Should  be  applied  to  later  Christian  ex- 
perience with  qualification,  4:;!. 

Error,  religious,  can  not  be  entiiely  avoided  by 
man,  621.  The  problem  involved  in  the  preva- 
lence and  ministry  of,  630.     Mis-statement  of 


796 


INDEX. 


the  problem,  630.  Divine  Providence  has 
wrought  good  out  of,  631. 
Evil,  not  a  fair  and  natural  result  of  moral  free- 
dom, 16.  Not  natural  to  man,  16.  False  no- 
tions of  what  is,  S3.  Necessary  to  virtue,  83. 
The  problem  of.  in  the  world,  326.  Something 
beside,  in  the  world,  5  28.  View  to  be  taken  of, 
530.  Impossibility  of  excluding  all,  from  the 
world,  530.  Theory  of,  of  Leibnitz,  530.  Prin- 
ciple at  the  basis  of  the  problem  of,  531.  Re- 
sults from  the  limitations  necessary  to  a  created 
system,  531.  Could  not  have  been  excluded 
from  the  world,  532.  This  fact  no  limitation 
of  divine  power  or  goodness,  532.  Theory  of  the 
Epicureans  regarding,  as  given  by  Lactantius, 

532.  Remark  on  from  Rogers's  Table  Talk, 

533.  Natural,  533.  Moral,  534.  Argument 
of  the  work  of  Archbishop  King  on  tlie  origin 
of,  537,  note.  Problem  of  tlie  origin  of,  thought 
to  pertain  to  humanity  alone,  598.  Hereditary, 
inseparable  from  the  best  possible  system  of 
things,  612. 

Evils,  some,  must  flow  from  human  freedom  and 
ignorance,  620.  These,  developments  of  the 
higher  hunian  sentiments,  620. 

Excitement,  the  craving  for,  a  characteristic  of 
the  age,  2S4. 

Existence,  the  blessing  of,  44. 

Experience,  the  only  source  of  knowledge  in 
matters  of  practical  wisdom,  646.  Rise  of  po- 
litical truths  through,  646.  Common  beliefs 
the  fruit  of,  646. 

Eye,  the  construction  of  the,  displays  intelligence, 
782,  783. 


Faculty  of  spesch,  given  for  the  expression  and 
culture  of  higher  things  than  are  foinid  in  ani- 
mal nature,  55. 

Faith,  argument  for,  from  the  constitution  of  the 
mind,  66.  Needed  as  support  under  affliction 
and  temptation,  68.  In  Christ  is  love  of  God, 
106.     Nature   of,   357,  359.     Not   knowledge, 

360.  Not  a  matter  of  experience,  361.  Fruits 
of  Christian,  not  to  be  held  as  doubtful  matters, 

361.  True,  364.  In  the  New  Testament,  rep- 
resented as  a  form  of  saving  virtue,  482.  The 
method  of  acceptance  with  God,  483.  Essence 
of,  484.  Justification  by,  4S4.  Stands  between 
love  and  works,  486.  The  Gospel  demand  for, 
reasonable,  4S7.  In  God,  the  soul's  only  want 
in  affliction,  676.  In  God  and  a  future  life, 
strength  of  the  ground  for,  6S0. 

Falsehood,  is  it  ever  justifiable.''  706,  707. 

Fame,  value  of,  735. 

Family,  the,  the  private  school  of  society,  583. 

Farm-house,  moral  import  of  the  work  of  the,  59. 

Farnham,  Louisa,  marries  Orville  Dewey,  iv. 

Farnham,  William,  iv. 

Faults,  individual,  725.  How  they  may  be  over- 
come, 725,  726. 

Feudal  system,  654.  The  source  of  a  new  fam- 
ily culture,  654.  Influence  of,  on  the  place  of 
women,  654  ;  on  the  rights  of  individual  man, 
654.     Presided  over  by  Christianity,  655. 

Fiction,  dangers  of,  11.  Good  in,  k.  Moral 
character  of  most  works  of,  good,  11.  The 
combination  of  the  traits  of  real  life,  290. 

Fidelity,  achievements  possible  to,  726. 

Fluctuation,  a  universal  law,  603.  Belongs  to 
the  moods  of  the  mind,  604.  Advantages  of 
the  law  of,  604. 


Follen,  Charles,  death  of,  334. 

Foster,  criticism  of  the  style  of  the  Essays  on 
Popular  Ignorance,  by,  290. 

France,  lack  of  the  religious  sentiment  in,  115. 
Hello's  Philosophy  of  the  History  of,  647. 

Free  agency,  results  of,  537.  A  necessity  to  vir- 
tue, 599.  Governed  and  controlled  to  bring 
about  good  ends,  623. 

Freedom,  distinction  between,  and  control,  623. 

Fretting,  is  doing  evil,  712. 

Fuel,  waste  of,  299. 

Future  life,  reasons  why  we  should  not  have  an 
actual  vision  of,  362. 

Future  punishment.  Scriptural  representations  of, 
not  literal  nor  definite,  388.  Duration  of,  not 
definitely  described,  389.  Doctrine  of  literally 
eternal,  destroys  the  proofs  of  the  goodness  of 
God,  390.  Men  do  not  believe  the  statements 
in  their  creeds  concerning,  391.  A  serious 
question,  392. 

Gain,  true  ideas  of,  765. 

Galionella,  the,  589. 

Game  of  life,  Retsch's  picture  of  the,  316. 

Genius,  the  power  of  application,  280.  Popular 
ideas  of  a,  293. 

Gloucester,  Dewey  settled  at,  iv. 

God,  benignity  of,  testified  to  in  the  universe,  in 
nature,  and  in  the  mission  of  Jesus,  41.  Con- 
scious existence  a  testimony  to  the  beneficence 
of,  58.  Goodness  of,  extended  to  all,  78. 
Most  numerous  favors  of,  are  bestowed  im- 
partially, 81.  The  universe  a  revelation  of, 
185.  A  Father,  344.  Place  held  in  the  mind 
by  the  idea  of,  659.  Reasons  why  that  idea 
does  not  hold  a  larger  place,  659.  Character 
falsely  ascribed  to,  660.  The  giver  of  good, 
recognized  in  his  gifts,  662,  663.  Argument 
for  being  of,  in  the  spiritua  ly  receptive  faculty 
of  the  soul,  6-5.  Communion  with,  a  comfort 
to  the  heart,  676.  Effect  upon  the  mind  of 
thoughts  of  infinitude  and,  743,  744.  Known 
in  his  works,  767.  Demanded  by  our  nature, 
as  an  object  of  faith  and  adoration,  769,  The 
final  word  of  Christianity,  776.  Ascending 
pr.th  to  the  knowledge  of,  785.  Cultivation  of 
our  knowledge  of  the  character  of,  the  highest 
aim  of  our  being,  78S.  True  way  to  regard  the 
manifestations  of,  in  nature  and  religion,  789; 
the  way  of  Jesus,  789.     Sympathy  with,  790. 

God's  love,  a  restraint  from  evil,  115-217.  A 
comfort  in  affliction,  217-219. 

Goodness,  not  an  attribute  of  matter,  664.  The 
power  of,  664 

Good  sense,  definition  of,  312. 

Gospel,  exalted  idea  of  the  ministry  of  the,  164. 
Distinction  between,  and  law,  196.  Encourage- 
ment to  deeper  reading  of  the,  696. 

Gotama,  number  ot  the  works  of,  stated  by  Dr. 
Draper,  528,  note. 

Government,  moral  character  of,  31S,  320,  321  ; 
of  our  form  of,  318.  A  free  and  popular,  the 
most  entitled  to  respect  and  reverence,  320. 
A  moral  being,  321.  A  trust,  322.  Functions 
of,  323,  324.  Fear  of  God,  the  crown  of,  325. 
The  tendency  of  the  age  to  popular  forms  of, 
an  awful  movement,  325.  The  people  make, 
what  it  is,  325. 

Gravitation,  value  of  the  law  of,  667. 

Greatness,  compared  with  the  reputation  for,  736, 

12,1- 
Greece,  civilization  of,  651.     Literature  of,  652. 


INDEX. 


797 


Kabits,  force  of,  204. 

Hall,  Robert,  the  most  powerful  preacher  of  Eng- 
land, 702. 

Happiness,  acquired  only  by  effort,  203.  Too 
much  thought  of,  in  life,  719.  The  natural  rule 
of  all  conscious  existence,  7S7  ;  due  to  intelli- 
gence and  goodness  of  the  originating  cause, 
7S7. 

Heathenism,  not  utterly  bad,  686.  An  approach 
to  the  light,  687.  Reasons  for  the  failure  of 
missions  to,  687. 

Heaven  and  hell,  Unitarian  views  of,  351. 

Hebrew  prophets,  their  appearance  a  phenomenon 
in  history,  0^6.  Character  of  the,  as  men,  686  ; 
as  pre  ichers,  686. 

Hebrew  religious  system,  sublimity  of  the,  685. 
Cosmogony  of,  cannot  be  accepted,  685. 

Hegel,  the  philosophyof  history  of,  516. 

Herder,  analysis  of  his  Philosophy  of  Humanity, 
5 1 1).  Quotation  from,  on  the  power  of  the 
sen-es,  532. 

Here  litary  transmission,  the  law  of,  a  useful  law, 
612.  Connection  of  this  law  with  nationality; 
and  the  family  bond,  612.  Evil  must  come  with 
the  good  of,  613. 

Home,  the  bond  of  the  world,  48,  583,.  584.  The 
surroundings  of,  teachers  of  religion  and  moral- 
ity, 61.     Influence  of  the,  302. 

Human  body,  wonders  of  the  construction  of  the, 
55.  Points  of  in  common  with,  and  in  contrast 
to  the  animal  organism,  555-557. 

Human  constitution,  the  laws  of  the,  moral  laws, 
562.  Not  a  natural  developer  of  evil,  vice,  in- 
temperance, 563. 

Human  culture,  the  end  of  Providence,  521. 
History  of  thought  on,  521.     In  ancient  times, 

522.  In   Egypt,   522.      In  Greek  mythology, 

523.  Among  the  Persians,  523.  In  the  He- 
brew religion,  523.  In  Christianity,  523.  In 
the  Neo-Platonic  School,  524.  Difficulties  and 
trials  of  men"s  mmds  concerning.  524,  525. 
Discussion  of,  designed  not  for  philosophers, 
but  for  the  people,  525,  526. 

Human  depravity,  Unitarian  views  concerning, 
34S. 

Human  experience  not  the  measure  of  divine 
power,  450. 

Human  face,  marvel  of  the,  55.  Power  of  ex- 
pression of  tlie,  556.  Individuality  of  the,  557. 
Advantages  of  this  individuality,  557. 

Human  faculties,  divided  mto  the  intellectual,  to 
apprehend  truth,  566 ;  the  aesthetic,  to  appre- 
hehd  beauty,  566,  the  moral,  to  apprehend 
right,  566.     An  error  to  disparage  the,  567. 

Human  hand,  marks  of  adaptation  in  the,  557. 

Humanity,  the  Saviour  had  respect'.for,  729.  Il- 
lustration of,  among  inhabitants  of  Java,  730. 
The  expounders  of,  731  :  agree  with  the  great 
Teacher,  732.  Gospel  demands  of,  732  ;  re- 
pentance, conversion,  regeneration,  7^2.  Im- 
proves under  the  discipline  of  the  world,  7S7. 
A  clearer  revelation  of  God  than  the  material 
universe,  791. 

Human  love,  the  strength  of,  19. 

Human  nature,  objections  to,  concessions  to  its 
worth,  1-9.  Weak  and  low,  lofty  and  strong,  i. 
Unqualified  disparagement  of,  as  unjust  as  un- 
due praise,  i.  General  and  fair  views  of,  2. 
Criticisms  of  the  sceptical  philosopher  on.  2. 
Replies  to  the  same,  3-6.  Low  views  of  God 
resulting  from  low  views  of,  2.  Depreciation 
of,  proves  it  not  worthless,  3.     Not  malignant, 


4.  Not  diabolical  even  though  selfish,  4.  Power 
of  selfishness  over,  5.  A  man's  own  character 
his  interpreter  of,  5.  By  what  qualities  unfairly 
judged,  6  ;  by  what  fairly,  6.  Criticisms  of 
the  theologian  on,  7.  Very  degradation  of, 
proves  nobility  of,  7.  Spontaneous  moral  ex- 
pressions of  men  a  testimony  to  the  exalted 
character  of,  10-12.  Good  men  the  legitimate 
representatives  of,  12-13.  Wrong  done  by  sin 
to,  16-22.  Does  not  choose  evil  as  such,  iS. 
Adaptation  of  religion  to,  22-28.  The  appeal 
of  religion  to,  2S-35.  A  ground  for  thanksgiv- 
ing, 42-50.  Moral  and  religious  belief  an  es- 
sential principle  of,  68.  Has  capability  of  good 
as  well  as  evil,  34.9.     Calvinism's  low  view  of, 

506.  Injustice. of  this  view  of,  507.  Idea  can- 
not be  admitted  that  there  is  nothing  good  in, 

507.  Ideas  of  moral  excellence  belong  essen- 
tially to,  508,  509.  Unconscious  tendencies 
in,  a  proof  of  divine  direction,  647.  Sense  of 
right  and  wrong  in,  665. 

Human  strength,  not  enough  dwelt  on,  726. 
Humboldt,  William,  quotation  from,  515. 
Hunger,  the  use  of,  559. 


Ideals,  the  rudest  age  susceptible  of  high,  623. 

Ignorance,  why  permitted  in  creation,  537. 

Illusion,  relation  of,  to  the  problem  of  human 
destiny,  602.     About  wealth,  602. 

Imagination,  development  of,  in  youth,  117. 

Impatience,  the  sin  of,  710.  Development  of,  due 
to  temperament,  711.  Unwise  on  economical 
grounds,  711.  Provocations  of,  712.  Misery 
following,  shows  evil  of,  714.  May  be  con- 
trolled by  expecting  difficulties,  715  ;  by  a  rea- 
sonable submission  to  the  will  of  Providence, 
715.  Lofty  state  of  the  mind  that  can  control, 
716. 

Imperfection,  a  necessity  of  the  universe,  599. 

Impossibilities,  natural,  533. 

Improvement  in  the  arts  of  living  the  first  step 
to  moral  and  intellectual  improvement,  297. 
Comfort  a  friend  to  social,  299. 

India,  British  influence  in,  642,  643. 

Indulgence,  the  misery  of,  60. 

Inequality  of  lot  inevitable,  580.  Not  at  war 
with  social  justice  or  improvement,  5S0. 

Infidelity,  Unitarian  views  do  not  tend  to  pro- 
duce, 463.  Definition  of,  469.  A  senseless 
cry,  470. 

Infinite  attributes  do  not  differ  from  what  we  un- 
derstand by  the  attributes,  770. 

Infinitude,  in  man,  792.  Of  God  does  not  debar 
us  from  knowledge  of  his  nature,  785,  786. 

Infirmity,  contributes  to  human  virtue  and  human 
existence,  6oS. 

Innocence,  passive,  not  the  noblest  quality,  750. 

Inquiry,  advantages  of,  over  certainty,  363. 

Inspiration,  correct  views  of,  save  from  infidelity, 
460.  Of  the  .Scriptures,  quotations  on,  from 
Erasmus,  Michselis,  Bishop  Marsh,  Dr.  Powell, 
Dr.  Paley,  461.  Of  every  idea  of  the  Bible, 
not  believed  even  by  the  Orthodox,  467.  Ex- 
tent of,  465-46S.  Le  Clerc  on.  470.  Bishop 
Burnet  on,  472.  Jahn  on  modifications  in  the 
doctrine  of,  473.  Arguments  of  Dr.  Woods 
on,  475,  476.  Deficiencies  in  his  ai-guments, 
476,  477- 

Instinct,  a  clearer  proof  of  divine  direction  than 
reason,  647. 

Intellect,   achievements   of  the,   574.     Apparent 


798 


INDEX. 


ascendency  given  to,  over  virtue  and  conscience, 
606,  607. 

Intelligence,  manifested  in  the  structure  of  plants 
and  animals,  786,  7S7. 

Intelligibleness  a  correlative  of  incomprehensi- 
bility, 770,  771. 

Invasion,  a  help  to  human  progress,  642. 

Ivan  IV.,  of  Russia,  and  his  son,  626. 


Jahn,  on  Ezekiel,  467.  On  modifications  of  the 
doctrine  of  inspiration,  473. 

Jerome,  St.,  on  the  prophet  Amos,  475. 

Jesus,  moral  harmony  of  the  character  of,  208. 
Example  of,  m  the  sphere  of  common  life,  2:52. 
Did  he  claim  to  be  God  .^370.  Spoken  of' in 
the  Bible  as  confessedly  inferior  to  God,  371. 
Description  of  circumstances  attending  the 
tleath  of,  374.  The  death  of,  the  life  of  the 
world,  375.  Different  vievifs  of  the  sacrifice  of, 
376,  377-  Interest  to  the  race  of  his  character 
as  a  sufferer,  379,  3S0.  How  spoken  of  in  the 
New  Testament,  436.  The  reverence  due,  437. 
Trinitarian  evidence  for  deity  of,  would  prove 
the  divinity  of  any  good  man,  494.  Beauty  of 
the  life  and  teachings  of,  admitted  by  hostile 
critics,  686.  Reason  for  veneration  of,  745. 
Naturalness  and  vitality  of  the  character  of, 
747.  Presented  to  us  as  our  great  model  and 
example,   747,  74S.     Social   relations   of,    74S, 

750.  Sinlessness  of,  730,  751.     Sufferings  of, 

751,  752.  No  stoicism  in,  752.  Impersonality 
in  the  language  of,  concerning  himself,  756. 
Peculiar  relation  to  our  humanity  of,  757. 
History  has  sanctioned  the  language  of,  con- 
cerning himself  and  his  mission,  757.  Relation 
of,  to  the  individual  soul,  75S.  The  theme  of 
universal  and  unabated  interest,  7S5.  See 
Christ. 

Job,  the  book  of,   36.     Meditation   of,   on  God, 

36.    . 
louffroi,  reference  to,  on  the  end  of  being,  522. 
Judith,  criticism  of  Allori's  picture  of,  313. 
Judson,  and  Burmese  heathen,  731. 
Justice,  distinction  between  moral  and  legal,  238. 
Justification,  propriety  of  the  Apostolic  term  of, 

433  ;  now  lost,  434. 


Kent,  Chancellor,  quotation  from,  on  legal  pro- 
tection against  fraud,  239. 
Kepler,  belief  of,  concerning  the  earth,  546. 


Labor,  the  beneficence  of  the  requirement  of,  53. 
Dignity  and  spiritual  end  of,  59.  Religion  in, 
123.  The  law  of,  262.  The  uses  of,  262. 
Public  opinion  derogatory  to,  264.  Disparag- 
ing estimate  of  literary,  264.  False  theories 
of,  taught  by  the  feudal  system,  591.    See  Toil. 

Lactantius,  statement  of  the  Epicurean  view  of 
the  problem  of  evil  by,  532. 

Language,  the  instrument  of  divine  intelligence 
and  human  ingenuity,  556. 

La  Place,  quotation  from  on  knowledge,  29?. 

Law,  obligation  of  reverence  and  obedience  to, 
626. 

Laws,  necessity  of  general,  to  man's  free  growth 
and  action,  538. 

Lawyer,  religious  aspect  of  the  vocation  of  the, 
124. 


Lea,  William,  inventor  of  stocking  frame,  death 
of,  of  a  broken  heart,  298. 

Le  Clerc,  quotation  from,  on  inspiration,  470. 

Legal  expediency,  may  protect  but  does  not  abet 
fraud,  239. 

Leibnitz,  theory  of  evil  of,  530. 

Lexington,  burning  of  the  steamer,  334. 

Liberal  Christianity,  assaults  on,  do  not  prove  it 
false,  393.     Modes  of  attack  on,  394,  -,96. 

Life,  intensity  and  awfulness  of,  38.  "Blessing 
0^1  Z'^i  99-  Moral  significance  of,  57.  Moral 
and  spiritual,  57.  Every  relation  of,  moral, 
60.  The  condition  of,  moral.  60.  Dignity  and 
interest  of,  increased  by  regarding  everything 
in  it  as  moral,  62.  All  the  dignity  of  humr.n, 
belongs  to  every,  63.  Opportunities  of,  in 
ordinary  occasions,  64 ;  made  dull  by  want  of 
spiritual  insight,  6j.  Necessity  of  a  moral  pur- 
pose to  the  well-being  of,  6s .  Faith  and  virtue 
necessary  to  the  attainment  of  the  great  ends  of, 
66.  A  motive  to  virtue,  68.  A  social  condi- 
tion, 69.  Dependent  on  individual  character, 
7I)  72,  75  ;  on  social  character,  y^^  74  •  on 
religious  character,  74.  Unfairness  of  most  of 
our  complaints  of,  75.  Inequalities  in,  perma- 
nent, 78..  A  system  of  checks  and  balances, 
79.  Apparent  inequalities  of,  not  real,  80. 
Distinctions  of,  unduly  overrated,  82.  Not 
wisely  called  miserable,  86.  A  schcol,  90. 
Given  for  moral  and  spiritual  learning,  90. 
Periods  of,  have  appropriate  tasks,  91.  Les- 
sons of  the  pursuits  and  conditions  of,  92.  A 
conflict  with  difficulties,  a  progress  in  improve- 
ment, 96.  Value  of,  97.  Heathen  views  of, 
97.  Job's  contempt  of,  97.  Youthful  dreams 
of,  97.  Manhood's  disappointment  in,  98. 
Dark  views  of,  taken  by  the  pulpit  and  religious 
men,  98.  Views  of  Jesus- and  his  apostles  con- 
cerning, 99.  Love  of,  proves  it  a  blessing,  100. 
Disparagement  of,  wrong,  fatal  to  religion  and 
improvement,  loi.  A  test  of  religion,  102. 
Spiritual  identity  of  the  future,  with  the  pres- 
ent, 104.  Spiritual,  the  true,  109.  Jesus  the 
interpreter  of  the  mystery  of,  no.  The  relig- 
ion of,  1 22-1 31.  The  world  made  for,  122. 
The  problem  of,  215.  Virtues  of  ordinary, 
230.  A  means  to  something  beyond,  340.  The 
mystery  of,  526,  527.  Blessings  of,  more  than 
the  miseries,  529,  530.  Advantages  of  a  tem- 
perate, 562.  Moral  adaptations  of,  aided  by 
physical;  childhood,  576  ;  manhood,  576:  ace. 
576.  Discipline  of,  involves  difficulty  and  trial, 
607.  Similarity  of  discipline  of  all  moral,  in 
all  worlds,  608.  Problems  in  man's  individual, 
609.  Historic  problems  of,  622.  A  bad.  not 
a  happy,  668.  Not  worth  the  anxieties  we 
give  it,  683.  The  action  demanded  if  there  be 
another,  678.  Failure  to  apprehend  the  reality 
in,  691.  Composed  of  the  visible  and  invisible, 
691.  The  visible  things  of,  are  symbols,  691. 
Preponderance  of  the  physical  over  the  spirit- 
ual at  earliest  periods  of,  692.  Lack  of  books 
on  the  philosophy  of,  694.  Ignorance  of  the 
grand  realities  of,  an  irreparable  loss,  696. 
Want  of  insight  of,  a  want  of  faith,  696.  Of 
sense  and  fashion,  repugnant  to  the  Saxon  race, 

^97- 

Limitation,  necessarily  implies  imperfection,  532. 

Literature,  object  of,  the  presentation  of  the  high- 
est ideal,  239.  Co-ordination  and  harmony  of 
the  departments  of,  282.  Of  the  day,  not  con- 
ducive to  study  and  thought,  286  ;  deficient  in 


INDEX. 


799 


religious  sentiment,  287.  Value  of  a  knowl- 
edge of,  ■]■]■]. 

Littleton,  Lord,  quotation  from,  on  the  reason  of 
the  law,  401. 

Loni;inus,  on  the  men  of  his  day,  657. 

Lord's  Supper,  answer  to  objections  to  using  the, 
155.  True  explanation  of  the  passage  of  Cor- 
intliians  cnnc^rning,  4^2.  Not  a  mystery,  752. 
A  remembrance  of  Christ  with  symbols,  752. 
Beauty  of  the  service  of,  753.  Right  ideas 
about,  77S,  779.     A  memorial  altar,  77S. 

Louis  XVL,  anecdote  of,  325. 

Love,  infinite,  the  primal  truth  of  all  religion, 
670. 

Lysiniachus,  anecdote  of,  572. 


Machinery,  improved,  extends  the  field  of  la- 
bor, 29S.     Relief  of  mankind  by,  300. 
Madonna  della  Seggiola,  criticism  of  the  picture 

of.  jij- 

Maltby,  Dr.,  on  the  neid  of  discrimination  in 
reading  Paul's  language,  473. 

Man,  intellectual  achievements  of,  47.  Faith  of 
man  in,  the  bond  of  human  confidence,  48,  65, 
I2S.  The  master  of  circumstances,  72.  Defi- 
nition of  the  Greek  word  for,  520.  The  top 
of  tlie  world-system,  520.  The  end  of  the 
moral  system,  521.  Physical  constitution  of, 
553,  555-557-  Spiritual  constitution  of,  565. 
Complex  nature  of,  584.  Balance  of  opposing 
powers  and  tendencies  in  the  nature  of,  584, 
585.  As  taken  in  hand  for  instruction  by  na- 
ture, 5S7.  Nature  demands  of,  activity,  dis- 
cretion, care,  5S7,  588.  As  apprenticed  by 
Providence  to  certain  life  tasks,  593,  596.  The 
true,  lives  for  an  idea,  595.  Condition  of,  not 
strange  nor  depressing,  598,  599.  As  a  moral 
being,  must  be  free,  620 ;  as  an  intellectual 
being,  imperfect  and  ignorant,  620  ;  must  begin 
somewhere  to  improve,  620.  Guizot  on  the 
natural  morality  of,  634. 

Manhood,  strength  of,  576. 

Mankind,  intellectual  and  moral  infancy  of,  632. 

Minufactures,  reasons  for  encouraging  domestic, 

303- 

Marriage,  583.  Cultivation  and  watchfulness 
essential  to  the  perfection  of,  660.  And  the 
family,  holy  relations  of,  729. 

Martyrdom,  a  death  to  be  coveted,  646,  662. 

Materialism,  suggests  the  thought  of  an  immate- 
rial principle,  52.     Argument  against,  566. 

Matter,  mystery  of  the  connection  between  mind 
and.  55.  Desecrated  by  ancient  philosophers, 
deified  by  the  modern  sensual  school,  561. 
Mind  more  intelligible  than,  565.  Not  antago- 
nistic to  mind,  5S7. 

Meanness,  wliat  it  consists  in  in  man,  4. 

Mechanic  Arts,  influence  of  the,  on  the  intellect- 
ual and  moral  improvement  of  society,  295- 
366.  Moral  tendencies  of,  305.  Patterns  of, 
indicated  in  nature,  306. 

Meditation,  value  of  seasons  of,  in  forming  relig- 
ious character,  8g ;  in  cUrecting  attention  to 
im';een  realities,  69^. 

Mercies,  multitude  of,  and  blessings  in  individual 
lot,  73S,  739. 

Microscope,  revelations  of  the,  5S9. 

Mind,  analysis  of  powers  of,  281.  Disproportion 
of  faculties  of  the,  in  different  individuals,  284. 
Causes  of  defective  culture  of  the,  2S4.  More 
intelligible  than  matter,  565.     Classes  and  fac- 


ulties of  the,  566.  Proofs  of,  in  the  universe, 
780,  781.     See  Soul. 

Miracles,  presumption  against  the  preliminary 
ground  of  the  argument  lor  Christianity,  442. 
Quotation  from  William  Ware  on  the  function 
of,  444.  Definition  of,  445,  449,  note.  Inevi- 
tably belong  to  the  Cluistian  system,  446. 
Have  a  place  in  both  external  and  internal 
evidences,  447.  Not  impossible,  449,  450. 
Ground  of  the  sceptic  against,  taken  by  King 
of  Siam,  450.  Objections  to,  450,  451 .  Argu- 
ment of,  to  Christianity,  452.  Not  incredible, 
453.  The  philosophical  presumption  for,  not 
against,  454. 

Misery,  the  mind's,  chiefly  its  own  fault,  76.  The 
problem  of,  84.  Nature  of,  8().  Springs  from 
the  perfection  of  our  nature,  86;  and  failure  to 
satisfy  it,  87.  A  beneficent  principle  in  tlie 
universe,  88. 

Moderation,  the  perfection  of  character,  27. 

Money,  interest  on,  243. 

Monopoly,  wherein  to  be  condemned,  243. 

Moral  discourses,  lack  in  argument  rather  than 
feeling,  187. 

Moral  efforts,  spring  from  spontaneous  moral  im- 
pressions, 10. 

Moral  indefiniteness,  a  necessity  for  moral  beings 
working  out  the  problem  of  their  destiny  under 
reasonable  motives,  604.  Conduces  to  the 
training  of  man,  605. 

Morality,  national,  improving,  319.  Political,  in 
a  critical  condition,  320  ;  false  standard  of  judg- 
ing, 321. 

Moral  power  in  times  and  seasons,  58,  59. 

Moral  qualities,  conception  of,  due  to  experience, 

384- 

Morals,  Transcendental  and  Utilitarian  theories 
of.  666. 

Moral  sense,  the  categorical  imperative  of  Kant, 
667. 

Moral  sentiments,  Adam  Smith's  theory  of,  500. 

Moral  World,  the  system  of  the,  a  system  of 
spontaneous  development,  537;  also  of  restraint 
and  correction,  538. 

Moses,  statutes  of,  superior  to  anything  in  an- 
tiquity, 6S5. 

Music,  power  of,  arises  from  awaking  noble  senti- 
ments, 12.     Spiritual  character  of,  315. 

Mystery,  in  the  infinite,  55.  In  the  finite,  56. 
In  all  creation,  56.     In  every  human  life,  56. 


Nathan,  the  rebuke  of,  220. 

Natural  powers,  not  destroyed  but  guided  by  tlie 
influence  of  the  good  spirit  of  God,  13,  14. 

Nature,  a  world  of  mechanism,  306.  Devel- 
oped by  art,  306.  Adaptations  of,  to  higher 
spiritual  culture,  549.  Demands  of  upon  man, 
587,  590,  591.  Man  the  pupil  of,  587,  588. 
Some  revelations  of,  5S9,  590.  Endowed  by 
the  atheist  with  the  attributes  of  God,  782. 
Religious  homage  to  what  is  divine  in,  a  rea- 
sonable feeling,  790. 

Necessity,  Plato's  view  of,  621. 

Nero,  golden  house  of,  298. 

New  Bedford,  Dewey  settles  in,  iv. 

New  South  Society,  Boston,  Dewey  minister  of, 
v. 

New  Testament,  internal  evidence  that  it  is  a 
revelation,  44S. 

New  Vork,  Dewey  minister  of  Second  Unitarian 
Church,  afterwards  Church  of  the  Messiah,  in,  v. 


8oo 


INDEX. 


Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  anecdote  of,  573. 
Novalis,  the  spirit  of,  709. 


Obedience,  usefulness  of  the  blind  instinct  of, 
626. 

Occupations  of  life,  considered  as  divinely  ap- 
pointed for  human  development,  593  ;  agricul- 
ture, 593  ;  manufactures,  593  ;  trade,  593  ;  the 
learned  professions  :  the  physician,  594  ;  lawyer, 
594 ;  divine,  594  ;  teacher,  594  ;  the  arts  of 
expression  :  authorship,  595  ;  artist  life,  595. 

Old  age,  reasons  for  cheerfulness  in,  96.  Natur- 
ally grows  in  virtue,  577.  Exhibits  the  noble- 
ness of  humanity,  577.  Montaigne  on,  57S; 
correspondence  of  the  language  of,  with  Cicero's, 
57S.     Strength  of  the  life  within,  in,  760. 

Omniscience,  statement  of  the  difficulties  in  the 
idea  of,  779  ;  reply  to,  780. 

Orator,  the,  the  perfect  man  of  Cicero,  286. 

Organism,  the  animal,  ministers  to  instinct 
merely,  555.  The  human,  to  intellect  and 
moral  culture,  555. 

Oriental  nations,  progress  in  civilization  of,  650, 
651. 

Originality,  true,  292. 

Otis,  James,  illustration  from  the  death  of,  i.-^y, 
668. 

Ought,  significance  of,  571. 


Pain,  useful,  610  The  teacher  of  prudence, 
610.  Sentinel,  warning  of  danger,  610.  Mor- 
ally necessary  and  ennobling,  611.  Montaigne's 
view  of,  609.  A  solitary  thing,  609.  Inevita- 
ble in  the  nature  of  tilings,  610.  Relatively 
inevitable,  6n.     A  remuneration  for,  611. 

Painters,  criticism  of  works  of  several,  ^lo,  •^11. 

Painting,  comparison  between,  and  literary  com- 
po-^iticn,  309,  310. 

Paintings,  value  of  a  society  for  distributing,  317. 

Paley,  Archd.,  on  quotations  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment from  the  Old,  472.  Reference  to  the 
watch  illustration  in  Natural  Theology  of,  517. 

Parental  duties  demand  moral  firmness  and  pa- 
tience, 60. 

Parker,  Chief  Justice  Isaac,  tribute  to  the  memory 
of,  294. 

Past,  venerableness  attaching  to  the,  657. 

Patience,  a  special  ordinance  of  God  for  man's 
life  task,  713. 

Paul,  the  obscurities  of,  466.  Bishop  Chandler  on 
the  reasoning  of,  471.  Locke  on  the  style  and 
temper  of,  472.  Bishop  Marsh  on  the  erudi- 
tion of,  473.  Dr.  Maltby  on  discrimination  in 
regard  to  the  language  of,  at  different  times,  473. 

Penitence,  a  condition  essential  to  all  true  moral 
life,  60 1 . 

Perfection,  a  universal  longing,  228.  The  duty 
of  aiming  at,  722,  723.  Bible  command  for, 
not  to  be  literally  interpreted,  723.  Applica- 
tion of  the  doctrine  of,  to  modem  Christian 
society,  724.  An  attainable,  and  indispensable, 
proposed  to  us,  724.  Cannot  be  gained  at  a 
step,  725. 

Perseverance  of  saints,  381. 

Philosophy  of  Humanity,  analysis  of  Herder's, 
519. 

Physician,  undevoutness  unnatural  m  a,  124. 

Physicists,  effect  of  theories  of,  783. 

Picture  gallery,  comparison  of  a,  with  a  library, 
312- 


Piety,  culture  of,  what  is  required  by,  661.  Con- 
ditions hindering  this  culture,  661.  A  higher, 
likely  to  come,  791. 

Pindar,  quotation  iiu.n,  on  life,  98. 

Pleasure,  the  significance  of,  unsatisfying  to  man's 
higher  nature,  53,  54.  The  pursuit  of,  merely 
an  escape  from  self,  694. 

Poetry,  definition  of,  2S9.  Dependence  of,  on  a 
religious  spirit,  314. 

Political  justice,  763,  764.  Difficulties  against 
the  prevalence  of,  764. 

Politics,  spoils  system  in,  condemned,  319,  320. 

Polytheism  and  idolatry,  better  than  no  religion, 
624.  Mistaken  views  of,  624.  Recognized  in 
Hebrew  worship,  625.  Nourished  a  keen  sense 
of  religion,  625. 

Porphyry,  quotation  from,  concerning  the  philoso- 
pher Plotinus,  560. 

Poverty,  abject,  rare  in  this  country,  without 
faults,  80.     Artificial  wants  the  burden  of,  170. 

Power,  has  been  systematically  abused  by  man, 
623.     Inhumanity  of,   623. 

Prayer,  false  and  true,  663.  The  outcome  of, 
663.  For  spiritual  well-being  cannot  be  found 
in  Greek  or  Roman  antiquity,  672.  The  great 
thing  in  religion,  6S9. 

Preacher,  office  of  the,  to  imfold  the  human  heart 
to  itself,  85.  Rights  of  the,  318.  Restraints 
upon  the,  318.  Duty  of  the,  to  lead  men's 
minds  to  just  principles  of  living,  678.  How 
shall  the,  gain  quickening  power,  776. 

Present  age,  the  earlier  not  later  day  of  the  world's 
manhood,  655. 

Problem  of  Human  Destiny,  Course  of  Lowell 
Lectures  on,  v.  Statement  of  the,  514,  516. 
What  it  is  not,  51:;.  What  it  is,  515.  Solution 
of  the,  539.  Insufficiently  treated  in  literature, 
598.  • 

Progress,  of  the  past  and  of  the  future,  598.  In- 
timations of,  in  our  present  being,  740-742. 

Progress,  human,  historic  view  of,  632,  646. 
How  to  be  studied,  632.     Has  been  gradual, 

633.  Fichte's  manner  of  stud3-ing,  633.  Un- 
derlying principles  of ;  human  spontaneity, 
divine   control,    634.     Agencies   employed   in, 

634.  First  thoughts  on,  634.  Growth  of, 
634-638.  Has  developed  conscious  individu- 
ality, 637.  Institutions  that  have  helped,  638- 
641.  Actions  and  events  that  have  advanced, 
641-645.  Historic  view  of,  shows  divine  pur- 
pose rather  than  human  planning,  648.  Has 
been  carried  on  by  unconscious  agencies,  648. 
Steps  of,  648,  649.  Certainty  ot  continued, 
656,  657.  In  the  world,  since  the  i6th  centur)', 
655,  656.  In  circles  rather  than  direct,  656. 
Steps  of  past,  promises  of,  657. 

Prose,  as  truly  an  art  as  poetry,  308. 

Proverbs,  the  wisdom  of  all  ages,  569.  Authority 
of,  569. 

Providence,  adaptations  in  nature  a  testimony  to, 
305.  Faith  in,  should  not  be  shaken  by  calam- 
ities, 335,  336,  337.  Of  God  exalted  by  Unita- 
rian views,  387. 

Psalms,  the,  language  of,  a  phenomenon,  671  ;  its 
impressive  character,  672 ;  contrast  between, 
and  the  poems  of  Homer,  671. 

Public,  the,  69. 

Pulpit,  the  themes  of,  not  of  a  nature  to  cause 
dulness,  1 70. 

Purity,  human  frame  teaches  a  lesson  of,  561. 

Pyramids,  projectors  of,  execrated  by  the  workmen 
on,  according  to  Herodotus,  301. 


INDEX. 


80 1 


Quarterly  Review,  on  Inspiration,  474. 
Oiiinet,  preparation  of,  to  write  a  book  on  Ultra- 

niontanisni,  327. 
Quotations  from  the  Old  Testament  in  the  New, 

Paley's  ideas  on,  472. 


Rationalism,  the  progress  of,  welcome,  775. 

Recreation,  not  foreign  to  religion,  127. 

Rectitude,  a  supreme  and  all-pervading  authority, 
66S.  Essential  basis  of,  71S.  Dangers  from 
lowering  the  standard  of,  720. 

Retlemption,  doctrine  of  particular,  38 1.  Hu- 
man condition  and,  497,  49S,  501. 

Regeneration,  Unitarian  view  of,  349. 

Regulus,  Cicero  on  the  death  of,  610. 

Religion,  for  human  beings  should  be  adapted  to 
men,  22  ;  to  the  whole  nature,  23.  Erroneous 
forms  of,  have  largely  arisen  from  predominance 
given  to  one  part  of  the  nature,  23.  Should 
be  a  guardian,  24 ;  support  and  strengthen  the 
soul,  24 ;  be  adapted  to  diversities  of  tempera- 
ment, 24 ;  not  repress  natural  affections  and 
innocent  gaiety,  25.  Designed  to  develop  natu- 
ral faculties,  25.  The  Saviour's  preaching  ful- 
filled the  requirements  of,  26.  Requires  the 
cultivation  of  our  nature  as  a  whole,  27.  Mod- 
eration an  essential  quality  of,  27.  Appeals  to 
human  nature  as  simple  goodness,  29.  Not 
identified  in  the  popular  mind  with  goodness, 
29,  30.  Should  appeal  to  the  highest  of  our 
moral  sentiments,  32.  Cannot  discard  human 
nature,  33.  Those  who  are  most  susceptible 
of  fe^ling  and  enthusiasm  most  need  the  power 
and  support  of,  ;}],.  Should  address  man's 
moral  nature  as  its  friend,  34.  Siiould  appeal 
with  confidence  in  the  principle  addressed,  34. 
The  principle  of  infinite  wisdom  speaking  to 
men,  35.  True  because  necessary,  66.  A  prin- 
ciple of  things  as  real  as  giavitation.  67.  The 
world  and  life  cannot  go  on  without,  it6.  In- 
tellectual strength  needs,  more  than  mtellectual 
weakness,  iig.  The  sentiment  of  every  period 
of  life,  118-120.  Alone,  gives  hope  of  a  future 
life,  121.  Served  by  art  and  literature,  125, 
126.  Duty  of,  to  reform  amusements,  127. 
In  employments,  130,  131.  Identical  with  good- 
ness, [3S,  152.  Definition  of,  139,  162.  Erro- 
neous popular  ideas  of,  140,  141,  147,  14S,  151, 
159,  160.  True  views  of,  142,  143.  Defects 
in  the  Calvinistlc  idea  of,  152;  dangerous  re- 
sults of  that  idea  of,  152.  Erroneous  views  of, 
conducive  to  the  apathy  of  Christian  communi- 
ties, 156.  What  interest  in,  is,  165,  166.  Lack 
ot  interest  in,  the  cause  of  the  complaint  of 
dulness  in  church  and  preachers,  170,  177. 
Reason  and  feeling  not  to  be  separated  in,  186, 
1 88.  Mai'ks  of  ration.il  feeling  in  regard  to, 
190.  Excitements  in,  need  to  be  not  periodical, 
but  permanent,  191.  Divided  between  imagina- 
tion and  reality,  221.  Must  pass  from  senti- 
ment to  principle,  to  meet  the  gospel  demand, 
225.  Demands  the  doing  of  right,  226,  227. 
.\nalogy  between,  and  law,  401-405.  The 
manifestation  of,  417-420.  Neglect  a  cause  of 
indifference  to,  422.  False  modes  of  investing 
the  virtues  of,  a  cause  of  indifference  to,  423  : 
mode  of  its  inailcation  another  cause,  424. 
Teaching  of,  too  formal,  426;  too  abstract. 
427  ;  too  artificial,  427,  428.  Character  of,  be- 
coming more  spiritual,  442.  Popular  indiffer- 
ence to,  487.    The  subject  on  which  the  greatest 


errors  have  prevailed  among  men,  488.  No 
reform  on  a  great  scale  has  taken  place  in,  4S9. 
True  method  of  inquiry  in,  to  study  facts,  490. 
Idolatry  better  than  no,  622.  Sense  of,  stronger 
in  Catholics  than  Protestants,  625.  Fetichisni 
the  first  form  of,  638.  Egyptian  worship  an 
advance  in,  638.  The  dominant  thought  of 
early  ages,  638.  Grecian  development  of,  638, 
639.  Hebrew  system  of,  639.  Christian  sys- 
tem of,  640,  641.  Or  no  religion,  678;  only 
one  of  the  opposing  theories  of,  can  be  true,  67S  ; 
from  either  comes  more  comfort  than  from  a 
half-way  belief,  679.  Unsatisfactoriness  of  ihc 
atheistic  theory  of,  679.  Comparative  moral 
tendencies  of  the  two  theories,  680  ;  which  is 
best,  6S0 ;  for  which  was  human  nature  made, 
680.  Human  experience  cannot  do  without, 
6S1.  The  roots  of,  in  human  nature,  6S4.  The 
unfolding,  has  appeared  under  different  forms 
in  successive  ages,  684,  6S5.  Modifications  of, 
686.  Every  man's,  the  best  he  knows  or  can 
conceive  of,  6S7.  Each,  of  the  world  disposed 
to  condemn  the  rest,  688.  Cardinal  truths  and 
indispensable  duties  of,  688.  Two  theories  of, 
nonchalance,  or  indifference  to,  contrasted,  688. 
Piety  and  virtue  both  essential  to,  690.  Old 
in,  dies  out,  760.  False  ideas  of,  762.  Eter- 
nal, 766,  767.  Basis  and  superstructure  of, 
768-779.  A  foundation  of,  in  every  human  soul, 
768  ;  this  is  intuition,  769.  Foundations  of, 
laid  in  original  ideas  of  right,  God,  and  immor- 
tality, 772.  Agencies  for  building  up,  in  the 
world,  773.     An  earth-made  thing,  772. 

Religion  and  morals,  the  popular  distinction  be- 
tween, erroneous  and  injurious,  353.  The 
original  principles  of,  354.  Not  matters  of 
faith,  but  knowledge,  359. 

Religious,  how  to  become,  416.  Conversation, 
419,  420.  Education  of  children,  mistakes  in, 
426,  427. 

Religious  controversy,  peculiarities  of,  154. 

Religious  culture,  157,  161.     Results  of  true,  703. 

Religious  experience,  youth  of,  760. 

Religious  faith,  the  ground  for,  impregnable,  671. 

Religious  sensibility,  popular  demand  for,   177, 

178.  Something   prejudicial  in   this   demand, 

179,  180.  Wliy  wanting  in  theological  semin- 
aries, 180;  mistakes  concerning  the  character- 
istics of,  181  :  as  to  the  supreme  object  of,  183. 
How  to  correct  these  mistakes  of,  1S5,  186. 
Sure  to  be  felt  if  patiently  cultivated,  190. 

Remorse,  a  testimony  to  a  better  nature,  8. 

Repentance,  rightly  the  first  demand  of  the  Gos- 
pel, 2'.     Incfficacy  of  deathbed,  206. 

Retribution,  the  law  of,  191,  192.  Weakness  of 
excessive  statements  of,  192.  A  doctrine  uni- 
versally received,  192.  A  matter  of  experience, 
192.  A  doctrine  universally  evaded,  193.  Popu- 
lar view  of,  not  warranted  by  Scripture,  ig-^. 
Figurative  character  of  Scripture  teachings  con- 
cerning, 194.  Strictness  of  the  law  of,  weak- 
ened by  unauthorized  views  of  the  future  life, 
195,  196,  199.  The  law  of,  the  law  of  God's 
goodness,  197.  Mistakes  in  the  preaching  of, 
199.  More  than  a  doctrine,  a  fact,  572.  Dis- 
tinguishes between  palpable  vice  and  slight 
erring,  572.     Universal  character  of,  573. 

Revelation,  language  of,  would  be  the  natural 
language  of  the  time  when  it  was  made,  456. 
Definition  of,  459.  Probable  character  of  a, 
made  in  English,  480. 

Reverence, /tfr  something,  a  desirable  quality,  626. 


51 


802 


INDEX. 


Revolutions,  political,  a  help  in  human  progress, 

643,  644. 
Righteousness,  definition  of,  66g.     The  sense  of, 

669.     Cannot  exist  without  beneficence,  670. 
Rochefoucauld,  reply  to  the  maxim  of,  that  men 

rejoice  in  others'  miseries,  4. 
Romans,  analysis  of  the  epistle  to  the,  523. 
Rome,  the  lawgiver  of  the  world,  652.     Diffuser 

of  the  good  and  evil  of  civilization,  653. 
Routine,  the  effect  of,  693. 


Saadi,  beauty  of  a  prayer  of,  672. 

Schepler,  Louisa,  servant  of  Oberlin,  report  of 
Cuvicr  on,  727. 

Schleiermacher,  opinion  of,  on  the  Trinity,  495. 

Science,  extent  of  the  realm  of,  568.  The  natural 
ally  of  religion,  568. 

Scientific  investigation,  bearing  of,  on  religioiis 
belief,  766. 

Scientific  men,  as  strong  in  prejudice  as  theolo- 
gians, 783. 

Scriptures,  Unitarian  views  of  the,  344.  Dis- 
tinction between  being  a  Revelation,  and  the 
record  of  a  Revelation,  456.  Contain  no  super- 
natural perfection,  457.  Discrepancies  and  er- 
rors in,  strengthen  the  testimony  of,  458.  Lay 
no  claim  to  infallible  inspiration,  461.  Dis- 
crepancies in,  acknowledged  by  all  intelligent 
students,  465.  Exhibit  frequent  instances  of 
Jewish  allegorizing,  467. 

Sea,  ministry  of  the,  to  man,  544.  Why  salt, 
544.  A  hairier  between  nations  made  into  a 
medium  of  intercourse,  545,  546.  Evaporation 
from,  545.  , 

Seeing,  theory  of  the  origin  and  organ  of,  7S2. 

Self-conquest,  spiritual  heroism  of,  727,  728. 

Self-consciousness,  a  diseased,  the  misery  of  life, 
740. 

Self-consecration,  importance  of,  733,  734. 

Self-government,  requirements  of,  319,  764,  765. 

Selfishness,  influence  of,  over  human  nature,  5. 
Odiousness  of,  579.  Generosity  in,  579.  An- 
noying forms  of,  579.  An  inevitable  trial  of 
virtue,  579. 

Self-renunciation,  prevalence  of  the  principle  of, 
in  Christ's  life,  114.  The  principle  of,  716. 
The  phrase  not  a  good  expression  for  the  prin- 
ciple, 717. 

Sense  of  right,  wrought  into  man's  being,  665. 
Taught  by  the  frame  of  nature,  666.  Condition 
of  the  world  without  the,  666,  667.  Put  for 
guidance  into  moral  natures  by  the  power  that 
made  them,  669. 

.Senses,  the,  not  vicious,  but  capable  of  vice,  560. 
.Servants  of  the  mind,  560. 

Sensualist,  the  guilt  of  the,  19. 

Sensual  pleasures,  gain  intensity  from  the  mind, 
20. 

Septuagint,  quotation  from  Lightfoot  on  the,  471. 

Sex,  the  relation  of,  the  foundation  of  the  family, 
582.  The  attempt  to  annul  the  distinctions  of, 
a  wrong  to  woman,  a  conflict  with  Providence, 

584. 
Sexes,  reasons  for  seiiarate  spheres  of,  660. 
.Shakspeare,  genius  of,  292. 
Sheffield,  description  of,  iii.     Dewey  born  at,  iii. 

Returns  to,  from  New  Bedford,  iv. ;  New  York; 

Boston  ;  dies  at,  v. 
Sickness,  often  a  conssquence  and  corrective  of 

moral  evil,  692.     Calls  for  moral  strength,  692. 
Sin,  does  a  wrong  to  reason,  1 7.     A  kind  of  in- 


sanity, 17.  Wrongs  conscience,  iS;  the  affec- 
tions, 19.     An  injury  to  the  individual,  211. 

Sinful,  compassion  for  the,  210. 

Slavery,  condition  of  sections  of  the  country  in 
regard  to  the  extension  of,  326.  To  judge 
fairly  how  to  meet,  should  be  studied  where  it 
exists,  327.  Southern  justification  of,  328. 
Weakness  and  omissions  in  this  plea  for,  329, 
330.  Reply  to  this  plea,  330,  331.  Northern 
convictions  regarding,  332.  Proposed  solution 
of  the  problem  of,  333.  A  problem  universal 
to  the  human  race,  628.  Montesquieu's  remark 
that  its  origin  was  in  mercy,  629.  A  means  of 
securing  necessary  and  regular  activity  and  in- 
dustry, 629 ;  sometimes,  even  unintentionally, 
for  human  improvement,  629;  but  perhaps  not 
the  best,  629.  The  evils  in,  may  be  overruled 
for  desirable  ends,  629. 

Sleep,  and  waking,  58.  A  check  to  evil,  606.  A 
relief  from  misery,  606. 

Smith,  Adam,  quotation  from,  on  human  propen- 
sity to  trade,  236. 

Social  culture,  not  limited  to  any  worldly  state  or 
fortune,  700,  701. 

Social  relations,  a  ground  of  self-discipline,  61. 
Teach  modesty  and  meekness,  93. 

Social  virtues,  too  little  considered  in  religious 
teachings,  698.  What  they  are,  698.  Value 
and  greatness  of,  701. 

Society,  the  blessings  of,  47,  48.  Evils  in,  168. 
Interests  of,  169.  Improved  by  increase  of 
comforts,  302.  A  sphere  in  which  the  double 
nature  of  man  acts,  578.  Liable  to  err,  578. 
Selfishness  of,  engaged  on  the  side  of  honesty 
and  virtue,  578.  Solidainty  of,  580;  evils  of 
this,  5S0,  5S1.  The  great  educator,  581.  Meant 
to  advance  the  individual,  637.  Mistaken  ideas 
of  the  relation  of  religion  to,  701,  702  ;  an  error 
of  interpretation,  701  ;  an  error  of  theology, 
702  ;  a  misapprehension  of  what  being  a  Chris- 
tian is,  702. 

Soil,  the,  the  basis  of  growth,  519. 

Sorrow,  the  lot  of  the  Master,  therefore  of  the 
disciple,  90. 

Soul,  the  treasure  of  the,  175,  176;  care  of  the, 
the  greatest  human  interest,  176,  177.  Minis- 
try of  the  body  to  the,  553  ;  of  the  senses  and 
appetites,  555-563;  instanced  in  the  sense  of 
touch,  555  ;  the  faculty  of  speech,  555  ;  laugh- 
ter, 556;  the  human  hand,  557.  Completely 
apart  from  the  physical  mechanism,  566.  See 
Mind. 

Stars,  systems  of,  589. 

Southern  men.  complaints  of,  against  Northern 
men,  327.     Defence  by,  of  slavery,  328. 

Speculation,  the  rage  for,  255. 

Sphere  of  life,  seems  small  because  of  tlie  possi- 
bilities of  human  nature,  54. 

Spiritifal  interests,  supreme,  164.  Shown  m 
society,  165-170;  by  Providence,  172,  173. 
The  value  of,  174. 

Spiritual   life,  imaged  by   everything   about   us, 

57- 
Spiritual  pride,  182. 

Steele,  Joshua,  anecdote  of,  333,  note,  727. 
Stewart,   Dugald,  Sir  James  Mackintosh's  eulo- 

gium  on,  568. 
Stream  of  life,  reference  to  Cole's  painting  of,  50. 
Stuart,   Moses,  reply  to  criticism  by,  356,  note. 

Opinions  of,  on  the  Trinity,  495. 
Study,  need  of  a  belief  in,  essential  to  the  lofti- 
est attainments,  288.     The  value  of.   Phi   Beta 


INDEX. 


803 


Kappa   Oration,   279-294.      Deterioration    of 

style,  from  want  of,  290,  291. 
Sufferinsj,  the  moral  uses  of,  661,662.     Justifica 

tion  of,  in  animals,  662. 
-Sunday  Schools,  advantages  of,  427. 
Supreme    Being,  meditations  on  the  nature  and 

character  of,  in  the  book  of  Job,  36.     Tendency 

of  the  mind  in  distress,  to  the,  37. 
Sympathy,   true  and   delicate,    37.     Silence,  not 

words,  the  best  expression  of,  37. 

Thlescope,  revelations  of  the,  5S9. 

Temptation,  union  of,  and  ministration,  558. 

Temptations,  increased  by  unbelief,  6S3.  A 
man's  sorest,  social,  699. 

Texas,  annexation  of,  331. 

Textual  discussion,  impossibility  of  settling  ques- 
tions by,  36S. 

Theological  discussion,  the  mass  of  men  disquali- 
fied for,  407. 

Tiberius,  letter  of,  573.     Confession  of  misery  of. 

Toil,  the  religion  of,  123.  Unintelligent,  to  be 
pitied,  301.     Nobility  of,  302,  303.     See  l^abor. 

Total  depravity,  the  doctrine  of,  the  source  of 
erroneous  views  of  religion,  :•,■/. 

Trade,  the  moral  laws  of,  236.  Quotation  from 
Adam  Smith  relating  to,  236.  Economical 
laws  of,  242.  What  moral  policy  of,  does  not 
forbid,  247.  A  man  may  act  on  superior 
knowledge  in,  247,  248.  The  right  and  the 
wrong  in,  250. 

Trade  winds,  546. 

Travel,  value  of,  304.  Progress  of  means  for, 
305. 

Trinitarian,  does  not  adhere  to  the  Bible,  372. 

Trinity,  doctrine  of  the,  366 ;  objections  to  the, 
367  ;  theory  by  which  it  can  be  proved,  368 ; 
Bible  interpreted  as  other  books  gives  no  sanc- 
tion to,  372.  Scholars  who  have  rejscted  the, 
372.  Examination  of  the  doctrine  of,  491. 
Not  taught  in  Scripture,  493.  The  argument 
against,  overwhelming,  495.  Opinions  of 
Schleiermacher,  Archbishop  Whately,  Profes- 
.sor  Stuart,  495. 

Truth,  love  the  shield  of,  704.  Anecdote  con- 
ce:Tiing,  704.  Importance  of  maintaining,  704. 
Difficulty  of  practising,  705.  What  is  it  to 
speak  the,  705,  706.  Why  a  man  is  bound  to 
speak  the,  706.  Depends  on  a  higher  law  than 
expediency,  707.  Dignity  given  to  a  man's  lifj 
by,  70S.  Society's  demands  concerning,  70S. 
Combination  of,  with  courtesy,  709  ;  with  love, 

709.  One  of  the  loftiest  and  most  imperative 
Cliristian  virtues,  710.     Value  of  speaking  the, 

710.  Adherence  to,  and  right  everywhere  de- 
manded. 721. 


Unbelief,  an  obstacle  to  salvation,  4S6.  How 
it  may  hi  scattered,  4S6.  A  theory  unendura- 
ble to  human  nature,  6S1,  682. 

Unbelievers,  Paul's  reason  for  forbidding  inter- 
marriage with,  4^2. 

Unitarianism,  needlessness  of  defending  every- 
thing passing  under  the  name  of,  394.  Not  a 
new  thing,  but  primitive  Christianity,  395. 
.Meets  the  wants  of  human  nature,  398.  Charged 
with  coldness,  399. 

Unitarians,  profess  to  stand  on  the  Bible,  342. 
Reasons  of,  for  hesitating  to  use  some  Scripture 


terms  commonJy  used  erroneously,  343.  Be- 
lieve in  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  344  ; 
the  atonement,  345  ;  Christ,  346  ;  human  de- 
pravity, 347  ;  election,  350;  a  future  state  of 
rewards  and  punishments,  351  ;  the  importance 
of  religion,  352.  Loose  grounds  for  assuming, 
to  be  infidels,  468. 

Universalism,  affinity  of,  with  Calvinism,  3-57. 

Universe,  contrast  of  the  infinitely  great  and  in- 
finitely small  in,  658.  The  source  of  the,  659. 
A  school,  7S8. 

Usury,  the  principle  of,  not  unjust,  243,  244. 

Vender,  duty  of,  to  purchaser,  250. 

Verse,  Bulwer's  criticism  of,  308. 

Vesper  hymn,  beauty  of  general  use  of,  120,  121. 

Vetturini,  shortsightedness  of  Italian,  299. 

Vice,  the  woes  of,  560. 

Vico,  Jean  Baptiste,  reference  to  the  Nuova 
Scientia  of,  524.  On  the  three  facts  of  human 
society,  613. 

Vineyard,  significance  of  the  parable  of  the  labor- 
ers in,  203. 

Virtue,  national  songs  a  testimony  to  the  charms 
of,  12.  Human,  results  from  effort  and  pa- 
tience under  trial.  14.  The  bad  man's  desire 
for  his  children  to  be  virtuous,  a  testimony  to, 
iS.  Necessary  to  the  attainment  of  the  great 
ends  of  life,  65.  The  only  everlasting  good, 
accessible  to  all,  82.  Often  not  fully  estimated 
in  life,  132.  Grandeur  of  Christian,  227.  The 
crown  of,  228.  Work  of,  nobler  than  the  work 
of  genius,  229.  True  place  of,  231.  Depends 
on  industry,  302,  592.  Aristotle's  definition 
of,  509.  Epicurus's  definition  of,  509.  Cud- 
worth's,  Clarke's,  Price's  definitions  of,  509. 
Resolute,  alone  can  adjust  itself  to  the  material 
conditions  of  human  existence,  666.  The 
dignity  of,  720.  Blessings  in  the  martyrdom 
of,  721.  The  principle  of,  sustains  and  com- 
forts in  trouble,  722.  The  pursuit  of,  distinct 
from  love  of  happiness,  717.  Proved  by  expe- 
rience, ■/17. 

Voltaire,, quotations  from,  on  Jesus,  6S6. 

Wallace,  William,  influence  of  the  death  of, 
644. 

War,  arises  from  a  natural  sen^e  of  justice,  621. 
Better  than  stupid  submission  to  wrong,  622, 
627.  A  consequence  of  the  right  of  self-preser- 
vation, 627.  Has  moral  uses,  627,  628.  A 
means  of  intercourse  and  communication  of 
knowledge  among  nations,  627.  Discipline  of, 
helps  the  world's  improvement,  627,  628.  A 
transition  state  of  the  world,  628.  A  providen- 
tial fact,  628,  note. 

Warburton,  Bishop,  argument  of,  on  the  need  of 
miracles,  617. 

Ware,  William,  on  miracles,  the  foundation  of 
Christianity,  444. 

Water,  supply  of,  for  cities,  304. 

Wealth,  a  comparative  term,  81.  Duties  attend- 
ing the  possession  of,  264.  Miseries  attending, 
264.  Right  reasons  for  desiring.  267.  Ef- 
fect of  the  desire  of  attaining,  268.  Limita- 
tions to  the  pursuit  of,  273.  Probable  effects 
of,  on  children,  277  ;  individuals,  and  nations, 
27S.  Not  conducive  to  energy  and  self-denial, 
279.  Effect  of,  on  a  man's  knowledge  of  life. 
693  :  on  trials  of  the  will,  694.  Ministrations 
of,  694. 


8o4 


INDEX. 


Whately,  Archbishop,  on  the  Trinity,  495. 

White,  Kirke,  quotation  from,  on  life,  9S. 

Wilberforce.  William,  notice  of  religious  character 
of,  703.  Remark  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
concerning,  703. 

Woods,  Dr.,  reply  to  lectures  of,  474,  475.  Ar- 
guments of,  for  inspiration,  475. 

Work,  the  visible  fact  of  the  world,  591.  Better 
than  abstract  culture  for  human  development, 

592,  593- 
World,  erroneous  religious  views  of  the,  130. 
Consecrated  by  the  memory  of  the  dead,  133. 
Proof  of  a  future,  in  the  death  of  friends,  134. 
God's  work  in  the  best  possible,  540.  The 
material,  the  field  of  the  great  design  of  the 
creation,  541.  General  arrangements  of  nature 
in  the,  544-547.  Specific  adaptations  of  the, 
to  man,  547-553  ;  of  man  to  the,  547.  Minis- 
trations of  nature  in  the,  to  higher  ends  in  the 
sphere  of  higher  culture,  549-553  ;  in  the  mod- 
erate fertility  of  the  earth,  549';  the  order  of 
nature,  550  ;  the  beauty  of  nature,  552.  Not  a 
corrupter,  578.     Need  to  the,  of  the  different 


occupations  of  men,  591, 592.  The  constitution 
of  the,  not  prejudicial  to  virtue  and  happiness, 
606.  General  view  to  be  taken  of  the  life  of 
the,  620.  Plato's  view,  621.  Defective  politi- 
cal, religious,  and  warlike  institutions  of  the, 
better  than  none,  622  ;  the  best  the  world  could 
receive,  622  ;  have  done  good,  623.  Cannot  be 
constructed  out  of  an  idea,  633.  Great  periods 
of  the  ;  that  of  superstitious  obedience,  635  ; 
of  scholastic  philosophy,  636  ;  manhood  of  the, 
637  ;  continual  progress  in  the  life  of  the,  645. 
Welfare  of,  rests  on  political  justice,  social 
virtue,  religious  faith,  763. 


Youth,  often  disappointed,  yet  ever  looking  fur- 
ward,  118.  Importance  of  instructing,  in  the 
principle  of  things,  692.  Wrongly  considered 
the  especially  happy  period  of  life,  761. 

Zend-Avesta,  quotation  from,  on  the  problem 
of  evil,  523.     A  prayer  from  the,  672. 


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